“What do you use it for? The lavender?” He was suddenly hungry to know how she’d use each purchase.
“Lavender is good for swelling joints. And the oil with chamomile helps settle the nerves. But I just like how it smells.” Marena beamed as she pressed a bundle of lavender Phoung had handed her to her nose. “French lavender is the best.” She said it in French, offering a smile to Phuong, and all he wanted in that moment was to see her naked and amorous, sitting in a tub fragrant with flowers. He’d run a soapy cloth over those generous breasts and bend down to take one of the sweet peaks between his teeth.
“Is it too hot?” Marena’s concerned question snatched him out of his improper musings. It appeared that when it came to the Caribbean herbalist, even a mundane conversation about lavender somehow ended with him having lustful fantasies.
“I’m all right.” He pulled on his collar with an ungloved finger and tilted his head toward the jar that Phoung had just passed to them. “What are those?”
“Preserved bitter orange. Those are much harder to find, I usually replace them with other ingredients if they’re called for in a poultice or salve.” She secured the jar in the basket, moving it around until it was in a nook where it would not get jostled. “It’s what I came here to study. How to adapt my family’s recipes to what I could find outside the tropics.”
She angled her head to look at him. “Are you sure you’re interested in this?”
“I am.”
She gave him a doubtful look but continued her explanation. “Root work, is about using what the earth yields, and letting it give you what you need for healing. The problem is, the soil here is very different. There is only so much I can do to reproduce what was available in the islands.”
Arlo was not a romantic. He could be cynical and was decidedly jaded on love. And yet, the image of Marena as a Caribbean Demeter—reaping what she liked from the cold earth of Britain and warming it with the sunshine from her hands—came to him as clear and solid as a memory. And before his good sense could catch up, he spoke.
“You’re here. You’ve brought the sun with you.” Her expression softened at his words, and he almost added something ridiculous like, “I felt the warmth of you from the second we met. I miss it whenever you’re not near.” But a growl from his stomach saved him.
She smiled, and he blushed like a blustering schoolboy. “You probably need feeding constantly to keep all this upright,” she joked, waving a hand up and down his torso. “Let me pay Phoung and we can go find some nourishment for you.”
“No, no, no. I will pay for this.” Her eyebrow rose, and he realized he’d spoken in an imperious tone, and softened the next part. “Please. I said I’d pay for all your expenses while we were here. You are helping me connect with my sister. It’s the least I can do.”
She held a finger up to him and turned to Phoung. “Would you excuse me a moment?” The woman nodded and gave them both a knowing smile, as if they were quarreling lovers. “You are paying for my expenses. You paid for my train and ferry. And we’re staying at your townhouse. You also refused to let me pay for the coffee and pastry at the café, for heaven’s sake.” She gestured to the basket he was holding and shook her head. “This is not part of the arrangement. This is for my work.”
“But—”
She held up a hand, her gaze pinning him in place as she spoke. “I cannot accept it. Please.”
He wanted to push until she let him do this for her. Some unreasonable part of him wanted to give her everything she needed. But he was starting to understand this woman. She was protective of certain things. Her work; the safety of her loved ones. There were places where she would not give in, where she would stand her guard until he’d earned the right to be there. He could only guess at the reasons that had made her that way.
He sighed, accepting defeat. “Only if I can buy your lunch…and your dinner.” She rewarded him with a shy smile and nod, which he was certain made his chest grow a size.
“You are very lucky I’m in a compliant mood, Your Grace.”
Instinctively, he stepped closer and tried to suppress the possessive growl trying to escape. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m extremely curious to learn just how compliant of a mood you’re in.” He knew the exact moment when the words and their meaning landed. He saw it in the way her chest moved up and down, and how she met his gaze.
“Don’t be fooled by my giving mood, Arlo. I bite.” Her tone was placid, but her eyes burned him. Everything about Marena burned through him like fire. Arlo would probably associate street markets with a heightened state of arousal for the rest of his life.
