“Why didn’t you send someone? You didn’t need to bother,” she said, walking fast enough to stay out of his reach. After a few steps she realized her mistake. There were too many people, it was easy to get swallowed up by the crowd, and she had no idea which one of the almost dozen cabs waiting by the road was Arlo’s.
She’d also lost him. Panicked, she looked through the crowd, trying to get her bearings. Then the smell of bay rum announced his proximity before he reached her.
“You haven’t lost me,” he whispered close to her ear. She dearly wished that the frisson coursing through her spine was due to the chill of the early morning. “We’re in the green right in front.”
She would not shiver. She would not tremble from the man’s chest barely brushing against her shoulders. “Thank you,” she bit off, but when she tried to run, he wrapped an arm around her waist.
“The crowd is too dense. Let’s get to the carriage, and then you can tear my arm off.” Damn the man for sounding delighted at her foul mood. She would not smile, because there was nothing at all charming or funny about this situation.
“All right.” She conceded, begrudgingly, as they walked with his hand firmly on her waist. She could not deny that once he took charge, the crowd parted before him. Fleetingly, she had the thought that people would see her getting into the carriage with him, and then remembered in Paris that was much less likely.
“Your room is ready in case you want to rest for a couple of hours after you eat.”
“I have some errands to run this morning.” She realized her tone was bordering on rudeness and softened it by offering an explanation. “I have to buy some things for the shop.”
He nodded, then pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “This came early this morning.” The humor in his voice from a moment earlier was replaced by something cautious.
She slid her gloves off, and then, self-conscious he’d see the dryness there, almost put them back on again. Working with herbs and acidic substances day after day took its toll on the skin. Even if she rubbed them with cacao butter and aloe, her hands were not soft. Not a lady’s hands.
And why did she have to dwell on that? Why was she dwelling on anything Arlo saw or thought of her? She stopped herself from answering because that information felt entirely too dangerous to grapple with now.
She ran a finger under the seal of the envelope and quickly read the short note, aware Arlo had looked away to give her privacy. Still, she could feel the tension emanating from him as he waited for her to share news from his half-sister. She’d sent a couple of long telegrams, advising Delfine of their arrival in Paris and the news of Arlo’s desire to meet her. Her friend had agreed to the visit, but there had been no opportunity for Marena to share details other than when they would arrive and where they would be staying. They were not in hiding in Paris, but Lluvia and Delfine asked to come to them instead of bringing Arlo to where they lived, and that was still the plan.
Marena smiled at the eagerness in Lluvia’s note, filled with hope that Arlo would really help them return. They liked Paris well enough, but it wasn’t London. It wasn’t home. And it had been almost a year. Maybe he was the answer. Marena hoped he was.
“Delfine needs a day.” She said, studying his profile. “She’s attending a birth that will probably go well into the night. But she and Lluvia will come see you tomorrow in the early evening.”
His shoulders relaxed at news he’d be able to meet Delfine. Then he turned to face her, and a truly terrifying thing happened. Arlo Kenworthy, the fifth Duke of Linley, really smiled at her. Not the rakish smile he’d proffered freely from the moment they met, which involved a curled top lip and a raised eyebrow. Or the amused one that showed straight teeth and made a dimple appear on his left cheek. No, this smile was…radiant, and it could be deadly for her. Because this man, the one whose eyes shone at the idea of meeting a sister he didn’t know existed a year ago—this man would be far too easy to fall for. To make matters worse, she had a full day and night with him before they could complete their mission.
“That’s good. We will have to keep ourselves occupied until then,” he said, and the way his mouth curved up when he spoke felt like a proposition she very much wanted to accept. Her hands itched to trace his lips, run the pad of her fingers across their edges. She wanted to know what else could turn those lips up. She wanted too many things, and she would need to dedicate the next thirty-six hours to remembering she could not have a single one of them.
“What are you doing?” Marena asked Arlo in surprise when she found him standing by the entrance of the townhouse, seemingly ready for an outing. Mere minutes ago, when she’d gone to her room to freshen up, she’d left the man sitting in the parlor enthralled by the Parisian paper in his hands.
“Doing the shopping with you.” That was uttered like a statement of fact as he reached for the basket she’d procured from one of the kitchen maids. She sidestepped out of his reach, shaking her head.
“You most certainly are not,” she retorted, placing the basket behind her back. “I’m not going to the Rue de la Paix for gowns and jewels. I’m going to the Marais, where common Parisians do their marketing.” When that statement didn’t seem to dampen his eagerness, she sighed again, then explained, “There are some herbs I need for the shop that I can’t find in London.”
He tipped his head and stood to his full and exasperating height. “Excellent. I’m quite good at doing the marketing.”
“A duke doing the marketing.” A grin formed on her lips as she spoke. The man was entirely too much.
“I wasn’t always a duke, you know. For most of my life I was just Arlo Kenworthy.” He winked—winked—at her. Carajo, but the man was handsome. Almost aggressively virile. So much energy in that large body.
She appraised him from under her lashes. The trousers that fit his strong legs like they’d been sewn on, with his jacket and matching waistcoat. The perfectly appointed four-in-hand silk tie. Bowler hat in hand. He was every inch the duke, and definitely not dressed for a day of walking and marketing.
“The covered market is hot. You’ll suffocate,” she warned, pointing at his collar.
“You’re wearing twelve layers of cloth,” he quipped back, and curled that damned lip again. She wanted to bite it. Then suck on it, perhaps, her arms around his neck... For heaven’s sake, Marena. It wasn’t that she was a prude, or even a virgin. It was that letting this particular man get under her skin like this was absolute madness.
But he wasn’t wrong. Women’s clothes were a true travesty, and though there was no point in disputing it, she still did. “I’m wearing linen.”
He took in her skirts, without frills or embellishments. He inspected her jacket, with only simple pleats at the hem, her unadorned straw bonnet—and he made a small appreciative sound, as if he were looking at the most sumptuous gown from the House of Worth.
“It’s a lovely shade of blue.” The way he said lovely felt like a caress, making something inside her flutter. Although she should not have, she let him stare, reveling in his appreciation of her. The way his eyes roamed over her neck, her chest, her waist and hips, all the way down to her sensible boots, with their wide heels and soft leather—it would be easy to forget who she was under that admiring gaze.