The Parisian sunset spread out as a vast display of brilliant color, hues of orange and gold made darker by the smoky haze that rose above tall buildings lining Rue Gabrielle, where Olivia now alighted from their private coach to stand beside her brother-in-law, the most irritating, most stubborn, most…masculine Duke of Durham. Of the three words that best described him, the last was the most exact, though he was also vain and arrogant and serious to a fault.
Their journey from London, across the Channel and into Paris, had been uneventful and rather fast as far as trips go. Although just being in his presence made her nervous, a feeling she’d never experienced with Edmund, he hadn’t spoken much to her aside from the necessary, although she did think he stared at her far too often, his lingering gaze only serving to intensify her agitation. They’d endured each other’s company, talking when appropriate, and spending nights in separate quarters when they had to rest. Now, after entering Paris, the ruse would begin and she’d need to pretend to be his wife, a deception that both excited and appalled her.
They’d arrived only a short while ago, and already the doubts were gnawing at her for agreeing to such an improper scheme, yet now there was no turning back. And as she stepped onto the curb at the Nivan storefront, even the concierge referred to him as her husband, without appearing surprised to see her again with the man he assumed was Edmund after weeks away. The duke played his part well, speaking to the man for a moment in French, assuring that their luggage and trunks would be arriving shortly and ordering them to be taken to their apartments upstairs. His word use and accent were excellent. She hadn’t considered that he’d know the language, though she shouldn’t have been surprised that he would be properly educated as one of the aristocracy. Edmund spoke French, but then, he’d lived in the country for years.
“Which way, madam?” the duke leaned over to murmur in her ear.
The feel of his warm breath on her lobe made her shiver even in the late spring heat and stagnant city air. “Inside,” she snapped, as if that were a remarkably stupid question for him to ask.
She could positively feel him smirking behind her, which she ignored as she lifted her skirts and walked toward the front doors, held open by a footman for her to enter without a pause in her stride.
The familiar scents of lavender and spices filled her nostrils, immediately cutting out the odors of horses and street fare. At last she was home, back in friendly territory, a realization that proved to instantly soothe her for the first time in weeks.
“Madame Carlisle, you have returned!”
Olivia grinned as Normand Paquette, her assistant and longtime friend and advisor, made his way out from behind the sales counter, arms extended.
“Normand, it’s so good to be home,” she said as he grasped her shoulders and gently kissed both cheeks.
“Oui, such a dreadful trip north took too long,” he added, his mouth turned down into a clearly forced frown.
She squeezed his upper arms with gloved fingers. “How is everything? Did the shipment of sandalwood finally arrive? Is Madame Gauthier still unsure about her choice for—”
The duke cleared his throat behind them. Olivia turned sharply, still holding Normand by the arms. “Uh, forgive me, darling,” she stressed for his benefit. “You remember Monsieur Paquette, my assistant?”
Normand bowed his head slightly. “Monsieur Carlisle, welcome home.”
Olivia could feel the duke move to stand directly behind her, and for a second she thought he might grasp her shoulders in possessive display. She instinctively dropped her hold of Normand as if he’d caught fire.
“Monsieur Paquette,” her faux husband acknowledged, his tone deep and formal. “We meet again.”
“Normand, please,” the Frenchman insisted, smiling matter-of-factly. “No need for such formality between us. Your wife has been greatly missed. Nivan is very fortunate to have her returned to us.”
It was altogether telling for her assistant to remind them of her absence in this way. He wasn’t rude, exactly, but then Normand was never rude. Yet the man had never trusted, or even liked, Edmund, and she noticed a tension in the air that wasn’t there a moment ago. She took it upon herself to ignore it and press on.
“Monsieur Carlisle and I will retire to our apartments first, Normand. Tomorrow you and I will discuss business and gossip over tea,” she said with a grin.