“This information has done nothing to decrease my curiosity,” he said as he followed her away from Phoung’s stand and back into the fray of the market. His words felt like a promise. This was certainly one of the most foolish things he’d done in a long time, but he wanted Marena Baine-Torres in his arms more than he had wanted anyone in a long time. He could scarcely remember when in the last fifteen years anything had felt this vital. This woman was careful, with good reason. He had to remember that. And yet, he found himself wanting to bend all the rules to make her his.
Chapter Five
Paris always had an adverse effect on Marena’s good judgment. It was the only reasonable explanation for why she was currently strolling down the Rue de la Paix on the arm of Arlo Kenworthy after an entire day of shopping and flirtatious conversation.
They’d roamed the stalls of the Marais where he’d asked her a thousand questions, seemingly fascinated by the intricacies of root work. She’d explained, at times going into extensive detail, and instead of glazed-over eyes, he’d wanted to know more. Marena didn’t know what to make of this man. The nobility in England had a mold, and Arlo Kenworthy fit it, but it seemed that only on the surface.
“I’d seen you before. At Lady Bibichon’s house.” she said, and immediately felt like she’d revealed too much.
He raised a hand to point at a window farther down the street. “I’d like to get something there.”
She nodded, wondering if he’d intentionally ignored her comment. She always did this—second-guessed herself whenever she shared something intimate. Which was silly because his visit to Lady Bibichon’s house had not been a secret. But the way his words impacted her that night, ought to have been one. And now she felt exposed. She distracted herself by pulling out her spectacles to get a clearer look at the storefront he’d mentioned.
“Maison Maquet?” She perked up at the suggestion of visiting the famous stationery store, her spirits buoyed at the possibility of purchasing some letter paper.
“You wear spectacles?” He followed the question with one of his rumbles of appreciation. She decidedly ignored the flutter the sound elicited in her lower belly.
“I do. They’re fairly new and I keep forgetting I have them,” she said, feeling dizzy under his scrutiny.
“They suit you.” He said it matter-of-factly, like him offering a compliment was nothing unusual between them—which only made it that much electrifying. And then he pointed in the direction of the store. “I meant the Gaillon Sisters. But we can stop at Maison Maquet if you like.” Her gaze shifted to the storefront next to Maison Maquet, which housed the famous—and exorbitantly expensive—shop known for their delicate lacework and embroidery. The Gaillon Sisters’ creations had been part of the nobility’s wedding trousseaus for decades. The pang of irritation flaring in her chest at the idea of Arlo buying a delicate lacy undergarment for some paramour was confirmation that Marena had indeed shed all her good sense.
Still, her lips parted, and words exited. “Buying something for someone special?” Her mouth was becoming a serious liability.
Another grunt. This one had an undertone of amusement. He looked at her, the smug smile on his face making her consider a vow of silence, and whispered, “Curious about the special women in my life, Miss Baine-Torres?”
“No,” she said grumpily, unable to suppress a huf
f of annoyance that had the cad laughing so hard it made some passersby turn in their direction.
In response, he tightened the hold he had on her arm, and gave her another of those exceedingly devastating grins. She looked away, but he stayed close.
“What did you think about that meeting at Lady Bibichon’s?” She snapped her gaze back to him in surprise. She should’ve known the man would go at the inflammatory topic head on. Marena considered how to reply. She’d been advised she could become overzealous when this subject came up. Even the men who were in favor of women’s suffrage seemed to like the females in their midst docile and only marginally opinionated. But perhaps speaking her mind would finally provoke a reaction from Kenworthy that would dampen her extremely foolish attraction to the man.
“I was nonplussed, in all honesty. I was not expecting a peer to speak so passionately about women’s suffrage. In my experience, the House of Lords is more interested in serving those who already have power.” He hummed in apparent agreement. “I was surprised by the fervor in your words,” she continued, not bothering to keep the admiration from her voice. The way he spoke that night, advocating for suffrage, for expanding the rights of women to leave marriages in which they were harmed, was…earth-shattering. “I didn’t know that there were those in the ton with that kind of clarity about the place of women.”
