“This has been an evening of exquisite pleasure, Your Grace,” she whispered as she peppered him with kisses.
“You are a pleasure.” There was a rumbling in his chest as he stroked her wild curls and felt her warm hands against his skin. “I enjoy you very much.” His heart galloped inside him from all the things he wanted to say but didn’t know how to voice. She murmured something, a sleepy, soft sound, and tightened her arms around him while he warred with himself.
He had not been prepared for this. Then again, the world he lived in, the peerage and its silly rules and inconsistent behaviors, its morally vacuous sensibilities and puritanical nonsense, could not produce a magnificent being like the woman in his arms. Maybe that was why he’d been content all these years with the idea of remaining alone. If he’d imagined someone like her was possible, he would’ve been running for the altar years ago.
“I want to see you when we’re in London.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and just as quickly the fragile perfection of the moment was shattered.
Marena sat up, her eyes wide and skittish. “Arlo. We agreed.”
“That was before we—” He gestured a hand in the space between them.
She closed her eyes, her chest moving up and down as she breathed through her mouth. “Please, don’t do this. Arlo, I can’t.” She scrambled out of the bed as she spoke, rifling through the room in her luscious nakedness. His chest tightened at the unhappy look on her face and he wondered what, if anything, he could say to make her stay.
“I know you feel it too. I know you want more.”
She was already sliding the chemise back on and turned a watery gaze in his direction.
“I want a lot of things I can’t have, Arlo,” she said miserably as she pulled the lace-trimmed straps on her shoulders. “I want to be able to own a business without having every person who walks in demand to know where the man in charge is. I’d love for people to not look at me and assume they can touch my hair.” She threw her hands in the air, clearly frustrated. “I’d love to live in a world where me wanting you was reason enough to let myself have you. But I can’t be anyone’s mistress, Arlo. And certainly not the mistress of a duke.”
“I never said you’d be my mistress.” Arlo was always painstakingly restrained, but his control felt close to shattering. He was angry. Not at her, but at the whole fucking world. “I am ready to talk about conditions, tell me what you want, and—”
“You’re a duke, Arlo. I’m a merchant. A half-Black merchant.” She laughed then, and it was a hollow, bitter sound. “If I take up with you, everyone in London will know and I will be the one ruined. You’ll just be another lord who wanted to try something different for a bit.” Every word she said was true, and he despised himself and his kind in that moment, as much as he ever had. “Also, Delfine is your sister.”
“But we could—”
“There can’t be a we, Arlo. We said we could have this one night. Please don’t make this harder than it already is.” A lone tear ran down her cheek, and when he moved to go to her, she ran to the water closet and closed the door. She left him there, stifled by this blasted title he had never wanted. And which now, for the first time, truly felt suffocating.
Chapter Eleven
“Good Morning, Your Grace.” She was a coward, so she didn’t look his way.
Arlo grunted something that resembled a greeting as Marena stiffly perused the breakfast table. Every meal so far had been delicious, and she’d been looking forward to the petit dejeuner offerings from the chef. In the mood she was currently in, some bland English gruel would’ve been more in order. She could feel his eyes on her as she focused on cutting a wedge of the Saint Marcelin he’d bought at the Marais after she’d said it was her favorite. As soon as they’d returned to the townhouse, he’d handed the cheese to his valet and informed the man it would be for their breakfast. He’d been so proud of his market purchases. All of this would be so much easier if he’d fulfilled her expectations of the nobility and behaved like a cad.
Alas, he’d been nothing but decent. More than decent. Last night he’d been…too much of everything she wanted and could never have. Too good, too clever, too charming, too wicked. Too tempting. Arlo made Marena forget the rules she’d set for herself. And when he’d told her he wanted more, God help her, she’d wanted to fling herself in his arms and tell him she felt the same.
But she didn’t live in a fairytale. She lived in London. He was a duke, and she would not throw her life and business by the wayside to be a rich man’s temporary fancy. Because that’s what she would be. A man like Arlo could afford to indulge in fantasies, but women like Marena could not. And so, despite how much she’d preferred waking up to Arlo making his way down her body with his mouth, she’d have to settle for buttered croissants.
When she’d arranged her plate to her liking, she chose the seat at the end of the eight-person table, at least twelve feet from him. He raised an eyebrow, but continued to cut the piece of bacon on his plate. She smothered the pang of disappointment at his silence and reminded herself that she’d asked him for this distance. Now she had to live with the stark reality of no longer being the object of Arlo Kenworthy’s attention.
“Any word from Delfine?” she asked, grasping for something that could make this excruciatingly awkward meal bearable. She looked up from her own investigation of the omelet on her plate to find Arlo’s impassive gaze on her. He was a bit disheveled. His usual perfect appearance a bit off-kilter. Perhaps like her, sleep had not come to him until almost dawn.
“No.”
One word. No humorous inflection. No flirtatious repartee. She straightened her back, her eyes on the window behind Arlo that, in the French style, went from the floor to the ceiling. It was a beautiful day, with barely a cloud in the bright blue sky. She could see the tops of the streets of the square at the center of the Place des Vosges. But her attention kept returning to the copper streaks in Arlo’s hair. She could almost feel the coarse curls between her fingers, remembering how she’d gripped them as his mouth feasted on her sex.