Normand laughed and leaned forward to kiss her again on one cheek. “So good to see you, Olivia. Please, get rest. I let Madame Allard know yesterday of your arrival this evening so she would tidy up and have a bit of food awaiting you.”
Madame Allard was her part-time housekeeper and cook, who normally worked only short days but helped her tremendously with household matters when she was busy with the business. Olivia managed a sigh of relief that she’d gotten word in time to make up the spare bed with clean sheets. In her mind, that was more important than food at this point.
“Merci, Normand. I will see you in the morning.”
He moved out of the way to let them pass, and the duke took her elbow as she escorted them past the display cases and two sales girls with watchful eyes, whom Olivia didn’t recall ever meeting. But then sales girls came and went, and Normand was usually the one to hire them, or dismiss them if their work suffered.
Nearing the back of the building, Olivia led the duke through the small and richly decorated private salon, where elegant ladies took tea or wine while discussing the newest scents, then raised her skirts with both hands to climb the circular staircase beyond it, freshly painted in stark white and carpeted in rich red brocade. It led up to the third floor apartments where she lived when in Paris.
The duke followed silently, standing closely behind her while she pulled the key from her velvet reticule and inserted it into the lock of her private quarters. With a quick turn to the right it gave way easily, and she entered at once, her brother-in-law following without hesitation.
Striding into the parlor on her left, Olivia closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling a certain tension leave her body as she warmed to the accustomed smells and sounds of home.
“Leave the door open a crack for the footmen to bring in our baggage,” she said as she began pulling on the fingers of her gloves.
“I’m not a servant, madam.”
She whirled around in surprise, her skirts thrashing his legs as he fairly towered over her. “I—I didn’t mean to imply that you were, your grace,” she stated with firm resolve, still clutching her gloves.
He stared down at her, his mouth turned up at one corner, his eyes showing a trace of irritation. “This may be your home, Olivia, but I am in charge of the operation, remember that.”
She blinked, her sudden good feeling of returned contentment melting away like snow on warm skin with one solid glance up and down his rigid body. “The ‘operation’? What operation?”
He drew in a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze never leaving her face. “Let us be clear about this, dearest sister,” he clarified, his tone low and grave. “You may be back at Nivan and in your former relaxed and prosperous environment, but you’re not here to return to your daily routine, happy and in control of all that surrounds you. I’m with you this time, for a singular purpose, for as long as it takes to complete our mission.”
Exasperated, she hissed, “I know that!”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she insisted forcefully, suddenly angry that he spoke to her as if she were a five-year-old. “I know what we’ve come to France for, sir, but let’s be realistic. You use words like ‘operation’ and ‘mission’ as if this journey to find your brother is some kind of formalized…military action. It’s not. This is about my livelihood, about commitment and the man I married, regardless of your concerns.” She straightened her shoulders in a show of dignity, pulling at her gloves again and fairly ripping them from her hands. “Perhaps you should think less about yourself and more about exactly why you’re here in the first place.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment or two, just watched her with calculating, almost ruthless eyes. Then, in a quiet murmur, he asked, “Has it not occurred to you that instead of concern for my desires, I’ve come all this way because I’m thinking of you?”
That confused her totally, as she had no idea how to answer a question that clearly held several possible meanings beneath its innocence. Instinctively she took a step away from his overbearingly male stature, feeling a rising heat within from his uncomfortable closeness.
Before she lost the nerve, she crossed her arms over her breasts and replied succinctly, “Perhaps thinking of me is a concern for your desires, your grace, since you seem to enjoy spending an obscene amount of time staring at my face and person.”
He couldn’t believe she said that. She could see it in the small, immediate jarring of his head, the way his eyes lit with incredulity and widened a fraction. For a slice of a second her cleverness in stumping him infused her with pure satisfaction—until he stepped toward her and grasped the edges of her long silk gloves, still clutched in her hands, and used them to slowly draw her against him.
