Scandalous Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  “If I had warned you, you would have been prepared with your arsenal of weapons. You would have told me no, I have no doubt.” He paused and raised a brow at her, maddeningly handsome. “I could not risk you denying me. However, I had a strong suspicion that if I arrived when you were hungry, my chances of your acquiescence would be exponentially increased.”

  She could not suppress her laughter at his admission. “Quite sly of you, Your Grace. I would applaud your cunning, but I have a feeling that would only encourage you.”

  “Come now,” he said softly, “you must give me a fair chance to win the wager. How can I win it if I do not see you?”

  “Perhaps I should go into hiding,” she suggested thoughtfully. “I could tell Mr. Saville I am dreadfully ill for the next few days. Leave for Paris early.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest. “And leave me here nursing a wounded heart?”

  She sent him a sidelong glance. “I hardly think your heart would be wounded. You have known me a scant handful of days.”

  “Long enough to know I admire you greatly.”

  She tried to steel herself against the delicious rumble of his baritone. But how could she not feel those words in her core? How could they not affect her, especially when coming from this elegant, beautiful man?

  She flushed and looked away, turning her attention to the window and the passing panorama of the London cityscape instead. If she looked at him for one moment more, she was going to give in to temptation, she was sure of it. And she could not do that. Must not do that.

  “How can you admire me when you do not know me?” she asked against her better judgment. “You admire the idea of me, Your Grace. The notion of the Rose of New York on your arm. In your bed. Do not think you are the first, and nor shall you be the last.”

  “Rose.”

  There was a note of urgency in his voice, but she kept her gaze averted. For if she looked at him, met his gaze, listened to any more of his silver-tongued words, she was not sure she could trust herself to remain impervious. She had believed she possessed a hardened heart, but he was fast proving her wrong.

  “Rose, look at me.”

  Still, she did not look.

  “Please.”

  In the end, it was the beseeching tone in his voice as much as the entreaty that chipped away at her resistance. She glanced back toward him once more. A mistake.

  The hunger in his gaze was undeniable.

  It filled her with a want all her own, and she knew her need was reflected back at him. She was an actress, yes, but this moment, the connection between the two of them was as compelling and real as it was nettling. She could not always hide herself behind a mask.

  “I admire you,” he said. “Just as you are. Not the Rose of New York. You.”

  Everything inside her froze at his words, and she knew a sudden, knife-like pang inside her breast that she was deceiving him. After she had taken the stage name Rose Beaumont and invented her French background to lend herself an aura of mystery, she had only ever admitted the truth to one other man. With others, she had never wanted to; the delineation was always there.

  The separation had been clear. She had never felt truly drawn to anyone, and after the last time, she had vowed she would never allow herself to lower her guard and feel it again. But for some reason, she almost blurted the truth to him.

  My name is Johanna McKenna.

  It was there. On her tongue. In her heart.

  The carriage stopped.

  He gave her a lingering look. “We have arrived at our destination.”

  She inhaled, giving him a jerky nod, preserving her secret as she knew she must. Thank heavens they had reached wherever they were headed when they had. But a minute more, and she would have revealed far too much of herself to him. Then she would have been well and truly vulnerable.

  “The timing is perfect,” she said brightly, slipping back into Rose Beaumont once more. “I am famished.”

  “As am I,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

  And she knew he was not speaking about food.

  But then, neither was she.

  For the second time in as many days, Felix was seated opposite Rose Beaumont as they dined together. And this time, no less than the first, he was once more in sensual agony perpetuated by her nearness. They were ensconced at his customary private rooms at the sumptuous hotel on Regent Street he had owned before he had unexpectedly inherited the title and all its burdens from his cousin. He still owned Markham’s, in fact, though he employed others with its daily management and operation and went to great cares to keep his ownership to himself.

  She cast him a glance from beneath lowered lashes. “You have not eaten a bite of your luncheon, Your Grace.”

  He stared down at his vol-au-vent and oeufs au bouillon, realizing belatedly she was correct. He had not been hungry. Strike that, he was hungry. But it was not for the damned food, even if the French chef on staff was one of the finest in London. And even if the hunger in question was altogether wrong.

  Base and shameful. A violation of everything he held sacred.

  He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly as transparent as a window. And as lost as a ship being tossed about on a stormy sea. “I was momentarily distracted,” he said, and this, at least, was true. “Is the fare to your liking, my dear?”

  With each moment he spent in her maddening presence, he had to remind himself with an increasing amount of sternness that he was not meant to be enjoying this.

  He was performing a duty.

  A task.

  Rose Beaumont meant nothing to him. She was the enemy. A woman he could not trust. Every American agent he had in New York had reported she was colluding with the Fenians.

  Except, those words he had spoken to her earlier in the carriage? They were true. He did admire her talent, her beauty. Somehow, half of him felt what the other half could not bear. Good Christ. This was madness. The woman was connected to one of the worst villains of the century, and she was probably every bit as guilty as he was.

  “The fare is delicious,” she said then in her sweet, pleasing tones, and once more, that husky voice wrapped around him like an embrace.

