She reached for it, pulling it to the edge of the bed where she was standing, and lifted the lid. The Gaillon Sisters exclusively made accessories and undergarments, so this could only be something extremely inappropriate. The man was shameless, scandalous, utterly disreputable, and still her breath quickened at the idea of him discreetly purchasing it while she wasn’t looking.
She pinched the paper between two fingers and lifted it, revealing the chemise she’d seen. The garment which when she’d picked it up, had elicited one of those sounds from Arlo that made her stomach clench and her heart race. It was a simple thing. White satin, linen, and Valencian lace. No long sleeves, like what one usually saw in London. But narrow straps, lined with the same lace on the hem and the edge of the bodice. She’d imagined herself sleeping in it. The sensation of the smooth, slippery fabric, cool against her skin, had called to her, but it had been obscenely expensive. Far beyond what she could justify spending.
This was not a simple gesture. This was a proposition.
She pulled it out of the box to put it on, a thrill unfurling in her belly as the buttery texture of the satin slid against her skin. It was as decadent and luxurious as she’d imagined. Even the small buttons were perfect, shiny pearls.
After fifteen years in Britain, many of which she’d spent in the family’s shop catering to the gentry’s ailments, she’d learned more than a few things about men like Arlo. They either looked right through her or viewed her not as a woman to know, but to possess. Some of it was class, of course. Aristocrats existed in a world of their own making, and they seemed to go through life unaware of the humanity of anyone not part of that world. It was a privilege she did not have, and she never put herself in a position where men like that could use her for their temporary entertainment.
Still, Arlo had surprised her. He’d let her lead him around the Marais searching for supplies before more walking in the Rue de la Paix. At some point, between sharing raspberries and him talking about his past, she had lowered her defenses. No, she’d done more than that. She’d kissed him and she’d flirted. Shamelessly flirted. And she’d enjoyed it. She wanted another kiss, wanted more time in his arms.
Marena had long ago accepted that her independence and having a mind of her own in English society meant spinsterhood. It meant keeping who she was and her ideas about the place of women to herself. So she’d been careful. Distant, her mother and sister said. Unfeeling.
Except now she yearned for a night of heedless passion. It was a complicated thing, being a woman who had no intention of marrying, but who also wanted to experience pleasure occasionally. She imagined Arlo peeling this chemise off her, pulling with urgency as she melted in his arms. And need slammed into her like a tidal wave. It had been a long time since she’d let herself contemplate a liaison. Since she’d allowed herself to feel desire.
A knock on the door startled her out of her heated reverie, and she shook her head as if she could dislodge whatever had been swirling in there since she’d kissed the Duke of Linley in the alleys of Paris.
“Entrer!” she called, eager for some distraction. Still with her back to the door, she walked to where her dinner gown hung. The chambermaid, Colette, had drawn her bath and promised to return to help her dress. “Ça va, Colette?”
The appreciative grunt that came in response to her greeting made her miss a step. “I came in to ask if you wanted to have a drink before dinner, but now I’m contemplating the idea of completely adjusting our plans for the evening.”
Marena took a breath, crossing her arms over her chest. She was in her chemise, a man—a duke—was about to see her in a most scandalous state. She should care. She should yell at him that she was not that kind of woman. She would do none of it. It wasn’t as if she had forgotten the reasons why doing this with Arlo was dangerously reckless. It was simply that at this moment, she could not find it in herself to care.
She turned slowly, trying to snap the thread of excitement coiling around her. Good heavens, but she wanted him. She took him in—tall, muscular, with that wicked ocean gaze focused on her. He was dressed smartly, as always. Matching trousers, jacket and waistcoat in a charcoal gray. His four-in-hand perfectly knotted, this time in a deep burgundy. The precise, strong lines of his face, and those lips. Those sinful lips she could still feel on her skin, turned up in a smirk of appreciation, like he was exceedingly pleased with himself for barging into her room unannounced.
“Do you make it a habit of storming into ladies’ rooms, Your Grace?” she asked placidly, forcing herself to drop her arms to her sides, giving him the view he’d come to see.
He made a sound that could’ve been yes, but might have actually been tits. It was hard to decipher, but as he took a step closer, his gaze landed right where the edge of lace of the chemise kissed the top of her breasts. He bit his bottom lip, eyes still focused south of her face. “I have all kinds of deplorable habits.”
She huffed, something cutting ready to leap off her tongue. Possibly some epithet about the need for decency and restraint. But Marena didn’t make a habit of lying to herself. At least, not when it was clear there was no more avoiding the truth.
“So you thought after one kiss I’d be so entranced I’d let you have your way with me?”
“Only if you are offering, sweetheart.” Every word out of his mouth made her soften and heat up at once.
She turned, giving her back to him, and reached for her dress. “I am not having this conversation half-naked.”
“But that’s the ideal state for the topics I’m interested in discussing.”
She narrowed her eyes as she extended a hand to pick up her corset. “I need help with this evil contraption, and since you seem so keen on bursting into rooms when women are trying to dress, you might as well make yourself useful.”
Turning to face him, she caught the amused twitch of his lips as she bit back her own smile. “And what compensation will I receive for my labor? I would think a kiss would be a fair price.”
She scoffed as she worked on the hooks of her corset. The way his nostrils flared at the sight of her breasts pushed together indicated this game might not end as she anticipated. Or more like exactly as she’d hoped.
“I cannot in good conscience help you conceal these two beauties from the world.” He sounded genuinely affronted, and she had to bite her tongue not to laugh. “I regret to inform you, darling, that my expertise is in helping women free themselves of corsets, not get into them.”
“You are a scoundrel,” she said, marveling at how much she enjoyed this man, especially in these outrageous circumstances.
He’d said he was not Linley here, just Arlo Kenworthy, a man of means on some business. And who was she? Marena, a woman trying to help her family, one more of the thousands of foreigners who walked the streets of Paris every day. Her family had always been comfortable, well-off, never wanting for anything. But this was opulence. The high ceilings and elaborate molding, the enormous four-poster bed covered in the finest damask, extravagance beyond anything she’d experienced everywhere she looked. This was not the life she would go back to when she arrived at Charing Cross Station. This moment, this place, was a fantasy, and she felt compelled to luxuriate in it. To indulge in it. In him.