Scandalous Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  She stepped closer to him, her red silk swaying against his trousers. “You want me.”

  She did not elaborate. Nor did she need to.

  Her proclamation was the immediate source of both relief and anticipation. Here was a game he could play. He lowered his head toward hers, not near enough to kiss but near enough to tempt himself to close the distance and seal their mouths. Her lips were so full. Her eyes so wide. He did not think the luminous sheen in them could be feigned, though her fluency as an actress was undeniable. How shameful that such a creature should belong to a soulless villain.

  “And if I do want you, Mademoiselle Beaumont?” he dared to ask, allowing his gaze to devour her face. Part of his task would be easy. His desire for her was inexplicable, yet real. “What would you say?”

  Those inviting lips curved higher. Her smile was intoxicating. “I would say though you flatter me, you cannot have me.”

  Damnation.

  He ought to have known getting the Rose of New York to fall into his arms would not be an easy feat. But determination was a river that had run through him all his life, and it had yet to run dry. The evidence suggesting the gorgeous viper before him was privy to a great deal of invaluable information concerning her lover was far too strong to deny.

  “You speak with such conviction, my dear lady,” he told her smoothly, playing the part of lover as he knew he must. This mission was too delicate. Too important. “But I am a man who cannot resist a challenge.”

  “Some challenges are better resisted,” she returned, and though she denied him, she did not make an effort to put any distance between them.

  Felix did not disagree.

  “Better for whom?” he wondered.

  Her smile faded. There was a world-weariness in her eyes he had not noted before, but he saw it now. “Better for you, of course.”

  What could have caused the sadness haunting her husky voice? The strange urge to discover it, to learn her secrets, hit him. Not because of the task ahead of him, but because there was something about her that affected him. He knew better than to allow it. Better than to think of her as a woman.

  And yet, he could feel the warmth emanating from her. Though they were in the midst of a ballroom filled with others, it was as if the two of them were alone. Another surge of awareness licked through him, languorous and hot and laden with sensual promise. He had not been this attracted to a woman in as long as he could recall.

  Damn it.

  He had not expected to want her, not with everything he knew about her and her ties to McKenna. He had believed himself beyond the throes of lust. He was so inundated with his work for the Home Office and Verity, he had not bothered to acquire a new mistress after his last affair had ended. That was the reason for this unwanted desire coursing through him now, he was sure of it.

  “I shall be the judge of that, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he said at last. “Perhaps we could find somewhere more private to speak and better acquaint ourselves with each other.”

  He was at home in Theo’s house. And as a sybarite, Theo knew the importance of comfortable, private rooms in abundance. There was a red salon just down the hall Felix could put to good use.

  And put his plan into action. Because there was one reason he was pursuing Rose Beaumont, and it was not her fair face or form, nor was it the mysteries of her past, and it most certainly was not the hunger she had awakened within him.

  He needed to find out everything she knew about Drummond McKenna and use her to sink the bastard’s ship before he could do any more harm to innocents.

  Johanna ought to have denied the duke, and she recognized her mistake the moment he escorted her from the ballroom. Before that, in fact. When she had placed her hand in the crook of his arm. Touching him had been unwise. Because he made her feel the same restless stirrings that had once caused her so much pain.

  But that had been years ago, and she was far too world-weary now. Johanna had been known as Rose Beaumont for so many years, the name had become a part of her. It was the role she played best of all. One she was constantly honing. She liked to think of Rose as her shield. A mantle she donned to protect her from everything and everyone she wanted to forget.

  The Duke of Winchelsea was shattering that role. Stripping her of the shield. For a brief, mad moment, when he had suggested they retire to another chamber together, she had forgotten to be Rose. She had allowed herself to be Johanna. Her guard had dropped.

  He had kind eyes.

  A serious countenance.

  One had but to look upon him to see he shouldered great responsibility.

  But none of that mattered now, for he was dangerous. She had recognized the frank admiration in his gaze, the carnal hunger, the blatant sensuality. She had seen it all before, in the eyes and the countenances of hundreds of men.

  She had never, however, been tempted by it with such ease. Nor had she been so thoroughly bound by secrets and lies. The documents and dynamite secreted inside a trunk in her hotel were a burning coal of guilt, searing her from the inside out. She knew what she must do with them, but the knowledge was heavy.

  The duke said nothing as he guided them into a low-lit chamber decorated entirely in shades of scarlet. The door closed behind them, drowning out the strains of the orchestra in the ballroom and the gay din of the revelers a few doors down.

  She recognized the recklessness of her acquiescence. She never should have agreed to speak to him alone. But the truth was, she was weary after her journey across the Atlantic, followed by days of rehearsals. Weary from worrying over her brother, fearing she could never truly escape him. The ballroom had been an overwhelming swirl of faces and the urge to escape, to find some quiet, had been preeminent.

  “Here we are,” he said then, three simple words she felt in her core.

  Was it his clipped, patrician accent? The deep rumble of his baritone? His masculine scent of sandalwood and amber? She had been alone with many men, desired by them. Powerful and wealthy men had chased after her, and she had denied them all. Nobility no longer awed her as it once had.