“Your face and form are the most exquisite I have ever seen in my life, Olivia Shea, no doubt sculpted to perfection by the gods,” he said in a coarse whisper. “You are, indeed, a package of beauty that defies description, and I can’t help but be aware of it every time I lay eyes on you, which I’m fairly confident you actually enjoy.”
It was her turn to be shocked; heat suffused her neck and cheeks. “How dare you suggest—”
He jerked her harder against him, effectively cutting her off, his legs draped by her skirts, his body so close his chest rubbed against her bare arms, now molded to her breasts. She couldn’t move, mesmerized by his uncanny ability to deprive her of words or action.
“I have learned that not only is desire both sweet and bitter, it is almost always mutual.” His jaw hardened, his eyelids narrowed. “Your mere presence may tempt me, my Lady Olivia, but I promise you now, you will never, ever win me.”
Win him?
His warm, moist breath captured stray curls on her cheek, making them tickle her skin, and for countless seconds she couldn’t comprehend anything logically except the fact that he smelled heavenly and felt…warm. Like a man.
“This is not a competition, your grace,” she breathed through clenched teeth, capturing his gaze with one of defiance as he gradually pulled away from her.
The hard planes of his face relaxed minutely; he cocked his head to one side, loosening his grip on her gloves. Calmly, he replied, “I’m beginning to think it might be, at least from your perspective.”
A sharp rap at the door startled them both, interrupting the sudden awkwardness of their extreme closeness. Olivia took a quick step back and away from him as he released her without reluctance.
“Madame, your baggage,” the building concierge said after clearing his throat.
Flustered, she averted her gaze to the Frenchman. “Merci, Antoine,” she replied, breezing past the duke in noble fashion. “Please place my trunks in my private quarters, and my husband’s in the guest room.”
If the concierge thought her request odd, he didn’t show it. Immediately he began to do as she ordered, utilizing two footmen to carry their belongings to their respective rooms. She felt more than noticed the duke turn away from her and move to the parlor window that looked west toward the darkening sky.
Moments later and without another word, Antoine and the footmen departed, closing the door solidly behind them. Alone once again, the awkward silence droned.
“You’re going to have to stop calling me ‘your grace.’”
Through a long, full breath, she turned to face him, her pulse quickening as she watched him reach up to loosen his tie and unbutton the top of his shirt. Even Edmund hadn’t undressed in front of her, and the picture of this man doing it stirred her, warming her to the bone. She forced the indecent thoughts he provoked from her mind, matching his movement by lifting her hands to tidy tendrils of hair that had escaped her plaits.
“Just a moment ago,” she retorted, attempting to keep the conversation focused, “you forbade me to treat you as a servant.”
He tossed her a wry grin, resting his palms on the windowsill behind him. “There is an in-between, Olivia.”
His casualness made her mad for no reason she could fathom. “Oh? Shall I call you Edmund, then?”
“When we’re around others, yes. When we’re alone like this, I prefer Sam.” He waited, then added a bit more gently, “It is my Christian name.”
In all this time that she’d known him, which, all things considered, wasn’t actually that long, his Christian name had never once crossed her mind. She now recalled that he’d mentioned it at their first private meeting, but only in passing. Odd that she hadn’t considered him a separate individual before now. Always, he seemed to be a replica, or more precisely, a variation, of her husband, not a completely different man. A man with his own unique experiences, his own hopes and dreams and disappointments.
Averting her gaze, Olivia moved to her small pine secretary, lifting a stack of notes and cards resting on top that had come by post during her absence. “I imagine Sam is short for Samuel?” she asked, sifting through them with little concentration.
“No, Samson,” he replied.
She frowned, realizing she’d missed Madame LeBlanc’s annual spring soiree while she’d been gone, a party that usually drummed up plenty of business for the coming summer scents.
“Then I suppose for this little adventure I shall play your Delilah,” she remarked, half jesting.
With quiet intensity he murmured, “Is that your goal? To seduce me?”