The crash of the fork slipping out of her hand sounded like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room.
“Mierda!” she hissed, jumping up from the chair as flecks of coddled egg splattered over the lovely toile tablecloth.
“Are you all right?” Arlo asked with concern. She wanted to scream. Just scream in frustration that she could not even give herself twenty-four hours with this man without thinking she could be ruining her entire future.
“I’m fine.” Her face was hot with embarrassment as she tried to blot out the grease stain already soaked into the fine linens. “I can’t believe I did that. So clumsy,” she said, frantically rubbing a wet napkin on the spot.
“It’s all right. It can be replaced.” The casual dismissal of the ruined tablecloth, which probably cost what she made in a week at the shop, made everything worse.
“Of course,” she scoffed. “What was I thinking? I’m sure there are a dozen more pristine ones ready to take it’s place.” The caustic tone in her voice made him pause as he reached for the bell, presumably to summon a brand-new tablecloth and place settings. Meanwhile, an ugly, sharp wretchedness slithered inside her chest. She wanted to say horrid things, dismiss everything she’d learned about him. Give him a reason to stop looking at her like he could see her misery. Maybe then she’d be rid of the frantic need she felt for him.
“Is that what you think?” He sounded hurt. “That I toss things out when I have no use for them?” He was at her side in an instant, towering over her. He smelled like leather and bergamot oil and she loathed every one of the perfectly good reasons swirling in her head which told her getting close to this man was a mistake.
“What does it matter what I think, Arlo?” She looked away. He was wearing light gray trousers and a matching waistcoat and jacket. A crisp white shirt and cravat completed the ensemble.
“Because it does.”
She shook her head and averted her gaze, not wanting to let the yearning in his voice affect her, unable to stare into those blue eyes that had already gotten her in so much trouble.
“Marena, please.” He reached for her, and she backed away. If she gave in, she’d be lost. She had only the morning and afternoon to get through, and this evening they would see Delfine and Lluvia. She’d be on her way back to London in the morning.
Marena was not one to run away. Her parents had raised her to stand tall in a world that sometimes didn’t see her at all, but this felt too risky.
“I have some things I need to do before this evening,” she said hastily, and made her escape.
As she reached her room, she told herself it was for the best. He would think her rude and not worth the trouble. When he did, she would lie to herself again and pretend that was exactly what she wanted.
“What are you doing?”
He could not decide if it was anger or exhaustion in her voice. Like the previous day, they were at door of the townhouse with Marena glaring at him. But if he had not let London’s high society get the best of him yet, he could surely navigate an afternoon with a surly Marena Baine-Torres.
“I’m coming with you,” he said pleasantly as he reached for his hat. He’d recognized the turmoil in her eyes at breakfast because it was exactly what was wreaking havoc in him. Arlo had expected the morning to be awkward, but he refused to be one of those men who let a bruised ego turn him into a brute. He’d been clear last night that he wanted more. She’d declined, and for now he had to accept it. He had only one alternative left—let her see for herself that what was happening between them was worth exploring.
“I don’t require a chaperone, Your Grace.” He raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed she could make sounds when her jaw clenched so tightly.
“I’m not offering to chaperone. I enjoyed our outing yesterday and was hoping you’d let me accompany you again.” He was proud of himself for not alluding to the other things he’d enjoyed doing with her and kept a very friendly, respectable distance. His efforts did not thaw Marena in the slightest.
She looked at her clothes, avoiding his gaze. Inspected them from the tip of her toes to the waist of her skirt, taking her time before she answered him. “I’m not going shopping,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. “I thought I’d walk to the river and spend some time at the Jardin des Plantes.” A flush stained her cheeks, and the urge to lift her chin and kiss her senseless was almost overpowering. “It’s my favorite place in Paris.”
If he didn’t already have a dozen reasons why he should be captivated by this woman, the fact that the old medicinal garden of Louis the XIII was her favorite place—in a city where one could find any indulgence possible—would’ve have left him hopelessly infatuated.
He had never seen anyone more enticing than this woman in a practical, unassuming morning dress, ready for a day of walking in the sun. She was in light green today, with a simple embellishment at the hems and waist, the cuffs at her elbow of a darker green filigree embroidery. She’d said she didn’t use long sleeves because she worked with tinctures so much and would always stain them. He looked at her hands—which she’d mentioned made her feel self-conscious because of their dryness—and felt an irrational urge to take each one and kiss her palm.
She wore no bustle as usual, not that she needed it. Marena made Botticelli’s beauties pale in comparison. Her hair was up, half covered with a bonnet, the rest coiled in intricate braids. An image of her with her hair down puttering in a garden, made his chest tighten with unbridled longing. He would upend his life to see that. To have the chance to walk in on her, hands dusty from her work, her face sun-kissed and warm.