  He could not help but to notice a lilt in her words, dancing beneath the French accent. Some hint of another land entirely. Ireland, it seemed, but there was no mention of that in any of the stories of her history which he had read. If it were true, it would certainly make sense.

  “I am pleased you enjoy the meal.” He took a bite of the vol-au-vent, the earthy flavor of truffles and the richness of pastry and chicken briefly distracting him.

  His chef was fine, damn it. Exceedingly talented. The man had fashioned cookery into an art form. Little wonder the guests of Markham’s were so well-pleased, its recommendation clear in all the best London guidebooks being printed.

  “You come here often, do you not?” she asked, eying him curiously. “The staff seem very acquainted with you.”

  There was almost an edge to her words, to her query. Jealousy? Though he was certain she felt the spark between them—like electricity coursing through wires whenever they were in each other’s presence—she was McKenna’s mistress. Or she had been recently enough for it to matter.

  He could lie to her about the hotel, but why? Revealing this small part of himself—the first true part of himself that he had conceded to her at all, really—could do him no harm, he reasoned.

  “I own it,” he admitted casually, before taking a sip of wine.

  She frowned at him. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

  And still, she would not call him Felix. He did not know why her refusal should irk him so, but it did. He told himself it was because the oversight indicated his lack of success with his duties.

  “I own it,” he repeated. “The hotel. This hotel. It is mine.”

  “You own this hotel.” It was her turn to take a drink of wine. “Why did you not say so?”

  He flashed her a wry smile, once again forgetting
everything between them was a lie for just an instant. Enjoying himself. Finding pleasure in these moments spent with her, in their banter. “Was I to have announced it to you?”

  “No.” Her lips formed a perfect pout he wanted to kiss. “But you may have mentioned it in passing. Did you bring me here so you would impress me with your wealth? If so, I must caution you, it will do you no good. I have been wooed by wealthy men before.”

  Of course she had. This should come as no surprise to him. She was beautiful and sought after. She had been the mistress of another man up until very recently, if she was being truthful with him.

  Yet somehow, the notion of other men wooing her stung. Some strange and base part of him wanted her to be his. Alone. Although he knew it could never be.

  “I did not bring you here to impress you with my wealth,” he countered calmly, casting away all other unwanted thoughts but the need to answer her. “I brought you here because I knew we could dine comfortably in private and enjoy an excellent meal. My chef here at Markham’s is one of the best in England.”

  “He is talented,” she agreed, relenting as she forked up another bite of food from her plate. “I cannot imagine why I allowed myself to exist on bread and tea when I could have enjoyed such sumptuousness.”

  “Now you know what is awaiting you, if you but ask, seek, or allow me to spirit you away,” he said. “I propose luncheon every day. And dinner as well, following your performances.”

  In truth, he was greedy when it came to her. He wanted all her time. All her smiles. Her lips, her curves, her bare skin beneath him—God, yes, he wanted that, too.

  “Surely Your Grace’s time would be better served in far more important matters,” she suggested.

  Yes, his time would indeed be better served than engaging in fantasies about a woman who was altogether wrong for him. And forbidden. He was wooing her, it was true, but not to win her. Merely to use her. He must not allow that important fact to go forgotten.

  “There is no other manner in which I would spend my time,” he said.

  He had to spend his time with her, he reminded himself. He needed to find a way to strip her of any and all information she possessed concerning McKenna. If she was no longer the man’s mistress, that meant parading her all over London on his arm would not accomplish the effect he had hoped.

  “I do not dare accept your offer.” She paused, then offered him a sad smile. “I need your five thousand pounds far too much.”

  He drank his wine, watching her closely. “Why, Rose? Surely Saville is paying you handsomely for your stint at the Crown and Thorn.”

  “He is indeed,” she agreed mildly. “But I need all the funds I can manage if I want to travel the world. I am an actress in high demand now and can command an excellent wage for myself, but it was not always thus. And I do not fool myself. It will not always be this way. Another Rose of New York will take my place one day.”

  It was a stark view of life, of her future. Against his will, Felix felt an answering pang in the vicinity of his heart. A place Rose Beaumont had no place being anywhere near.

  “You are young and talented,” he said. “You have many years ahead of you.”

  Her lips compressed, and this time, the bleakness of her expression was undeniable. “Perhaps, and perhaps not.”

  “That is certainly a grim view,” he observed, even as he told himself he should leave well enough alone. He should not pry further into the matter. Her future did not concern him. Only her present and his ability to use her to imprison Drummond McKenna did.

  “A pragmatic view.” There was an undeniable sadness in her eyes, raw and real. “I have learned life can be fleeting. One day, it can seem certain, and the next, it is gone, like a candle flame sputtering into darkness.”

  She spoke like someone who knew the keen agony of loss and grief. And because he lived each day with the blade of despair lodged in his chest where happiness and contentedness had once dwelled, her reaction drew him. Though he tried to recall she was an actress, seasoned and well-trained, unparalleled on the stage, he could not shake the feeling this reaction, this pain inside her, was real.