Olivia fumbled with the stack of mail in her hands, dropping several note cards onto the thick teal carpeting at her feet. She tossed him a fast glance, her cheeks flushing hotly from the sudden notion of what he thought she meant by such a simple statement. Or was he just trying to shock her? Of course he didn’t appear at all fazed.
He watched her gather her correspondence loosely in her hands and place it all back on her secretary in a jumbled heap, not moving to help, and no doubt enjoying every second of her discomfiture. Olivia decided not to give him the satisfaction of thinking he could unsettle her every time he opened his mouth to offer a snide comment or question.
After smoothing her skirts, she faced him once more with grim posture and what she hoped was a haughty little smile upon her mouth.
“Sam…” she started, clearing her throat and lacing her fingers behind her back. “I meant that I will thoroughly enjoy playing Delilah to your Samson for every crafty, underhanded, or manipulative thing we must do to find my husband and return my funds to me.” She narrowed her eyes in defiance, hoping he understood that she could not be used. “I will do my part and act superbly, but seduction? Never. You and I will never be lovers.”
He continued to eye her speculatively from across the room, then crossed his arms over his chest, his brows pinched in contemplation. “Isn’t that what Samson said to Delilah? And just look where it got him.” He snickered, one side of his mouth turned up acridly. “Be aware, Olivia; I am not so drawn to you—or any woman—that I will risk losing my own fortune, or more importantly, my life or my sanity, and I never intend to be.”
Her jaw dropped open a fraction. Ironically, she couldn’t remember if either Samson or Delilah said such a thing at all, or who seduced whom first; her biblical knowledge was lacking. But that hardly mattered. She knew what lay between herself and the Duke of Durham. He didn’t like her, didn’t trust her, and he toyed with her purposely to get her to react in the negative every time they conversed in private. What kind of man did that to a woman he didn’t know?
A cynical one.
Someone hurt you badly, too.
Such a thoughtful revelation about his hidden character surprised her. She had absolutely no intention of becoming close to this man, physically or emotionally, and she didn’t particularly want to ponder the idea. They didn’t need to like or enjoy each other, but they absolutely needed to get along. Her livelihood depended on their mutual cooperation.
Sighing, Olivia surrendered and replied, “Perhaps, your grace—”
“Sam.”
“Of course. I forgot.” Planting what she hoped looked like a genuine smile on her lips, she nodded once, in acquiescence. “Perhaps, Sam, you and I are not as different in pasts and in future needs as we might think.”
He raised a brow at that, though offered no comment.
She dropped her arms to her sides and took a step toward him. “What I mean is that regardless of how we view each other, and where our trusts lay, I propose that we tame our differences, combine our common experiences, and try to work together.”
Olivia smugly decided her suggestion was quite satisfactory and would no doubt be agreed upon immediately, perhaps with even a shake of hands to signify an agreement of sorts.
He apparently didn’t take it that way at all.
The Duke of Durham stood upright once more, staring down at her, though his expression seemed more guarded than angry.
“We’re very different, Lady Olivia,” he grumbled quietly, his face and body tight with a haunted weariness he couldn’t hide. “But that shouldn’t, and won’t, matter, so there’s no use dwelling on it. For now, I’m exhausted, in no mood for dinner, and would like to retire.” He strode past her and toward the guest bedroom where the footman had deposited his trunk and personal items. Without glancing back in her direction, he added over his shoulder, “We’ll start looking for my brother in the morning.” He shut the door behind him, turning the lock with a click.
Olivia just stood there for a minute or two, staring at the newly painted oak, open-mouthed and suddenly deflated. The sky wasn’t even completely dark yet and he had gone to bed—no thought to eating, no thought of getting to know each other better, no thought to an evening of planning their next move together. No thought to her whatsoever.
The brute.
For the very first time, she felt a strange flicker of elation that she had been fortunate enough to meet Edmund first, and marry him instead.