He didn’t respond for a long moment. His face was serious, brows furrowed, mouth pursed as they passed artfully decorated store windows. “I told you before. There was a time when I was not a duke, nor even a duke’s son.”
“Yes,” she said softly, wondering if he was about to tell her of his family’s ascent to the highest echelon of the aristocracy.
“My father was not supposed to be duke. He was of the gentry, but his family had not much wealth to speak of. The assignment in the Foreign Office was a respectable alternative to finding a wealthy relative to support him, as many of his peers did. That’s how he met my mother; he was in America for a few years.”
“Ah.” Marena nodded, recalling that she’d heard about Arlo’s mother being from a famed abolitionist family in America. “Did you go with him? On his travels?”
“We’re here,” he said, startling her as he stopped in front of Maison Maquet, but she found that stationery was no longer as appealing.
“I want to hear the rest.”
He nodded, pulling her into a side street so they were out of view, and continued to talk. Fleetingly, Marena thought the crowds of fashionable Parisians strolling along the sidewalk would notice a man tugging her into an alley, and decided that in this moment, she didn’t particularly care. She pressed her back to the brick wall and lifted her face to Arlo.
“After they married, my mother went to England with my father. A few years later he left again for the Caribbean.” Marena tried to listen for what he wasn’t saying, but his voice was devoid of emotion. For a man who seemed able to imbue everything with humor, this flat and unaffected tone told her these were not happy memories. “My mother died when I was five, and my grandmother, who was widowed by then, came from New York to raise me. My mother was her only child.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he looked at her with a small twinge of his lips. “I’m getting to the duke part, darling.”
Marena’s chest filled with air at seeing a hint of that ever-present humor, and her face heated at realizing how close they were. Leaning, as she was to the side of a building, and with him right in front of her, his mouth so close to her ear—she was more than a little breathless. Still, she was eager to hear what he’d say next. “Get on with it, Linley. There is more shopping to do,” she said haughtily, eliciting a grin.
Oh, that grin, that flash of teeth promising enough mischief to scandalize and thrill her. “When I was fourteen, my father’s cousin, the Duke of Linley, died without leaving any heirs.” The grin turned flinty. “And my father finally had a reason to return to England.”
“That’s quite a story.” She felt unsteady, ready to tumble down wherever this moment would take her.
“Hm,” he grunted as he ran the back of an ungloved hand over her cheek. “Your mouth keeps stealing my focus.” He shook his head, as if he were vexed by that epiphany. “I’ve been captivated by it from the moment I saw you. Wondered how it would taste.”
There were so many things she should have said in that moment. Reminded him they were mere feet from a busy street. That this was a compromising position for her. That she would be the one to lose in this game. But all the shoulds were razed to nothing by the flames of a singular thought in Marena’s mind.
Kiss me. Kiss me.
She felt the material of her bonnet scrape against the bricks as she pushed up to where Arlo’s mouth was waiting. “There’s only one way to know, Linley.”
He didn’t give her a chance for second thoughts. He wrapped her in his arms and pressed his mouth to hers. His lips felt as soft as she imagined, lush and warm on hers, parted just enough that she could feel his heat. She opened for him and his tongue came searching for hers, the glide of it on her lips making her tremble. Her stomach dipped as if she were barreling down a steep hill and her desire spiraled further up every passing second.
“I could devour you,” he gasped, and between hungry, mind-addling kisses, Marena thought to herself, I might just let you. She brought her hands up, scraping her nails over the nape of his neck, an action which rewarded her with a lusty hiss.
He nipped at her and she returned the favor, exploring him, greedily running her hands over his wide shoulders while he cradled her face and kissed her in earnest. Then she carded her fingers through those curls she’d been wanting to touch for days.
