Ah. Just as she had suspected. Thankfully, the brewing storm had disarmed her driver enough that he had almost divulged the complete truth. This small, though elegantly appointed townhome, was not the duke’s residence at all. It was, instead, where he kept what she could only assume was his mistress.
Another burst of wind slapped rain into her face as the driver rapped on the portal, adding to her inner misery. She was the sort of woman he would not invite to his home. She was not his social equal. What had she been thinking, imagining they had somehow grown closer at yesterday’s luncheon? Thinking she knew him?
Calling him Felix?
Her ears went hot, and shame curled in her belly, turning her empty stomach into a sick sea. Of course she was not worthy of dining in his true home. She was an actress. He was a nobleman. She had birthed a child out of wedlock. He was a duke.
It should not make her feel ill, and yet, it did.
The realization felt like a betrayal. How dare he reveal such private and painful details about himself to her? How dare he hold her in his arms as if he cared? How dare he pursue her as he had, and then relegate her to the home where he had brought other women to his bed? And not just other women, she reminded herself. Paramours.
The door opened to reveal the butler. “Mademoiselle Beaumont, good evening. You are expected.”
Of course she was. Grimly, she wondered how many other ladies had been expected, in just the same fashion.
She thanked her driver and stepped inside, nonetheless, because another burst of wind had assailed them and turned his second umbrella inside out. It would be horribly rude to avail herself of the man’s courtesy and then require him to make the journey to her hotel in this deluge.
The door closed upon the storm, and she handed off her pelisse and hat before following in the butler’s wake as he led her through the entryway and down the main hall. He stopped at the threshold of the salon where Felix—no, Winchelsea—had taken her following dinner. The room with the piano.
Another woman’s piano?
How many others had sung to him from it?
But why should she care? She had no claim on him and had no wish to find herself in his bed. She was leaving London in a matter of weeks, and with the terrible plague of Drummond following her, she could not allow herself to be distracted from her course. The repercussions were far too dangerous.
She swallowed the knot in her throat as the butler announced her. Forced herself to push all hurts and doubts aside. And swept past the butler with a thank you and a sweet smile.
Rose Beaumont was firmly in place as she made her way into the room. Johanna might as well have been as far away as New York City in this moment: an entire, vast sea. The duke was on the opposite end of the room, his expression almost severe as he bowed to her. She was dimly aware of the butler excusing himself and the door to the salon clicking gently closed in his wake.
“Good evening, Johanna,” the duke said in his low, delicious baritone.
Her true name spoken in his voice seemed somehow a betrayal after what she had just uncovered. She wished she had not told him she was called Johanna instead of Rose. Wished she had not allowed herself to entertain the foolish weakness she felt for him.
But she would face him calmly, she vowed, and with her head held high. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
She had not intended to place an emphasis upon his title, but she did. Even to her own ears, her words held an almost mocking tone. She swept into a deep curtsy, keeping her face deliberately expressionless.
If he wanted to do nothing more than bed her, he would be sorely disappointed. For she had never been the sort of woman to engage in affaires. She was, instead, the sort of woman who shared nothing of herself with anyone. That she had lowered her defenses, and that she had been wrong to do so, stung.
His countenance was as grim as she felt, but his eyes were vibrant and intense, searing her. “Yesterday, you called me Felix. I was hoping we may have reached an understanding.”
Though he said the words with ease, she could not shake the sense that they did not ring true. Something about him was different tonight. He was somber. Intense in a different fashion than before. As an actress, she was more attuned to those around her than most people. Acting relied upon reading the emotions of one’s fellow players, taking that energy and harnessing it in turn.
“There is no understanding to be reached between us,” she said, “other than that I will soon be five thousand pounds richer.”
She needed that money. She needed to steel herself against his handsome charm, which was suddenly so much more compelling now that she was alone with him in the room. His lips drew her attention, and for a brief, mad moment, she wondered what it would be like to feel them against her own.
She chased the unwanted thought from her mind.
“I propose we change our wager.” He closed the distance between them, stopping when he was near enough to touch.
“Change it how?” she asked, painfully aware of his sandalwood scent hitting her.
“We eliminate it.” His gaze held hers. “You have demonstrated an estimable determination to win. I, on the other hand, am being kept from what I want most. Unless I am mistaken, we have found ourselves at a stalemate.”
Kept from what he wanted most.
Her.
