“You are,” he pressed. “You are afraid to be alone with me. You do not trust yourself, do you?”
“Of course I trust myself.” She stood then, with all the bearing and dignity of a queen. “I am going to win our wager, Your Grace.”
He stood as well, the grin kicking up his lips real, much to his dismay. He was not supposed to be enjoying this skirmish with her, this battle to get her into his bed. Christ, he was not supposed to bed her. But there was something about Rose Beaumont that was so very alluring.
She intrigued him. He wanted to learn her mysteries—all of them.
“Fair warning, my dear,” he drawled, rounding the table and offering her his arm in gentlemanly fashion. “I adore a challenge.”
She took his arm, allowing him to escort her from the dining room. “I am not challenging you. I am merely stating a fact.”
Her scent hit him, and he knew a brief wave of memories. Hattie on his arm. Hattie laughing at a dinner party at some sally he had made. His wife had possessed the loveliest smile. The aching sear of grief hit him in the chest, just as it always did. He missed her every day.
“Your Grace?”
The lilting, accented voice of Rose Beaumont intruded upon his grim musings, returning him to his surroundings. He realized they had entered the blue salon that had been studiously decorated by his last paramour with an eye to comfort and pleasure. The use of the townhome had been hers for the duration of their six-month affair, and it had been where he had brought Rose for dinner because taking her to his true home, where Verity was, had been an impossibility.
But he was standing there now, frozen, trapped in the murk of the past.
The reminders of everything he had lost.
He swallowed down a knot of despair. “Forgive me for woolgathering, Mademoiselle.”
His voice sounded hoarse. Troubled, even to his own ears. He had found comfort in the arms of other women following Hattie’s death. It had taken him years to manage it, but he had. Still, none of them had been her. None of them could compare.
He did not think it was the woman on his arm who brought with her the surging sea of his past, but rather his reaction to her. He had been attracted to other women before, but it had never been as visceral as his reaction to Rose.
“There was a sadness in your eyes just now,” she observed, the hand still resting lightly in the crook of his elbow moving to stroke his forearm in a gesture of surprising tenderness. “Something is troubling you.”
“A matter of the past,” he dismissed. “Nothing more.”
He would not discuss his wife with the actress at his side, a woman he scarcely knew. A woman he dared not trust. A woman who was here with him for reasons he must not lose sight of or forget.
“The past stays with us always, does it not?” She cocked her head at him, studying him, a small, sad smile flitting over her lips. “No matter how far we travel, no matter how much time passes, we cannot outrun ourselves, all the hurts and pains we have known. They follow us everywhere, locked inside little valises in our hearts.”
What a strange creature she was, insightful and rare. He could not shake the wild thought that Hattie would have liked her. That he could like her, were their situation not so dire. Had she not shared the bed of a despicable villain like Drummond McKenna.
“The past is never far from the present,” he agreed solemnly. It was the only concession he would make. The only one he could. “What is it you seek to outrun, Mademoiselle Beaumont? Or may I call you Rose?”
Her gaze shuttered, and she released her grasp on his arm, stepping away from him. “There is nothing I seek to outrun. I am looking for a new beginning. Closing one book to begin another.”
Interesting. Was she suggesting she had indeed broken off with McKenna? He had to dig deeper. To find out more.
He followed her as she wandered across the plush carpet, taking in the chamber with a curious stare. “There must be a reason for you to be closing the book, as you say.”
She made her way to the piano dominating a corner of the room—this, too, had been a relic from his last lover, a famed German opera singer. “May I play, Your Grace?”
He watched as she trailed her fingers over the smooth ivory keys, not exerting enough pressure to make a sound. How lovingly she caressed them. The wicked beast within him imagined, just for a beat, her trailing her touch over his body in the same fashion. And his cock went hard.
He cleared his throat, willing the desire to abate. “You may, Rose.”
She raised a brow and cast an arch look in his direction. “I did not give you leave to call me that yet.”
Yet, she said. As though she planned to.
This was promising.
“I decided the time to ask for permission is at an end between us,” he said as she seated herself on the bench.
“How autocratic of you, Your Grace,” she returned, but there was neither heat nor censure in her voice. “Do you have a request?”
He studied her, thinking she looked at home, not just behind the piano, but in this salon. For a moment, he could almost fool himself into the belief they were lovers, that there was nothing but desire and attraction binding them to each other. But that was a dangerous fantasy indeed, one he could ill afford to entertain.
“Sing whatever pleases you most,” he told her.
She cast him a small smile, and then her fingers began moving over the keys, producing a haunting melody that paled when her lovely voice filled the air. “My life is like the summer rose,” she sang, “that opens to the morning sky.”
Felix could do nothing more than watch her, completely in her thrall. Her tone was melodious and clear, tinged with a poignant note of melancholy which could not be feigned. It was as if she felt the emotion of the song, as if she lived and breathed it much as she did the roles she played on the stage.
“My life is like the autumn leaf,” she crooned on, “that trembles in the moon’s pale ray.”
