He sighed, accepting defeat. “Only if I can buy your lunch…and your dinner.” She rewarded him with a shy smile and nod, which he was certain made his chest grow a size.
“You are very lucky I’m in a compliant mood, Your Grace.”
Instinctively, he stepped closer and tried to suppress the possessive growl trying to escape. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m extremely curious to learn just how compliant of a mood you’re in.” He knew the exact moment when the words and their meaning landed. He saw it in the way her chest moved up and down, and how she met his gaze.
“Don’t be fooled by my giving mood, Arlo. I bite.” Her tone was placid, but her eyes burned him. Everything about Marena burned through him like fire. Arlo would probably associate street markets with a heightened state of arousal for the rest of his life.
“This information has done nothing to decrease my curiosity,” he said as he followed her away from Phoung’s stand and back into the fray of the market. His words felt like a promise. This was certainly one of the most foolish things he’d done in a long time, but he wanted Marena Baine-Torres in his arms more than he had wanted anyone in a long time. He could scarcely remember when in the last fifteen years anything had felt this vital. This woman was careful, with good reason. He had to remember that. And yet, he found himself wanting to bend all the rules to make her his.
Chapter Five
Paris always had an adverse effect on Marena’s good judgment. It was the only reasonable explanation for why she was currently strolling down the Rue de la Paix on the arm of Arlo Kenworthy after an entire day of shopping and flirtatious conversation.
They’d roamed the stalls of the Marais where he’d asked her a thousand questions, seemingly fascinated by the intricacies of root work. She’d explained, at times going into extensive detail, and instead of glazed-over eyes, he’d wanted to know more. Marena didn’t know what to make of this man. The nobility in England had a mold, and Arlo Kenworthy fit it, but it seemed that only on the surface.
“I’d seen you before. At Lady Bibichon’s house.” she said, and immediately felt like she’d revealed too much.
He raised a hand to point at a window farther down the street. “I’d like to get something there.”
She nodded, wondering if he’d intentionally ignored her comment. She always did this—second-guessed herself whenever she shared something intimate. Which was silly because his visit to Lady Bibichon’s house had not been a secret. But the way his words impacted her that night, ought to have been one. And now she felt exposed. She distracted herself by pulling out her spectacles to get a clearer look at the storefront he’d mentioned.
“Maison Maquet?” She perked up at the suggestion of visiting the famous stationery store, her spirits buoyed at the possibility of purchasing some letter paper.
“You wear spectacles?” He followed the question with one of his rumbles of appreciation. She decidedly ignored the flutter the sound elicited in her lower belly.
“I do. They’re fairly new and I keep forgetting I have them,” she said, feeling dizzy under his scrutiny.
“They suit you.” He said it matter-of-factly, like him offering a compliment was nothing unusual between them—which only made it that much electrifying. And then he pointed in the direction of the store. “I meant the Gaillon Sisters. But we can stop at Maison Maquet if you like.” Her gaze shifted to the storefront next to Maison Maquet, which housed the famous—and exorbitantly expensive—shop known for their delicate lacework and embroidery. The Gaillon Sisters’ creations had been part of the nobility’s wedding trousseaus for decades. The pang of irritation flaring in her chest at the idea of Arlo buying a delicate lacy undergarment for some paramour was confirmation that Marena had indeed shed all her good sense.
Still, her lips parted, and words exited. “Buying something for someone special?” Her mouth was becoming a serious liability.
Another grunt. This one had an undertone of amusement. He looked at her, the smug smile on his face making her consider a vow of silence, and whispered, “Curious about the special women in my life, Miss Baine-Torres?”
“No,” she said grumpily, unable to suppress a huff of annoyance that had the cad laughing so hard it made some passersby turn in their direction.
In response, he tightened the hold he had on her arm, and gave her another of those exceedingly devastating grins. She looked away, but he stayed close.
“What did you think about that meeting at Lady Bibichon’s?” She snapped her gaze back to him in surprise. She should’ve known the man would go at the inflammatory topic head on. Marena considered how to reply. She’d been advised she could become overzealous when this subject came up. Even the men who were in favor of women’s suffrage seemed to like the females in their midst docile and only marginally opinionated. But perhaps speaking her mind would finally provoke a reaction from Kenworthy that would dampen her extremely foolish attraction to the man.
“I was nonplussed, in all honesty. I was not expecting a peer to speak so passionately about women’s suffrage. In my experience, the House of Lords is more interested in serving those who already have power.” He hummed in apparent agreement. “I was surprised by the fervor in your words,” she continued, not bothering to keep the admiration from her voice. The way he spoke that night, advocating for suffrage, for expanding the rights of women to leave marriages in which they were harmed, was…earth-shattering. “I didn’t know that there were those in the ton with that kind of clarity about the place of women.”
He didn’t respond for a long moment. His face was serious, brows furrowed, mouth pursed as they passed artfully decorated store windows. “I told you before. There was a time when I was not a duke, nor even a duke’s son.”
“Yes,” she said softly, wondering if he was about to tell her of his family’s ascent to the highest echelon of the aristocracy.
“My father was not supposed to be duke. He was of the gentry, but his family had not much wealth to speak of. The assignment in the Foreign Office was a respectable alternative to finding a wealthy relative to support him, as many of his peers did. That’s how he met my mother; he was in America for a few years.”
“Ah.” Marena nodded, recalling that she’d heard about Arlo’s mother being from a famed abolitionist family in America. “Did you go with him? On his travels?”
“We’re here,” he said, startling her as he stopped in front of Maison Maquet, but she found that stationery was no longer as appealing.
“I want to hear the rest.”
He nodded, pulling her into a side street so they were out of view, and continued to talk. Fleetingly, Marena thought the crowds of fashionable Parisians strolling along the sidewalk would notice a man tugging her into an alley, and decided that in this moment, she didn’t particularly care. She pressed her back to the brick wall and lifted her face to Arlo.
“After they married, my mother went to England with my father. A few years later he left again for the Caribbean.” Marena tried to listen for what he wasn’t saying, but his voice was devoid of emotion. For a man who seemed able to imbue everything with humor, this flat and unaffected tone told her these were not happy memories. “My mother died when I was five, and my grandmother, who was widowed by then, came from New York to raise me. My mother was her only child.”