He slid a hand to the bodice of her dress, fingers searching until he found her nipple. “I’ve almost gone mad thinking what is hidden under all this,” he said hotly as he tweaked the sensitive peak between his fingers. Even over three layers of cotton his touch singed her. “My mouth dries any time I look at you.”
“Arlo,” she gasped, trying to suck in the air that would not return to her lungs.
“I will stop now,” he said, and she almost protested, not caring they were practically in plain view. “Not because I don’t want to ravish you right here. But because when I finish the job. I’d like to have you on a bed, naked. Take my time with you.”
The mention of taking things to a bedroom finally broke through the madness of the moment. What in the world was she doing? She could not be on a bed with Arlo Kenworthy. The man was a duke, and what’s more, her best friend’s brother. Mortified, she slid away from him and tried to set herself to rights.
“I should not have let that happen.” She was panting, which significantly lessened the stern tone she was attempting, but after a long, considering look, Arlo nodded, stepping back.
“It’s a shame. I enjoyed that immensely and would very much like to do it again. For an extended period of time.” Her breath hitched under the heated look he proffered her. “I’d taste every inch of you. Feast on your body.” She should turn and walk out to the street, to the safety of the crowd on the Rue de la Paix. Instead, she stood, riveted by his sensual promises. “Hours, Marena. I’d kiss, and bite and lick you for hours. Then I’d make my way down—”
That finally propelled her to move. Learning about what he’d was too dangerously enticing. She heard his husky laugh as he followed her onto the street. “The offer is there, if you would like to avail yourself of my mouth or any other parts you may require. We have a whole day of waiting, after all. And there is only so much shopping to do.”
She ignored him, turned on her heel, and walked into Maison Maquet. Buying expensive paper would have to do for Parisian indulgences.
Chapter Six
“And what is this?” Marena asked her empty bedroom as she walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in Turkish towels. They’d arrived from their day out an hour before and had gone to get ready for dinner. Arlo had been secretive about the evening’s dining plans
. And she could admit it only to herself: she was not only curious for where Arlo would take her, but craved spending more time in his company. The man was a walking, talking implausibility. He was direct, thoughtful, and funny. So unexpectedly real. She could not recall the last time she’d laughed as much as she had while walking the streets of Paris today. And what’s more, he made her feel things. From irritation to consuming lust, Arlo had brought it all up in Marena this day. It had been a long time since she’d let her emotions run wild like this. Since her return to London from Paris, really.
The arrival in London after those few months of freedom in Paris had been a rude awakening. She’d left for France a girl of twenty-four, eager to learn. What she’d found was a place where she could be more herself. She’d had trysts, felt free in a way she never had in London. She’d been happy here. And in the past five years she’d lost that. Since the first day she began managing the shop, the cutting comments about her age, her knowledge, her expertise and even how she styled her hair were an everyday occurrence. So, she’d closed herself off to all of it.
She’d poured herself into the salves and the tinctures and kept everyone else—and their effect on her—at a safe distance. Her dedication and focus had fueled her success, but it had been lonely. Now Arlo Kenworthy, in a matter of hours, had infiltrated her carefully guarded walls. Instead of heeding the danger of that development, she found she was taken with the man, and now he was sending her gifts. Bedroom gifts.
A heavy pulse beat in her chest as she approached the light blue box on her bed like it was an open flame. Her eyes narrowed as she inspected the thing. She recognized the packaging. She had a much smaller one on top of the dresser in the room. It was from the Gaillon Sisters’ shop, which was puzzling since they could not have been there more than fifteen minutes. While there Arlo purchased two dozen ladies’ handkerchiefs, which he requested be monogrammed with the letters BB. Marena had glared hotly at him as he placed the order—if he noticed her pugnacious looks, he did not say—but he did casually inform her BB was Beatrice Brooks, his grandmother. Then he launched into a story about defective pocket squares that made her grin from ear to ear.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 36