Her tone brooked absolutely no argument, but blast it all, he would not let her steamroll over him. He didn’t want her taking the train and ferry on her own.
“Your job is not to protect me,” she protested, as if she could read his thoughts. “I lived in Paris on my own a few years ago. I can get myself there without your assistance…Your Grace.” She opened her mouth and then closed it. Her lips pressed together, ensuring whatever almost slipped out, didn’t.
“If you will not travel with me, then allow me to make arrangements.” He could talk down even the most fastidious lords in Parliament, and yet this woman continued to run circles around him. “I would like for you to get there safely and in comfort. It is the least I can do.”
“Fine. Send me the information by messenger.” She crossed her arms and decreed.
“I will see you there, Marena.” The satisfied thrum in his blood from getting his way was heightened by the prospect of spending more time with this querulous herbalist.
She lifted a finger and pointed it directly at his face. “We’re not friends, and this will not be a social call. We are getting Delfine and Lluvia back, and parting ways the moment that’s done.” With that, she turned and left the room.
This woman reminded him of who he used to be. Of the passion with which his grandmother lived. He wasn’t sure if the effect Marena had on him would be positive or disastrous, but he was eager for more of her either way.
Chapter Three
Gare du Nord, Paris
“It is fortunate that I adore those two as much as I do, because otherwise this would be the most foolish thing I have ever done,” Marena muttered under her breath as she gathered her things from the private train car Linley had reserved for her trip to Paris. Two days. That’s what she’d agreed to, and even that felt dangerous.
Arlo Kenworthy had an extremely adverse effect on Marena’s common sense, and this jaunt through Paris would probably prove to be her doom. But it could not be avoided. The man was Delfine’s brother. El duque—as she’d been calling him in her head—had not been pleased with her request to meet him in Paris, but he’d conceded. Not that she would’ve agreed to travel with the man.
She would not be compromised by boarding a train in London with a notorious aristocrat and be labeled his mistress. No. It had taken a lot of effort to finally convince her mother and their patrons that at five-and-twenty, Marena could operate Baine’s Apothecary on her own, and four years later she would not lose her hard-earned reputation over a man she wasn’t sure she liked.
Arlo Kenworthy had a purpose to serve in her life: to help get Lluvia and Delfine back home to London. Once that was done, she’d be happy to see him only if absolutely necessary. But now she’d arrived, and the anticipation was like champagne bubbles in her blood. She loved Paris, and foolishly, the idea of walking some of her favorite streets with Arlo Kenworthy made her heart skitter in her chest.
Too much feeling was a dangerous thing. Letting a nobleman be the source of excess emotion was downright perilous, and Marena had always been excellent at self-preservation. As she stepped on to the platform, she thought of the next part of her journey: find her way to the lodgings Linley had arranged for them in the Place des Vosges. The tony square was not anywhere she’d frequented in the short months she’d lived and studied in Paris. She’d admit, if only to herself, that the thought of staying at such a fashionable address was another reason for her excitement. She walked with purpose to where her small trunk would be delivered, looking around to spot where the fiacres would be lined up to take newly arrived passengers to their Parisian destinations.
There were hundreds of people milling about, but her French was excellent, and she knew Paris well enough to get around. She slid a hand into the pocket of her skirts in search of the note where she’d written the direction to the apartments.
“They’ve already got your bags. They’ll take them to the townhouse.” A voice from behind startled her, but Marena didn’t have to turn around. After only two meetings she’d recognize his voice anywhere. The Eton accent in that baritone was unmistakable. But what was he doing here? He’d left a day before she did. They’d agreed she’d see him at the Place des Vosges.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, still with her back to him. Perhaps she’d embellished her memory of him. The man’s arrival in her life had been a whirlwind, and now her memory of his looks superseded the real thing. No one was that handsome. Bolstered by that thought Marena turned as people walked around them, her narrow skirts brushing against his trousers. He seemed to be everywhere. The base of his throat was so close that if she leaned forward just an inch she could press her lips to it—and what kind of reckless, pernicious thought was that?
Someone rushed by, jostling her, and a strong arm gathered her at the waist. “I have you,” he assured her, tightening his arms so that his body shielded her. His voice was husky, and she wondered if she was imagining the flush of color at his neck. She leaned into him, and he gathered her closer. Her own blood rushed through her veins like wildfire. When Marena finally looked up so she could see his face, she came to the troubling conclusion that her memory did not, in fact, hold a candle to his beauty. And what was she doing, falling into the man’s arms not even a minute after she’d stepped down from the train?
“What are you doing here?” she asked shakily, stepping away from him. He raised an eyebrow at her less-than-friendly tone. He towered over her, and everyone around. If not for the finery he wore, he could be an East End bruiser. All of it made her short of breath and exceedingly ill-humored. It was not fair for anyone to look this dashing so early in the morning.
“I’m here for you.” Her stomach dipped at the words. Her nipples tightened when his roaming gaze paused just a moment too long on the area of her mouth, then her neck. She had to clasp her hands to keep from covering her face. Her bonnet was askew, and her skirts rumpled. Still he looked at her like he was ravenous and she was the only thing that could satisfy his hunger.
“You came for me?” She sounded winded.
“Yes, you.” His mouth quirked. Bastard. “I’ll take you to the townhouse.” He was scrambling her senses, and she resented him for that. Resented that perfect sable curl on his forehead that made him look young and roguish all at once. Resented that the emotions she had kept safely locked away wanted to burst out of her the moment he was near. And most of all, she resented his blasted good humor. She couldn’t turn him down just to be contrary. Then she would really seem unreasonable, and they did have to spend the next couple of days together.
“Fine.” She harrumphed, narrowing her eyes at the elbow he offered her before stomping off in the direction of the street. “Where’s the carriage?”
He chuckled, seemingly delighted by her irritation. “Right outside. The staff at the townhouse is very competent. There’s breakfast waiting.” She almost pointed out that she had no idea what made a competent staff, since she’d never had one. Even when they were in Santo Domingo, most of the folks that worked in their house were some kind of family. In London, they had day help, but never anything like the army of servants a duke might have.