The evocative lyrics of the song settled over him, until gooseflesh pebbled on his skin. She was not just beautiful as she sat there serenading him. She was magnificent. The melody wound around him as she reached the final crescendo.
“On that lone shore loud moans the sea,” sang Rose, “But none, alas, shall mourn for me.”
As the last key hung in the air, Felix could not fight the powerful rush of attraction hitting him. Every instinct within him screamed to go to her and claim her mouth as his. He wanted her so badly, he did not dare move, lest his restraint snap and he snatched her off the piano bench like a marauding beast.
“That was lovely,” he forced past the lump in his throat, the need pumping through him in a frenzy he had never before known.
Was it the song? The words? Rose’s voice? Or was it merely Rose Beaumont herself, seated before him like one of the Muses?
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She smiled at him, and it was genuine, filled with radiance. “It has been quite some time since I have sung for anyone, aside from the stage. It has always been one of my small pleasures.”
He felt the force of that smile to the soles of his bloody feet. “You have a voice to rival the angels’.”
A pretty pink flush crept on her cheeks. She stood, fussing with her skirts and refusing to meet his gaze. “It is passable, I suppose. You need not flatter me.”
Could it be that he had rendered the famed Rose of New York shy with his praise? The prospect was astounding, but he could not help but to think it true. And he could not keep himself from going to her then. He skirted the piano, stopping when he stood before her.
She glanced up at him at last, and their gazes met and held. So much passed between them in that moment. He felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, and as if she were seeing him too. All his good intentions fell away, crumbling beneath the pressure of the need for her that had become a fire in his blood.
A lone wisp of golden hair had come free of her coiffure, resting upon her cheek, and he could not res
ist sweeping it gently to the side. “I am not flattering you, my dear. I am being truthful. You possess a rare talent to inhabit the song, as if you are feeling all the emotions yourself as you sing them. I have never heard another sing with such vulnerability, such honesty.”
Her flush deepened, but she did not step away. “It is merely because I have always excelled at playing roles. That is what I do best. I don a mask, a character. I become someone else for a few minutes, a few hours. I forget who I am. I make the audience forget, too. That is the gift of every good actress.”
Now that he had touched her, he could not seem to stop. He traced the backs of his fingers over her cheek, admiring the warm smoothness of her skin. “What role are you playing now, Rose? I confess, I cannot help but to wonder.”
Her lips parted, and he did not miss the hitch in her breath or the way her pupils expanded. “I am playing the role of the woman who wants to win five thousand pounds from a duke who thinks he will lure me into his bed.”
He should have expected as much in her reply. But in truth, the breathiness of her voice gave lie to her words. She was every bit as attracted to him as he was to her. But she was fighting it. Fighting him.
“I think you lie, Rose,” he told her softly. “I think you are playing the role of the woman who does not want me to kiss her. Because in truth, I think you want me to kiss you very badly right now.”
She swallowed. “You are as sure of yourself as ever, Your Grace.”
“Felix,” he countered, and he was not sure why, but the moment the invitation left him, he knew it was right. He told himself it would foster a greater connection between them. Lull her into a false sense of comfort. Help her to reveal everything she knew about McKenna. “Call me Felix when we are alone, Rose.”
But he could admit that he also wanted to hear his name on her lips. Whispered in that husky voice. Better if it were on a cry of passion.
She raised a hand to his face in a fleeting touch. “I cannot call you that, just as I cannot be alone with you again. Thank you for dinner, Your Grace. But now, if you will excuse me, the hour grows late and I truly must go.”
At last, she stepped away from him, and he allowed her to go, not pressing his advantage. Instead, he offered her a bow. “I will have my carriage deliver you to your hotel as you wish.”
She looked startled, as if she had expected him to argue. But while there was nothing he wanted more than to kiss her, he knew he did not dare trust himself. His hunger for her was too great. He needed the night to clear his head and remind himself of the responsibilities he bore.
He needed to recall the true reason for wooing Rose Beaumont.
He needed distance and distraction and, very likely, the use of his hand.
She stopped on the threshold of the salon and looked back at him, a golden goddess in the gaslights. “I have not enjoyed myself this much in as long as I can recall. For that, I am in your debt.”
And then, in a swish of silken skirts, she was gone.
Chapter Four
She had almost allowed the Duke of Winchelsea to kiss her. The thought had chased her all the way back to her hotel the night before in his carriage. It kept her from sleep until the faint strains of dawn had painted the London sky. During her morning rehearsal, she had forgotten her lines and missed her cue twice.
Twice.
Rose Beaumont did not forget her lines or her cues. Ever.
Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she left the theater near noon, only to find the same gleaming black carriage awaiting her. This time, the door opened and the man who had been invading her thoughts ever since last night—ever since she had met him, if she were honest—stepped down. He was dressed informally, but the sight of him in a coat and top hat, his sensual lips curved in a welcoming smile that was just for her, made her heart beat faster than the wings of a hummingbird.
“Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he greeted.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a semblance of a curtsy, as she supposed was only proper. “What are you doing here?”
“Making certain you have something more to eat than bread and tea today,” he said, extending his arm.
