“I’m wearing cotton and walking boots,” he finally said, patting the breast pocket of his light gray jacket. She really ought to say something cutting to swipe that flirtatious smile off his face, but what was the harm? She wouldn’t mind the company, and this wasn’t London, where half the people they encountered would know who he was, and the other half would know her.
Here, she could be another Marena, and he…well, he’d still be a duke. But here, the distance between their worlds seemed less vast. Paris was always a good place for escaping or reinventing oneself, for indulging in fantasies, no matter how foolish and reckless they were.
“I presume you will come no matter what I say.” He was so achingly beautiful, with his mouth set in a sardonic smirk, and those soft, eager eyes telling a different story.
“It’s quite impressive how fast we’ve learned to understand each other.” This smile made the dimple appear, and Marena almost chastised him for the audacity of being fetching to the extreme. “I let you win for the trip from London, but I will be a tougher negotiator here.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I already explained—”
He raised a hand in concession, smile still firmly in place, but there was a tension there she could not quite decipher. “Yes, you did not want to be seen with me. And you explained your very sensible reasons. I only wish you’d tell me who these bastards were, and I could knock some heads as soon as I set foot back in London.”
A warmth spread in her chest at how furious he looked on her behalf. Marena valued her independence more than anything. Her parents had raised her and her sister to be self-possessed, to stand on their own two feet. But having this man ready to brawl with the gentlemen of London for her awakened a yearning that surprised her.
“Are you going to slay dragons for me?” she asked, and the way his eyes widened and nostrils flared made her breath catch.
She kept her eyes on him as he stepped closer. So close that if she raised herself on the tip of her toes, she could kiss him.
Bringing his lips to her ear, he whispered, “I’m tempted to, but for now I would be honored to carry your basket to market.” If the man kept this up swooning was eminent. Marena had to close her eyes and breathe as she gathered the strength to step away from him.
“I will carry my own basket, thank you very much,” she muttered, congratulating herself for drawing some kind of line in the sand. She attempted a scowl, which only seemed to delight him more.
“Excellent.” He lifted an elbow for her, and her scowl deepened. As if thinking better of it, he opened the door for her instead.
“Don’t you have a footman or valet who needs to know your whereabouts at all times?” she asked, looking around the well-appointed room.
“I answer to no one. And besides, it’s Paris. Indulgence and spontaneity are the entire schedule.”
She raised a doubtful eyebrow at him. “This expedition will be on foot, Your Grace.”
His lips twitched at the heavy dose of scorn she injected into the last two words. “I can barely contain my anticipation.”
Chapter Four
“How long were you here for?” Arlo tried not to smile at the dubious look Marena sent his way at the question. They’d been doing this all morning. He’d ask questions, and she’d provide as little information as possible.
“About six months. I was studying under a root worker from Port-au-Prince named Marie Lemba. I’d come to the market with her every week.”
No wonder she’d so effortlessly brought them to the market. They’d come out the townhouse, and Marena had swiftly led them through cobbled streets lined with shops and eateries. After about a mile of twists and turns, she’d veered into an enclosed alley and brought them to a building full of market stalls, which she explained was the petit marché du Marais.
As soon as they walked in, he was thrust into an overwhelming sensory experience. There were dozens of stalls offering every comestible one could need. Fruits, vegetables, cheeses, chocolates, wine. Marena expertly guided them through the narrow paths between the rows of stalls, pointing out the vendors she remembered. She let him know the cheeses she loved or the grocers who had the freshest produce as he walked alongside her.
Since they left the townhouse, her demeanor had been lighter. This was obviously her world. She smiled freely at the many people they encountered in the market, negotiating prices down while somehow making the sellers laugh in delight. She was a marvel, this woman. Fierce, competent, and with an air of regal dignity that he wanted to breathe in until he was drunk off it.
And now she was buying fruit. She moaned and cooed over a little bundle holding fresh figs, which he found absolutely erotic. Then, as if they’d done this a thousand times, she raised her hand in the air, passing him the fruit, still talking to the woman running the stall. Something possessive and hot ran through his body at the idea of having this kind of intimacy with her. To be the man a woman this self-sufficient could depend on.
He was trying to focus on the conversation, perhaps ask more questions about what she’d studied. But Marena Baine-Torres sucking on raspberries with red-stained lips was astonishingly distracting.
“Do I get a taste, or am I only here to carry them?”
She rolled her eyes at him and snatched the basket from his hand.
“Here,” she said, offering him a few raspberries and taking one for herself. “You keep looking at me,” she commented as she popped another plump berry in her mouth.
“Do I?” he asked huskily, his gaze unable to leave the vicinity of her lips.
“Yes. You did the same thing at the café.”
That, he could not be blamed for. She’d eaten an éclair. A mess of chocolate and custard that she’d licked off her lips and fingers until he was so aroused, he feared he’d have to sit there for the rest of the day. As he handed over some coins for a bottle of wine, he considered what to say. Her mood was so different from any he’d seen from her thus far.
Light, humorous, eyes open and curious of everything they saw. With another woman he’d consider his words, not wanting to offend by being too forward. But he wanted to mean every word he said to her. “I’m finding it exceedingly difficult to look away. I am helplessly drawn to beauty. And there are few things worth admiring more than a woman taking pleasure in something delicious.”
They were walking again, she in front and he behind, between the narrow walkways of the market, but he could see a flush of red on the deep brown skin at her nape as he waited for her response. After a moment, she tipped her head up, her long, elegant neck taut from looking at him. At this angle, he could see a smattering of freckles along her collarbone. He’d put his mouth to every one of them if he could.
Her eyes twinkled at whatever she was thinking. “Did that actually work on all those unsuspecting debutantes you supposedly deflowered?” She was teasing him. Suddenly, he was overcome by an urge to explain himself, and that stopped him in his tracks. This was a feeling he couldn’t even recall. Being with someone who he wanted to think positively of him.
He looked down at her as they moved, tempted to put a hand on the dip at her back where the curve of her delicious bottom started. “For your information, Miss Baine-Torres, I’ve never deflowered anyone.”