Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  But Marena had already told him what she was protecting herself from, and he would not be his father. To have more of her would mean changing the rules he’d set for himself. It felt like too much, too soon, and yet he could not stop himself from wanting it.

  When he felt her nails softly scraping his scalp, he looked up, and the satisfied smile on her lips melted away his fretting. He had her here now.

  “I hope I lived up to my reputation,” he said, feigning a smugness he did not quite feel.

  “So far, I am moderately impressed.” She smiled mischievously at his sound of protest and bent for a quick kiss. Arlo had always wondered about men who lost their heads, squandered fortunes, ruined their names, lost their lives chasing after a woman. He’d thought them foolish and callow, but now he knew he’d engage in unmitigated recklessness to keep those blazing brown eyes on him.

  “Moderately,” he muttered as he gripped that backside which was already an obsession. “That kind of cheek will only achieve making us even later for dinner.” She laughed, and it quickly turned into a breathy gasp when he began applying small bites and kisses to the soft skin of her belly before making his way up to her breasts. He kissed one, then the other as she made encouraging sounds. He placed his lips to the hollow of her throat, going higher and higher until he could taste her mouth again. After a moment, she pulled back, chest heaving up and down.

  “I may need a few more demonstrations.”

  “You’re requesting an encore then.” There was no hiding the satisfaction in his voice, so he did not even attempt it.

  She laughed in his arms and a rare jolt of joy flared in his chest.

  “I would say it’s more like I was intrigued by the first act and would like to experience the rest.”

  “I am exceedingly happy to oblige.” He picked her up in flurry of lace and crumpled linen as she screamed in delight.

  “Your Grace, put me down.”

  “I am willing and able to take you through the second and third act with no further intermission.”

  She shook her head, barely able to speak from laughter. “Absolutely not. We are going to dinner. I have a gown and an appetite. I will be fed,” she demanded imperiously, a queen who would have her every whim fulfilled, and Arlo wanted to satisfy all of them.

  He could lose every ounce of sense for this woman. He had already started to.

  “All right. But I reserve the right to skip courses and possibly chewing,” he teased, already wondering how he could accelerate the five-course dinner he’d planned and get her back here in his bed.

  Chapter Seven

  They managed to arrive at the restaurant after only a few minor delays. Marena recognized the white façade as Café l’Anglais, one of the most exclusive eateries in Paris. Without asking, he had brought her to the one place she would’ve picked in all the city. She had not eaten here during her months in Paris; the prices were exorbitant. But she’d walked by the popular restaurant many times. She felt a frisson of delight at the idea of eating here with Arlo.

  “You’re staring, Your Grace...again. I thought rakes were aloof and uninterested once they slaked their passion,” she said as he helped her out of the carriage. She was having too much fun with this man, and this time when he offered her his arm, she took it.

  “I am nowhere near satisfied, and I assure you, sweetheart, neither are you.” If the last hour had taught her anything, it was the Duke of Linley could absolutely see that kind of promise through, and it was probably best not to provoke him in a public place. No matter how her body tightened, or her core ached at the mere suggestion of having him “satisfy” her again.

  “I’m afraid to ask.” She turned her face up to look at him, and he returned the same giddy expression she was sure she wore. Like her, he had refreshed his appearance, and was looking every inch the Duke of Linley. The man was imposing, almost aggressively male, and now that she knew what he could do with his hands, resisting the full effect of his heated gaze on her was a test of endurance. Marena knew this dalliance would have its consequences. No longer being the object of Arlo Kenworthy’s attention would be a deep hole to crawl out of, and yet she had no regrets. She was enjoying him too much to fret about what, at this point, was inevitable.

  “I assure you will enjoy every second of it.” The man was too arrogant.

  “Promises, promises,” she said, mouth twitching as the corners turned up into a grin. She could feel him looking at her, but she kept her eyes on the massive door in front of them. Before they could knock, it opened, and they walked into a low-lit foyer covered in gleaming dark wood and gold-plated fixtures. The man who greeted them had a generous mustache, which was meticulously clipped and oiled.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur,” the man said politely as he discreetly looked through the list in front of him.

  “My man arranged for a table. Linley” Arlo informed him, and instantly the man’s face lit up at the name.

  “Your Grace,” he said reverently. “I am Guillaume Benoit, the maître d’hôtel. We are very honored to have you and your guest with us tonight. Welcome.” He snapped his fingers, and the effect was immediate—like the staff had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Everyone moved in a flurry to accommodate the duke.

  Arlo quietly observed the flurry of activity as he placed a possessive hand at her back, and her stupid, reckless heart did a somersault in her chest. “This is Mademoiselle Baine-Torres.”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle Baine-Torres.” Another bow. Marena suspected Monsieur Benoit would’ve had the same reaction if Arlo had announced he’d arrived with Satan’s spawn on his arm. A little voice in her head wanted to fuss about people linking her to Arlo, but she reminded herself she was in Paris and she could hide in plain sight.

  Benoit extended an arm toward the door on the far side of dining room. “We have prepared the cellar for you.”

  The cellar? Marena’s back stiffened as she tried to figure out what Arlo had devised.