  For some reason, being alone with the Duke of Winchelsea left her feeling shy. She released her hold on his arm and stepped away from him.

  Johanna forced herself to remember who she was, the sought-after Rose of New York. Her pictures were produced by the thousands. Every man who saw her wanted her. None of them could have her.

  She faced him, stealing herself against the potent magnetism he exuded. “If you think to make me your lover, Your Grace, I must disabuse you of such fancy.”

  “You are jaded, Mademoiselle,” he observed mildly. “I have yet to make my intentions clear.”

  She inclined her head. “You need not have; they are transparent enough. I have been an actress for many years. This is not the first time I have been propositioned. Nor, I suspect, will it be the last. And yet, my answer will always remain the same.”

  A small smile flirted with his sensual lips. He was seemingly unconcerned by her assertion. “Would you care for some brandy, Mademoiselle Beaumont?”

  He strode past her to a sideboard she had not noticed. It was clear he was familiar with Mr. Saville’s home. She wondered if he made a habit of wooing actresses here, and then she wondered why the thought made her stomach tighten. Why the thought of him with another should nettle.

  He was nothing to her. A stranger. Why, she would likely never see him again after tonight. Besides, she had matters of far greater import to concern her. She could not afford to become involved with any man, let alone a handsome nobleman who would never accept her as his equal.

  But he was awaiting her response now, watching her with a hooded gaze she felt like a caress. Wondering if she wanted brandy.

  “Yes, please,” she said, watching as he poured equal measures into two snifters.

  Perhaps some spirits would calm her. Or at the very least cure her of this strange affliction. This affinity for a self-assured duke she should not want. She had promised herself l
ong ago she would no longer make foolish mistakes.

  London was her chance to be free of the chains of New York City. She had left all the ghosts, all the pain, behind. And she could not give in to the charms of a handsome duke who had never known a speck of the suffering she had weathered in her life.

  He sauntered back to her, holding out an offering. “Truce, Mademoiselle. I believe we began in rather the wrong fashion, and I seek to make amends.”

  She accepted the snifter, their fingers brushing as she did so. An arrow of pure need shot straight through her with such ferocity, she bobbled the glass. Some of the liquid spilled over the lip, onto her hand and his.

  Heat flared to her cheeks, a seeming impossibility for a woman who had not flushed unless it was on command for years. “Forgive me my clumsiness, Your Grace.”

  Her fine gloves were stained, as were his.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” he said mildly, removing the snifter from her hand. “Allow me to assist.”

  She watched helplessly as he placed both their glasses upon a table, then removed his gloves. The sight of his hands, large and long-fingered, elegant, dusted with a fine smattering of hairs, should not affect her. She had seen men’s hands before. Had been touched by them on stage almost every night. Men’s hands were nothing new. Nothing unfamiliar.

  Why this man’s hands made longing flare to life deep within her, she could not say.

  “That is hardly necessary,” she protested. “My gloves will dry.”

  “Nonsense.” He withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief and took her hand, deftly plucking away her glove.

  She thought she had been moved before, but the touch of his bare skin upon hers was a revelation. Desire simmered to life. Her nipples puckered beneath the stiff constraint of her corset. She inhaled against a rush of sensation she did not want.

  But through the maelstrom assaulting her, he remained calm and firm, dabbing at her fingers with the silken square of fabric. Quite as though he were accustomed to tending to others. Which was silly, for she was sure he could not be.

  He was a duke. He must have a legion of servants at his command.

  And yet he was fretting over the ruined silk of her gloves, the liquid coating her fingers. His head was bowed, his handsome face a study in concentration as he applied himself to his ministrations.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, irritated by the breathless tone of her voice.

  Completely unfeigned.

  She needed to calm herself. To keep her mask firmly in place.

  “I am afraid I owe you a pair of gloves,” he said, holding her hand in his as he glanced up.

  His verdant eyes were the precise color of spring grass. They trapped her for a heady moment.

  “You owe me nothing,” she denied, not about to accept a gift from him or from any other man. “I am certain the stain can be removed. But if I should require a replacement, I possess more than enough coin.”

  He tucked the ruined glove inside his coat, and then he stole her other glove as well, his movements so swift and efficient, she did not realize what he was about until it was too late to stop him. And then both her hands were in his, and he was lifting them to his lips.

  His mouth glanced over her flesh so lightly, it may have been the gossamer touch of a butterfly’s wings except for the fire it sparked inside her. “Give me your address, and I will see them sent ’round.”

  She swallowed. There was something about revealing where she was staying to the Duke of Winchelsea that seemed intimate. Far too intimate. “There is no need for you to thieve my gloves.”

  “I fancy the notion of keeping a little piece of you, Mademoiselle.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze before relinquishing them.

  His words and his nearness sent a frisson down her spine. “I am not giving you my direction, sir.”

  “A small matter,” he said, sounding unconcerned. “I will discover it with little trouble.”

  “I will not accept your gift,” she countered.

