“Bonsoir, monsieur,” the man said politely as he discreetly looked through the list in front of him.
“My man arranged for a table. Linley” Arlo informed him, and instantly the man’s face lit up at the name.
“Your Grace,” he said reverently. “I am Guillaume Benoit, the maître d’hôtel. We are very honored to have you and your guest with us tonight. Welcome.” He snapped his fingers, and the effect was immediate—like the staff had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Everyone moved in a flurry to accommodate the duke.
Arlo quietly observed the flurry of activity as he placed a possessive hand at her back, and her stupid, reckless heart did a somersault in her chest. “This is Mademoiselle Baine-Torres.”
“Of course, Mademoiselle Baine-Torres.” Another bow. Marena suspected Monsieur Benoit would’ve had the same reaction if Arlo had announced he’d arrived with Satan’s spawn on his arm. A little voice in her head wanted to fuss about people linking her to Arlo, but she reminded herself she was in Paris and she could hide in plain sight.
Benoit extended an arm toward the door on the far side of dining room. “We have prepared the cellar for you.”
The cellar? Marena’s back stiffened as she tried to figure out what Arlo had devised.
“They have prepared a table for us in the cellar. It’s cooler there.” He was so close she could feel his warmth as they crossed the room. “And more private. I was promised we would not be disturbed by other diners. I’m of a mind to test how soundproof it is down there.”
It was a travesty how she found the man’s filthy mind tantalizing. “That does not seem particularly sanitary.”
That brought out a husky laugh, accompanied by a devastating smile. “I’ll make sure to take all precautions.” And with that, he pulled her to him and helped her down the stairs.
“Arlo!” She exclaimed in surprise once they reached to bottom of the stairs. The cellar, which Monsieur Benoit had explained was one of the biggest in all Europe, was indeed enormous. There was an alcove in one corner where a table for two had been set. Candelabras stood off to the sides, illuminating the place settings, which were edged in gold. All around them, rows and rows of wine bottles covered the walls. Whatever food was being prepared was pleasantly filling the room with the aroma of butter and herbs. “How did you?” Marena asked, still admiring the many beautiful details.
“You like it?” His voice was rough, as if the moment were affecting him as well.
“It’s magnificent.” This would’ve never been possible in London, where only in the last few years could men and women dine together in a restaurant, much less have a private room for two.
He made one of his sounds. By now, she’d heard enough grunts from Arlo Kenworthy to know they were a language of their own, and the man was thoroughly pleased with himself. “A friend mentioned one could get a private table with a special menu here, and this afternoon it occurred to me I’d very much like to bring you. Have you all to myself.” Why did he say things like that? She wondered if she would find the courage to tell him he was giving her the kind of evening she’d dreamt about for years.
Every passing minute with Arlo showed her he was not the kind of man she imagined him to be. And the more he said, the harder it was to keep her feelings at bay. These twenty-four hours of freedom would have long-lasting consequences because Arlo could steal her heart.
Marena looked at his handsome face, with his strong jaw and tender eyes. Without caring that Monsieur Benoit was puttering around them, regaling them with details about the dinner, she lifted up on her toes and kissed him. And as if he has been waiting for her, Arlo immediately took her in his arms, those strong, capable fingers tightening on her back as he tasted her, slow and sweet.
“Mmm.” She leaned into the pleasure of being held like this, being kissed with barely contained hunger. After a moment, she pulled back, lightheaded. He ran a thumb over her bottom lip, and for a second, she caught it between her teeth, making him grin. “I might have to devise more cellar dinners in the future.”
The future. The word was like a splash of cold water. She pulled back until she was free from his embrace, feeling unsettled.
“Are you all right?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern at the change in her mood. Everything felt tight and confining. Her dress, her thoughts, her life, but mostly the little bit of time they had left.
There would be no more dinners, not in cellars or anywhere else, and there would be no future. Not one in which they were like this, at least. Even if Delfine and Arlo managed to have a relationship, it would not involve Marena, and this would certainly not be part of it. No, a man of Arlo’s station would never marry a woman like Marena. And why was she thinking of marriage, something she didn’t want. But that felt like a lie too when she was in his arms.
“Marena.” He called her name, bringing her out her stormy thoughts. She opened her mouth to offer some kind of platitude, but Benoit—who she’d forgotten was in the room—saved her from answering.
“Your Grace,” he discreetly called from a corner. Marena quickly added mortification to the barrage of emotions coursing through her. “Your table is ready.” The host gestured, and they walked over, Marena slowing to admire the luxurious trappings surrounding her. Arlo, on the other hand, was solely focused on her.
“Allow me.” He hovered over her as she arranged the skirts of her dress. When she was seated comfortably and had a crisp white linen napkin on her lap, he bent and kissed her. A brush of lips to the bare skin of her neck, as if he could not resist the temptation of her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, offering him with the best smile she could muster, too full of perilous emotions to trust herself to say more. He gave her a long, serious look. His gaze was different, softer, as if he knew she was feeling fragile.
At the precise moment Arlo sat, servants appeared from a door on one side of the room and began placing platters on the sideboard behind their table.
“Your Grace,” Benoit said, demanding their attention. “The chef has prepared five courses for you and mademoiselle.” A young man with a mop of red curls and a homely face stepped forward to place handwritten cards with their special menu in front of them. “And for boissons…” Benoit nodded, and another member of his tiny army came forward with a tray laden with bottles of wine. “Our sommelier has chosen the perfect varietals for each of your courses. We have a Coteaux de l’Aubance recently arrived from the Loire Valley that will go perfectly with the foie-gras in your first course.” He smiled widely, making the curled tips of his mustache almost reach the corner of this eyes.
Arlo barely acknowledged Benoit’s efforts. His eyes were only on Marena, as if the sumptuous dinner he’d arranged was of no consequence. She pulled her spectacles from her small handbag and read over the menu.
“I am looking forward to the famous pommes Anna,” Marena told Benoit, excited to try the dish made of thinly sliced and crisp potatoes gratinéd with Gruyère, for which Café l’Anglais was known.
Benoit grinned widely, as if she’d complimented one of his children. “You have heard of pommes Anna. They are the perfect companion to the caneton à la Rouennaise.” He pressed two fingers to his lips in a flourish. “The duck breast is stuffed with truffles and our special sausage. And the sauce is made with the Bordeaux wine and bone marrow, with lots of butter, of course.” He beamed at her.