  “They have prepared a table for us in the cellar. It’s cooler there.” He was so close she could feel his warmth as they crossed the room. “And more private. I was promised we would not be disturbed by other diners. I’m of a mind to test how soundproof it is down there.”

  It was a travesty how she found the man’s filthy mind tantalizing. “That does not seem particularly sanitary.”

  That brought out a husky laugh, accompanied by a devastating smile. “I’ll make sure to take all precautions.” And with that, he pulled her to him and helped her down the stairs.

  “Arlo!” She exclaimed in surprise once they reached to bottom of the stairs. The cellar, which Monsieur Benoit had explained was one of the biggest in all Europe, was indeed enormous. There was an alcove in one corner where a table for two had been set. Candelabras stood off to the sides, illuminating the place settings, which were edged in gold. All around them, rows and rows of wine bottles covered the walls. Whatever food was being prepared was pleasantly filling the room with the aroma of butter and herbs. “How did you?” Marena asked, still admiring the many beautiful details.

  “You like it?” His voice was rough, as if the moment were affecting him as well.

  “It’s magnificent.” This would’ve never been possible in London, where only in the last few years could men and women dine together in a restaurant, much less have a private room for two.

  He made one of his sounds. By now, she’d heard enough grunts from Arlo Kenworthy to know they were a language of their own, and the man was thoroughly pleased with himself. “A friend mentioned one could get a private table with a special menu here, and this afternoon it occurred to me I’d very much like to bring you. Have you all to myself.” Why did he say things like that? She wondered if she would find the courage to tell him he was giving her the kind of evening she’d dreamt about for years.

  Every passing minute with Arlo showed her he was not the kind of man she imagined him to be. And the more he said, the harder it was to keep her feelings at bay. T
hese twenty-four hours of freedom would have long-lasting consequences because Arlo could steal her heart.

  Marena looked at his handsome face, with his strong jaw and tender eyes. Without caring that Monsieur Benoit was puttering around them, regaling them with details about the dinner, she lifted up on her toes and kissed him. And as if he has been waiting for her, Arlo immediately took her in his arms, those strong, capable fingers tightening on her back as he tasted her, slow and sweet.

  “Mmm.” She leaned into the pleasure of being held like this, being kissed with barely contained hunger. After a moment, she pulled back, lightheaded. He ran a thumb over her bottom lip, and for a second, she caught it between her teeth, making him grin. “I might have to devise more cellar dinners in the future.”

  The future. The word was like a splash of cold water. She pulled back until she was free from his embrace, feeling unsettled.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern at the change in her mood. Everything felt tight and confining. Her dress, her thoughts, her life, but mostly the little bit of time they had left.

  There would be no more dinners, not in cellars or anywhere else, and there would be no future. Not one in which they were like this, at least. Even if Delfine and Arlo managed to have a relationship, it would not involve Marena, and this would certainly not be part of it. No, a man of Arlo’s station would never marry a woman like Marena. And why was she thinking of marriage, something she didn’t want. But that felt like a lie too when she was in his arms.

  “Marena.” He called her name, bringing her out her stormy thoughts. She opened her mouth to offer some kind of platitude, but Benoit—who she’d forgotten was in the room—saved her from answering.

  “Your Grace,” he discreetly called from a corner. Marena quickly added mortification to the barrage of emotions coursing through her. “Your table is ready.” The host gestured, and they walked over, Marena slowing to admire the luxurious trappings surrounding her. Arlo, on the other hand, was solely focused on her.

  “Allow me.” He hovered over her as she arranged the skirts of her dress. When she was seated comfortably and had a crisp white linen napkin on her lap, he bent and kissed her. A brush of lips to the bare skin of her neck, as if he could not resist the temptation of her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, offering him with the best smile she could muster, too full of perilous emotions to trust herself to say more. He gave her a long, serious look. His gaze was different, softer, as if he knew she was feeling fragile.

  At the precise moment Arlo sat, servants appeared from a door on one side of the room and began placing platters on the sideboard behind their table.

  “Your Grace,” Benoit said, demanding their attention. “The chef has prepared five courses for you and mademoiselle.” A young man with a mop of red curls and a homely face stepped forward to place handwritten cards with their special menu in front of them. “And for boissons…” Benoit nodded, and another member of his tiny army came forward with a tray laden with bottles of wine. “Our sommelier has chosen the perfect varietals for each of your courses. We have a Coteaux de l’Aubance recently arrived from the Loire Valley that will go perfectly with the foie-gras in your first course.” He smiled widely, making the curled tips of his mustache almost reach the corner of this eyes.

  Arlo barely acknowledged Benoit’s efforts. His eyes were only on Marena, as if the sumptuous dinner he’d arranged was of no consequence. She pulled her spectacles from her small handbag and read over the menu.

  “I am looking forward to the famous pommes Anna,” Marena told Benoit, excited to try the dish made of thinly sliced and crisp potatoes gratinéd with Gruyère, for which Café l’Anglais was known.

  Benoit grinned widely, as if she’d complimented one of his children. “You have heard of pommes Anna. They are the perfect companion to the caneton à la Rouennaise.” He pressed two fingers to his lips in a flourish. “The duck breast is stuffed with truffles and our special sausage. And the sauce is made with the Bordeaux wine and bone marrow, with lots of butter, of course.” He beamed at her.

