She closed her eyes, her chest moving up and down as she breathed through her mouth. “Please, don’t do this. Arlo, I can’t.” She scrambled out of the bed as she spoke, rifling through the room in her luscious nakedness. His chest tightened at the unhappy look on her face and he wondered what, if anything, he could say to make her stay.
“I know you feel it too. I know you want more.”
She was already sliding the chemise back on and turned a watery gaze in his direction.
“I want a lot of things I can’t have, Arlo,” she said miserably as she pulled the lace-trimmed straps on her shoulders. “I want to be able to own a business without having every person who walks in demand to know where the man in charge is. I’d love for people to not look at me and assume they can touch my hair.” She threw her hands in the air, clearly frustrated. “I’d love to live in a world where me wanting you was reason enough to let myself have you. But I can’t be anyone’s mistress, Arlo. And certainly not the mistress of a duke.”
“I never said you’d be my mistress.” Arlo was always painstakingly restrained, but his control felt close to shattering. He was angry. Not at her, but at the whole fucking world. “I am ready to talk about conditions, tell me what you want, and—”
“You’re a duke, Arlo. I’m a merchant. A half-Black merchant.” She laughed then, and it was a hollow, bitter sound. “If I take up with you, everyone in London will know and I will be the one ruined. You’ll just be another lord who wanted to try something different for a bit.” Every word she said was true, and he despised himself and his kind in that moment, as much as he ever had. “Also, Delfine is your sister.”
“But we could—”
“There can’t be a we, Arlo. We said we could have this one night. Please don’t make this harder than it already is.” A lone tear ran down her cheek, and when he moved to go to her, she ran to the water closet and closed the door. She left him there, stifled by this blasted title he had never wanted. And which now, for the first time, truly felt suffocating.
Chapter Eleven
“Good Morning, Your Grace.” She was a coward, so she didn’t look his way.
Arlo grunted something that resembled a greeting as Marena stiffly perused the breakfast table. Every meal so far had been delicious, and she’d been looking forward to the petit dejeuner offerings from the chef. In the mood she was currently in, some bland English gruel would’ve been more in order. She could feel his eyes on her as she focused on cutting a wedge of the Saint Marcelin he’d bought at the Marais after she’d said it was her favorite. As soon as they’d returned to the townhouse, he’d handed the cheese to his valet and informed the man it would be for their breakfast. He’d been so proud of his market purchases. All of this would be so much easier if he’d fulfilled her expectations of the nobility and behaved like a cad.
Alas, he’d been nothing but decent. More than decent. Last night he’d been…too much of everything she wanted and could never have. Too good, too clever, too charming, too wicked. Too tempting. Arlo made Marena forget the rules she’d set for herself. And when he’d told her he wanted more, God help her, she’d wanted to fling herself in his arms and tell him she felt the same.
But she didn’t live in a fairytale. She lived in London. He was a duke, and she would not throw her life and business by the wayside to be a rich man’s temporary fancy. Because that’s what she would be. A man like Arlo could afford to indulge in fantasies, but women like Marena could not. And so, despite how much she’d preferred waking up to Arlo making his way down her body with his mouth, she’d have to settle for buttered croissants.
When she’d arranged her plate to her liking, she chose the seat at the end of the eight-person table, at least twelve feet from him. He raised an eyebrow, but continued to cut the piece of bacon on his plate. She smothered the pang of disappointment at his silence and reminded herself that she’d asked him for this distance. Now she had to live with the stark reality of no longer being the object of Arlo Kenworthy’s attention.
“Any word from Delfine?” she asked, grasping for something that could make this excruciatingly awkward meal bearable. She looked up from her own investigation of the omelet on her plate to find Arlo’s impassive gaze on her. He was a bit disheveled. His usual perfect appearance a bit off-kilter. Perhaps like her, sleep had not come to him until almost dawn.
“No.”
One word. No humorous inflection. No flirtatious repartee. She straightened her back, her eyes on the window behind Arlo that, in the French style, went from the floor to the ceiling. It was a beautiful day, with barely a cloud in the bright blue sky. She could see the tops of the streets of the square at the center of the Place des Vosges. But her attention kept returning to the copper streaks in Arlo’s hair. She could almost feel the coarse curls between her fingers, remembering how she’d gripped them as his mouth feasted on her sex.
The crash of the fork slipping out of her hand sounded like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room.
“Mierda!” she hissed, jumping up from the chair as flecks of coddled egg splattered over the lovely toile tablecloth.
“Are you all right?” Arlo asked with concern. She wanted to scream. Just scream in frustration that she could not even give herself twenty-four hours with this man without thinking she could be ruining her entire future.
“I’m fine.” Her face was hot with embarrassment as she tried to blot out the grease stain already soaked into the fine linens. “I can’t believe I did that. So clumsy,” she said, frantically rubbing a wet napkin on the spot.
“It’s all right. It can be replaced.” The casual dismissal of the ruined tablecloth, which probably cost what she made in a week at the shop, made everything worse.
“Of course,” she scoffed. “What was I thinking? I’m sure there are a dozen more pristine ones ready to take it’s place.” The caustic tone in her voice made him pause as he reached for the bell, presumably to summon a brand-new tablecloth and place settings. Meanwhile, an ugly, sharp wretchedness slithered inside her chest. She wanted to say horrid things, dismiss everything she’d learned about him. Give him a reason to stop looking at her like he could see her misery. Maybe then she’d be rid of the frantic need she felt for him.
“Is that what you think?” He sounded hurt. “That I toss things out when I have no use for them?” He was at her side in an instant, towering over her. He smelled like leather and bergamot oil and she loathed every one of the perfectly good reasons swirling in her head which told her getting close to this man was a mistake.
“What does it matter what I think, Arlo?” She looked away. He was wearing light gray trousers and a matching waistcoat and jacket. A crisp white shirt and cravat completed the ensemble.
“Because it does.”
She shook her head and averted her gaze, not wanting to let the yearning in his voice affect her, unable to stare into those blue eyes that had already gotten her in so much trouble.
“Marena, please.” He reached for her, and she backed away. If she gave in, she’d be lost. She had only the morning and afternoon to get through, and this evening they would see Delfine and Lluvia. She’d be on her way back to London in the morning.