  “It is not a gift, Mademoiselle Beaumont, but a replacement. An apology for my injudicious spilling of brandy upon you.”

  She was the one who had caused the glass to move, and they both knew it. But if she further pursued the matter, perhaps he would probe into the reason why. Her unwanted reaction to him.

  A reaction she could neither deny nor shake.

  Where was the brandy when she needed it?

  “You wished for an audience with me, Your Grace,” she reminded both of them. “What was it you wanted to discuss? The hour grows late.”

  Perhaps the crush of the ballroom would have been a better place to remain after all. Mindless distraction was preferable to dangerous distraction.

  “Of course.” He retrieved the brandy, offering the snifter to her once more. “How thoughtless of me to keep you here to myself, away from your many admirers.”

  He misunderstood her. So much of her life had been spent with eyes upon her—audiences, the public, the men who wanted more from her than she was willing to give, her brother—that following the conclusion of a performance, all she wanted to do was return to the privacy of her hotel. Enjoy a warm bath.

  She had only been in attendance this evening because Mr. Saville had required it of her. He was paying her a small fortune, and a handful of social appearances were part of her contract. It was a wise display of the man’s business acumen, for her presence drew much attention to both himself and his theater. And she needed this money and her reputation both in order to make her bid for freedom at the end of her stay in London.

  But she said none of that as she accepted the brandy and lifted it to her lips for a bracing sip. “I am afraid Mr. Saville may take note of my absence.”

  “Do not fret about Mr. Saville,” he assured her, his watchful gaze studying her. “With performances as masterful as yours, I daresay he will not give a damn what you do or whom you do it with.”

  There was a subtle suggestion in his words, an underlying hint of the wicked.

  She heard it, and a part of her she had thought long gone resurfaced. The reckless part of her. The part of her that thrived on passion and impetuousness. She took another sip of her brandy, seeking to drown it beneath the alcohol’s impending glow.

  “Do you visit the theater often?” she asked Winchelsea, in lieu of the question she truly wished to ask.

  Do you make a habit of seducing actresses?

  “Whenever I am able,” he said solemnly. “Not nearly as often as I would prefer.”

  She had no notion of what might keep a duke busy. She had once been courted by a German prince, but he had been a vainglorious man who occupied all his time with the procuring of new bed partners. He had offered her a veritable king’s ransom for one night with him and her fellow actress Fanny Carlton. She had declined, of course.

  But Winchelsea did not seem the sort for such libidinousness.

  “Why not?” she asked, the brandy making her bold.

  Making her forget she ought to be seeking an end to their dialogue and time alone rather than prolonging it.

  He lifted his snifter to her in salute. “Duty, Mademoiselle.”

  She had been correct in sensing the weight of responsibility upon him, then. For a man she judged to be in his mid-thirties, he did not possess any of the laugh lines one would expect of a man his age. No grooves bracketing his mouth, but there was evidence of a frown crease on his forehead.

  “Duty,” she repeated, wondering what kept him from smiling more. From laughing. “You strike me as a very solemn man. One who would benefit from more lightness in his life.”

  His sculpted lips twisted. “Life is dark, my dear. After all the tragedies you have acted in, surely you know it just as well as I.”

  Oh, she did. But no drama could compare to the tragedy she lived.

  “Of course,” she agreed simply, drinking more of her brandy, for nothing could induce her to put the unspeakable pain of her past into words.

  Especiall
y not to a man she had just met this evening.

  A man who was her social superior.

  A man who wanted her in his bed just like all the others before him had.

  He was no different, she told herself. She had far weightier matters to concern her.

  “But I am willing to divert myself from it,” he said then, “with the proper inducement.”

  His gaze settled upon her mouth.

  She felt the effect of that bold stare all through her traitorous body. “I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere, Your Grace. My stay in London will be a short one, and I have no interest in dalliance.”

  He finished his brandy, cradling the snifter in his long fingers as he watched her, assessing. “You were correct, you know.”

  She frowned at him, trying to follow the direction of his conversation and failing. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I do want you, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he said, as calmly as if they were speaking of the weather.

  With a nonchalance that struck her, chipping at her veneer. Once more, she was Johanna, just for a flash, before the indomitable Rose returned.

  Her chin went up. “Of course you do. But that does not mean you shall have me.”

  But his admission shook her, all the same. Part of her longed to accept the promise of pleasure he offered.

  “Would you care to make a wager?” he asked.

  “No.” She finished her brandy as well, but it did nothing to calm her wildly racing heart. “I would not.”

  He moved toward her again, and this time, a small smile curved his lips.

  She liked that smile.

  She wanted more of it.

  “Five thousand pounds says I will have you in my bed within the next sennight,” he said.

  She would deny him. Tell him no, quite firmly. Leave the red salon and the Duke of Winchelsea behind.

  But the wickedness inside her was clamoring to life.

  “I accept your wager,” said her foolish, foolish lips.

  She did not think she imagined the flash of triumph over his handsome features. But all too quickly, it was gone, leaving her wondering.

  He bowed before her. “Until we meet again, Mademoiselle Beaumont. Tomorrow is day one.”