  “Life can indeed be fleeting,” he agreed, thinking of Hattie. Of how vibrant and filled with life she had been, until the day she had breathed her last breath and she had been but a shell of herself. “I have experienced this myself.”

  “I had a daughter,” she told him softly.

  The revelation shocked him to his core. He had known nothing—there had been nothing to suggest she had a child. But then, he realized the tense she used. The direction of their conversation.

  His gut clenched on a wave of sympathy. Losing Hattie had been like losing a part of himself. But Verity…he could not fathom the loss of his daughter. Could not bear to imagine it.

  “You need not explain yourself,” he hastened to say, feeling like a cad for sitting here with her, manipulating her, deceiving her, when she was a mother who had lost her child.

  No amount of information he could glean from her was worth hurting her or forcing her to relive the agony of her loss.

  “Her name was Pearl,” she said, almost as if she had not heard him. “She was nine months old, the light of my world. I was young then, so very young, and the woman I left her with while I worked and rehearsed could not wake her from her nap. When I returned from rehearsals that day, she was already an angel.”

  God, the pain in her voice, in her expression. She looked, suddenly, so fragile. As if a touch would break her. As if she were fashioned of the finest crystal, and one kind word would make her shatter.

  He stood, not thinking about his mission. Not thinking about his duty. Not thinking about her connections to the Fenians or his need to prod information from her. All he thought about in that moment was her.

  Rose Beaumont had lost her daughter. And though the wound was an old one, he knew from experience that grief was a scar upon the heart that never truly healed. One false move, and it tore open again, bleeding everywhere.

  “Rose,” he said, all he could manage as he skirted the table. “I am sorry.”

  He did not need to say more. Could not if he tried. But it did not matter, because she was in his arms, and he was embracing her. The sweet, familiar scent of rose petals hit him, and he could not deny the rightness of her in his arms, her soft heat melded to his rigid planes.

  Her arms wound around him, and she pressed her cheek above his heart, as if she found comfort in the steady thumps, the affirmation of life. “I have not spoken of her in a long time. It was eight years ago, but I have not forgotten.”

  “You will never forget,” he said, his hands traveling up and down her spine in soothing strokes. Against his better judgment, he buried his face in the fragrant golden upsweep of her hair. “And nor should you. We carry the ones we loved in our hearts and our memories always.”

  There was no mistaking the trembling shaking her. She was sobbing. A cynical part of him recalled how great an actress she was, capable of a vast portrayal of emotions. That part of him said this, too, could be an act.

  But somehow, he did not believe that.

  “Who have you lost that you loved?” she asked, her voice muffled by his waistcoat, but the sadness within it could not be feigned.

  “My wife,” he admitted.

  How strange it seemed to be discussing the woman he loved with another woman. A woman who was his enemy. A woman he could not trust. A woman he was bound to betray.

  She stiffened. “You had a wife?”

  “Yes.” Felix searched for words, an explanation. How to give voice to the best years of his life? He had been besotted with Hattie from the moment he had met her.

  Her father had earned his fortune in the mills he owned. He had believed in educating his daughters. Hattie had been intelligent, opinionated, and unique, mirth always dancing in her eyes. She had been the brightest star in the night sky. She had been the only star in the sky.

  And then, she had burned out.


  And now, here he stood, alone in a private room at Markham’s with a woman he was destined to betray, taking comfort in her embrace.

  “I am so sorry, Felix,” Rose said.

  The genuine compassion in her voice, it could not be feigned. He had no doubt.

  Just as the sympathy he felt for her was real. Despite the situation, the obligations weighing heavily upon him, the facts he knew about her, the doubts he had… On this, their mutual grief, they were united. The rest did not matter. They were two people who had lost, who grieved, who understood each other on a level that surpassed all else.

  He was still holding her, his hands stroking her back, her scent enveloping him, when he realized she had called him Felix. And she had tipped her head back, her bright-blue gaze holding him captive.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Rose,” he said thickly. “That you lost your daughter. I, too, have a daughter. If I lost her… I cannot imagine the pain you endure, the anguish.”

  “You have a daughter?” she asked, her eyes searching his. “You never said so before. Why not?”

  Because Verity had no place between them. She was all he had left of Hattie. All he had, aside from his duties, his fortune he had acquired prior to inheriting the dukedom. Verity was precious. Special. Mentioning her to Rose Beaumont seemed wrong. A sacrilege. A betrayal of his wife.

  Rose’s face shuttered then. “I understand.” Her tone was tinged with bitterness and, unless he was mistaken, hurt.

  She attempted to extricate herself from his embrace, but he held fast, not wanting to put an end to their connection just yet. And not in this fashion, her feeling betrayed and foolish. For some reason, he could not bear that.

  “It is difficult for me to speak of her,” he said, the words forced from him. “Difficult, even, for me to be her father. For me to look at her. She reminds me so very much of her mother… It is not her fault, of course. The blame is mine. Verity is but a child.”

  It was more than he had intended to divulge. More, even, than he had ever revealed to another.

  Rose stilled, her gaze hard upon his, searching. “Verity is her name.”