“I’d love to see the garden again. I haven’t gone in years.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sounded this tentative. Or the last time something so simple felt so enormously important. Yesterday, he’d felt content walking through that market. Happy in a way he had never felt with anyone but his grandmother. Despite how things had ended last night, he wanted more of that.
“It’s a long way there, and I plan to walk. It may get warm.”
“I’m wearing my walking boots.” he tipped one foot up. “And I am happy to perform basket-holding duties again,” he said as amiably as he could manage.
“No baskets today,” she said, a shy smile quirking her lips. “We’ll be back in a few hours. For when Lluvia and Delfine arrive.”
“Of course.” His heart pounded in his chest, giddy. He was giddy for a walk in a garden. Maybe this woman was a sorceress.
“Don’t you need Cyrus to…” She twirled a finger in the vicinity of his head.
“I’ve sent him on a special mission. Shall we?” he asked, thrusting her parasol at her. It was best to keep the purpose of the mission as a surprise for a later time, when he needed more ammunition for Ms. Baine-Torres’s resistance.
She considered him for another moment. This time, the smile reached her dark brown eyes. “There are going to be lots of bugs there.”
“I’m a devotee of gnats and all manners of flying insects,” he said matter-of-factly as they stepped out into the street.
“That is a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Possibly,” he admitted as they walked, his chest expanding with every step he took by her side. “But I’d suffer through more than a few gnats for a little more time with you.” He was pushing, he knew that, but when he offered his elbow, she slid her arm into it. And in that moment, Arlo realized that if marriage were the only path forward, he would do it. If it meant keeping this woman long enough to convince her they made perfect sense together.
Chapter Twelve
“For a louse enthusiast you gripe in excess over a small bee sting,” Marena teased as they walked into the townhouse.
“It was a remarkably robust bee. The blasted thing practically blinded me.”
“It stung your cheek,” she exclaimed, barely able to talk through her laughter.
He grabbed her by the waist and pressed his mouth to her ear. “I thought I was going to get some tending to for my injury.”
“Arlo, someone could see us,” she said weakly, letting him turn them around so they were half-hidden in a small alcove by the entrance.
The visit to the gardens had turned into a picnic, and then some kisses in the shade of some horse chestnut trees. She should’ve resisted, but she hadn’t wanted to. Besides, their time was almost over. Once they saw Lluvia and Delfine she’d stop, she promised herself as she brushed her lips to the angry red welt on his face.
“I may have some lavender oil I could put on this tiny welt,” she said, feigning annoyance. “For such a big and strong man, you need a lot of coddling.” At that, Arlo turned his face and kissed her.
A kiss, and a taste of the blackberries they’d eaten still on his tongue. “I may be taking advantage of the fact that I have the most famed herbalist in all London to help heal my battle scars.” His mouth was already leaving a trail of kisses along her neck. “But may I request you thoroughly inspect for more bites or stings? I suggest we go to my bedroom and get undressed so you can properly investigate.”
She huffed a laugh even as she gave him more access to her neck. “You do not need to take off your clothes for a bee sting on your face, Arlo.”
“I meant undressing you,” he said, laughing so hard his entire body shook.
“Swine.” She could nor the life of her infuse the word with any rancor. She was hopelessly smitten.
“I love when you use pet names, darling.”
That elicited another bout of laughter, so that they were more heaving against each other than kissing.
“Marena! I thought that was you—”
Her sister’s voice made Marena jump back as if she’d been scalded. She frantically looked at Arlo as she righted the collar of her dress. Her face was hot with mortification.
This was a disaster. Her sister had caught her kissing Arlo. Kissing
Delfine’s brother. Kissing the duke who was Delfine’s brother.
“Sweetheart,” Arlo whispered, reaching for her, but she stepped out of the way before he could touch her.
“No, please,” she begged, not able to meet his gaze. She took a deep breath, her eyes closed. Tremors coursed up and down her body from embarrassment. Right under it was the regret of knowing her time with Arlo had come to such an abrupt ending. It cut to the bone. She’d lied to herself over and over about being able to walk away, but before she’d even started, she’d known it would hurt. And she’d been right.
When she faced Lluvia and Delfine, she found matching expressions, which were a mix of open curiosity and embarrassment. But there was something else more devastating—a glint of hope. Over the years, Lluvia had made it her mission to let Marena know she needed to let her guard down, that she should find someone who would make her shed her aloofness, and Marena has always told her she was not interested. She knew what her sister was thinking. That maybe someone had finally broken through Marena’s defenses. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter how effectively Arlo had done just that—he was not a man she could have.
“Lluvia,” she said, tears suddenly brimming in her eyes. She embraced her older sister, who was as different from her in temperament as she was in appearance. Where Marena was curves and voluptuousness, Lluvia was tall and slim, planes and angles, with straight black hair that fell flat down her back when she let it down. It had only been a few months since Lluvia had been in London. She’d come back three or four times in the year since she’d moved to Paris with Delfine. But seeing her now shook Marena to her core, as if in the last twenty-four hours she’d drifted out of the world she belonged in and seeing her sister had jolted her back.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 41