  “Sounds heavenly,” she replied with her own smile. She had missed the way the French made eating an experience for all the senses. She was looking forward to seeing Arlo Kenworthy savoring the dishes.

  “I’m sure everything will be delectable.” The heat in his eyes made Marena wonder if Arlo was referring to the meal, or other things he’d already sampled this evening.

  Within seconds they each had a glass of champagne, accompanied by a small mother-of-pearl spoon laden with caviar and topped with crème fraîche. After that, they were left alone, with the promise of returning shortly with the first course.

  Marena wanted to say something silly or droll about the caviar, or Monsieur Benoit’s mustache, but Arlo’s mood seemed to have shifted, his expression more serious now. Marena found she desperately wanted the smile that had been appearing constantly on his lips to return.

  “You brought your spectacles.”

  “I brought my spectacles so I could read the menu. Everything looks so delicious,” she said, pointing at his menu.

  Arlo looked at the card on his plate with disinterest and returned his focus to her. Marena was no stranger to stares or close examinations. Being the child of a Black woman and a white man seemed to be a source of endless fascination and scrutiny for Londoners. She’d learned to ignore it, dismissing it as ignorance for which she had no time. But that was not how Arlo looked at her.

  Arlo’s eyes caressed her, like he could see right through her clothes and find all the places that warmed to his attention. He shifted in his seat, his back pushed against the chair, as he distractedly ran his index finger over the stem of the champagne coupe. With every passing second the beating of her heart increased until she felt a thrumming at her temples, and still the man would not speak. Finally, after taking another sip of wine and licking his lips in that way that made liquid heat gather low in her belly, he opened his mouth.

  “I’m looking forward to feasting on you, darling. I’d take you right here if you’d let me,” he said darkly, voice like gravel scraping across her over-sensitized skin. Her hands tingled and her breath quickened until she had to hold the sides of her chair to keep from listing. “I should’ve tried harder to skip dinner, because right now all I want to do is put my mouth on the places I didn’t get to yet.”

  “I appreciate your candor.” She kept her gaze locked with his as she leaned forward, enough to flaunt a bit of the attributes on which he was so riveted. “And I look forward to once again seeing you apply yourself to such a worthy task.”

  He shifted in his chair, predatory blue eyes on her, but before he could ravage her on the spot, Benoit and his assistants marched in with the first course.

  Chapter Eight

  Dinner had been exquisite torture. Arlo’s upbringing at the hands of a loving but practical woman had taught him to harness impatience and relish anticipation. Beatrice would always remind him that waiting meant a deeper satisfaction when the thing he desired was finally his. And for most of his life, he’d considered his composure one of his most valued attributes. He could keep a cool head and a steady hand in almost any situation. It had served him well a decade earlier, when his father’s poor judgment had put the substantial holdings of the duchy in dire straits, and had required Arlo—with the help of his grandmother—to bring them back from the precipice of financial ruin.

  It had also been a valuable skill in the past year when he tried to appeal to the peerage to pass bills that expanded rights for and improved the living conditions of women, children, and the poor. Arlo could wait anyone out. He’d seen far more dignified men than he work themselves into a frenzy while he remained calm and collected. But that was before he, the man known to the peerage as “that unflappable stone-cold bastard,” had to sit through a full hour of Marena Baine-Torres licking her lips and moaning in ecstasy as she made swift work of three courses of the best gastronomic offerin
gs in Paris.

  “You never told me how you became involved in women’s suffrage.” Her voice was redolent with the smile that had been on her lips through the meal, and it blessedly pulled him out of his fevered thoughts. Arlo was not a fanciful man, but something possessive and not a little primal pulsed in him with the need to keep this woman glowing. The thrill he felt from knowing he’d been the one to do this for her, to feed her, fill her senses with things that delighted her, was a revelation. And now she was looking at him like she wanted to know him, the distant, wary woman of mere days ago replaced by a whirlwind of curls and bright smiles.

  Arlo usually kept his past, his true self, close to his chest. He’d learned early on that being the Duke of Linley could erase who he was completely. So he kept the two Arlos separate. The grandson of Beatrice Brooks, and son of Clarice, only appeared for those who had known him before the move to Linley house. That Arlo needed to be hidden from the world into which he had been thrust, lest the peerage recall he was not one of them.

  Not because he was afraid of losing his title; if there was something aristocrats were good at, it was making sure their kind could do and say what they wanted with absolute impunity. His fear was that he’d gotten so good at wearing that mask, he wasn’t sure he could take it off. But for the past day he’d been letting her see him. It felt like he was finding his way back to a place from which he’d strayed, and to which he yearned to go back.

  “My grandmother grew up in a Quaker family.” She nodded as if that meant something to her and leaned in slightly. “Her parents were abolitionists and believed in the equality of the genders and races. They were wealthy, owned the biggest newspaper in Boston, and they put money into the cause.” Arlo never had many reasons to feel proud of his family’s legacy, especially when it came to his father, but he was proud of this.