He was a caretaker. She had come to understand that about him. He fretted over her feet, her stomach, her comfort. Over her. It was disconcerting and yet also strangely heartening. That a duke, a nobleman of such elegance and stature, would show such consideration for an actress, spoke a great deal of his character.
He wants you in his bed, reminded a cynical voice inside her. That is the reason for his kindness. His shows of compassion. He wants to keep his five thousand pounds, to show you off on his arm.
But as she stared at him in the midst of the bustling city, just outside Mr. Saville’s West End theater, she did not want to believe the jaded part of her. She wanted, instead, to allow herself to believe in the fiction that Winchelsea cared. Because she was a woman who had reached the unlikely age of twenty-six without ever having been truly cared for by anyone.
What is the harm, asked a different voice inside her, in indulging just once? In forgetting about Drummond and what you must soon do?
She listened to the latter voice and accepted his arm although she knew she should not. “Feeding me will not make me any more inclined to change my mind,” she informed him. “I am still every bit as determined to win.”
“And I am every bit as determined you shall lose,” he returned, his smile deepening until it reflected in his eyes and a tiny set of grooves bracketed those vibrant emerald orbs. “You have no notion of the lunch I have in store for you.”
Yesterday’s dinner had been a veritable feast. The endless procession of courses had been more food than she had ever dreamt of consuming in one sitting. But for a woman who recalled all too well the sharp pangs of a hungry belly, it had been pleasing.
“We shall see,” she told him primly, allowing him to escort her to the carriage and hand her up neatly.
She settled on the well-upholstered bench and expected him to sit opposite her. But he did not. Instead, he climbed inside—and even this action, he achieved with flawless elegance—and settled his long, strong body at her side. His thigh brushed her skirts. His delicious sandalwood scent hit her.
And so did a wave of longing.
She supposed it was inevitable. One could not remain in the presence of a man as devastatingly handsome as the Duke of Winchelsea and continue to be unaffected by him.
Felix, said the second voice inside her.
The wicked one.
But no, she must not think of him so familiarly. Nor allow his nearness to undo her resolve. She had far more important matters to occupy her mind than a man. Except he was crowding her. His coat was a soft temptation brushing against hers. Even his elbow seemed somehow sinful as it jostled hers.
She inhaled at the contact, and he took note, mistaking her reaction.
“Forgive me my lack of grace,” he said in his perfectly clipped patrician accent as the carriage swayed into motion.
It occurred to her she ought to ask him about their destination. How trusting she was, merely following him. Going wherever he chose to take her. Acting the part of the kept woman. And of all the roles she had played in her life, kept woman was one she had never played. She was no man’s mistress.
Falling into this ease and familiarity with the duke so quickly was dangerous in so many ways. Foolhardy. Stupid, even, given what lay ahead of her. She was, at this moment, a drowning woman after her ship had sunk, watching the last lifeboat sail into the horizon.
“You are forgiven, Your Grace,” she said, acutely aware of his regard. “But I wonder if you might not be more comfortable on the opposite squab.”
“No,” he said, his voice a low and decadent rumble she felt everywhere. “I am most comfortable right here.”
Of course he was. And so was she, which was entirely the problem.
She liked the way he touched her, the way his warmth and his scent invaded her senses, no matter how much she kn
ew she must not. “Where are you taking me? I think I should have asked before, instead of allowing you to abscond with me.”
“If I were to truly abscond with you, my dear Rose, I would not be taking you somewhere to satiate your stomach,” he said, his voice taking on the tone of a growl. “I would take you to my bed.”
Somehow, the word bed on Felix’s lips held untold possibility. Such a tempting capacity for sin. It made her pulse leap and heat flare to life in her core.
But she must not think of that.
And neither must she think of him as Felix.
He was the Duke of Winchelsea. A stranger. A man who would never bed her. Never satiate other needs. Good heavens, a man she must keep her distance from if her reaction to him grew one bit stronger…
“I suppose I must consider myself fortunate, then, that you are not in the absconding mood today,” she quipped, disturbed to realize how familiar he felt to her. How right such banter seemed. How natural.
“For you, dearest Rose, I am always in the absconding mood.” His regard was intense.
She felt it in her core, in an answering ache and blossom of desire. For some absurd reason, she had to stifle the urge to beg him to abscond with her now. What was getting into her? She had worked far too hard to get to where she was, to build her reputation as Rose Beaumont. To become an actress who was not only esteemed but in demand. To free herself from the chains of her past. To escape her brother. To make a new life for herself.
She was the phoenix, rising from the ashes. She was the Rose of New York, and she must not allow herself to lose sight of that. Not for the handsome duke at her side. Not for anyone.
“You would find it difficult indeed to abscond with a woman who is unwilling,” she told him then. “I would beat down the walls of the carriage. Holler from the window for everyone to hear.”
His lips twitched with mirth. “Somehow, I do not believe you would be that unwilling, Rose. But I will not test you today. Today, I merely want to feed you.”
The warmth in his regard and in his tone settled deep inside her. “I did not expect to find you here today.”
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