It had been so long since she had been touched. Since a man had held her gently in his arms in truth rather than in the course of a drama being enacted on the stage. A great pang of want hit her before she could stay it. And not just for the mere act of any man’s tender touch, either. But specifically for his.
This man’s.
Why was it so impossible to cling to her resolve when he was in such tempting proximity?
“I do not want to win,” she countered. “I must.”
That was true, as much for the additional funds as it was for her ability to cling to her own sense of honor.
He was unsmiling. “Forget the wager. I will give you the five thousand pounds.”
She froze. “Give me the five thousand pounds, Your Grace? What are the terms of such a benevolent gift?”
“You.”
She swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“I will give you the funds and concede the wager to you. In return, you will give me yourself.” He watched her in that intense manner he possessed.
As if he could see inside her, to all the parts of herself she kept hidden from the rest of the world. To the parts of her she had kept locked away. The parts of herself she did not know existed.
Everything inside her wanted to say yes. She needed the funds. She wanted the duke. But she had never sold herself, and she never would.
Her chin lifted. “I believe you are mistaken about me, Your Grace. I am not for sale. Nor have I ever been. And while five thousand pounds would make my future much easier, I am not prepared to barter my body in order to attain it.”
“I am not buying you, Johanna, but compensating you. Showing you my appreciation.” He paused, his gaze flitting to her lips. “It is a common enough understanding.”
“One you have reached many times before, no doubt,” she snapped. “This is where you bring your women, is it not?”
His full lips compressed into a tight line as he watched her. “It is the residence I procured for my last mistress.”
Anger burst open inside her. She lifted her hand and slapped his cheek. “How dare you?”
Pink blossomed instantly on his skin, and he rubbed the place where she had done him violence. “I meant you no insult.”
He had paid her one, nonetheless.
But part of the ire burning within her right now was aimed at herself as much as it was him. Because she was tempted. His proposition would give her everything she wanted, but her pride would not allow it.
“I will not be your kept woman,” she told him. “I cannot be bought. I will not be bought. And neither will I be insulted by remaining here with you a single moment more.”
/> She turned away, but he caught her arm in a grip that was gentle, yet firm. And when she turned back to him, the regret on his handsome face did something to her. She softened. Her resolve melted under the blazing heat of desire.
They had been dancing around each other for days, but the attraction sparking between them was undeniable. She felt it now, more poignantly than ever, luring her back to him. Keeping her here. Making her want him in spite of all the reasons why she should not.
“I am sorry, Johanna.”
Of all the things she had expected him to say, an apology was not one of them.
“Your Grace,” she began, only to be interrupted by him.
“Stay,” he said softly. “Please.”
Chapter Six
Once again, Felix had bungled things.
Badly.
“Do not go,” he entreated when she said nothing, staring at him with such raw hurt in her expression he did not believe even an actress of her caliber could affect it.
For all her secrets and all his suspicions of her, he wanted this woman more than he had wanted another in as long as he could remember. His emotions were warring within him, a confused tumult of need and want and anger.
And frustration.
When he had followed her earlier in the day and seen her meeting with a man, his suspicions had been raised. Felix had attempted to pursue the man, but he had disappeared into the throng of diversion-seekers. Which left him, once again, with more questions than he had answers when it came to her.
He did not want to believe she was involved with the Fenians. Did not want to believe she was doing anything nefarious. But what he had seen earlier, coupled with the knowledge he had of her in New York City from the League’s double agents, painted a bloody damning picture.
He resented her for making him feel things he had no right to feel. For making him so torn between duty and his incomprehensible attraction to her that he had decided, as he awaited her arrival that night, there was only one way to put an end to all this madness.
To stop courting her. Put an end to the wager.
And so he had offered her the five thousand pounds in exchange for her body. Her reaction had not been what he had anticipated. But he could admit he had deserved that slap. He had never before propositioned a woman with such a crude offer. He had merely allowed his frustrations to sink their talons into him too deeply.
“Why should I stay?” she asked quietly.
The emotions he had been attempting to keep at bay teemed inside him. Hunger was a beast, rampaging through him, making him weak. Making him forget all the reasons why he must not do what he was about to do.
He pulled her toward him with one swift motion, and she was flush against his chest, her breasts full, round temptations, the maddening scent of rose petals making a new surge of lust pound in his ballocks. Her hands flitted to his shoulders. Her mouth was an offering he could not resist.
He told himself he was obeying his duty.
“Because of this,” he rasped, and then, his lips were on hers.
Nothing could have prepared him for the initial contact, her mouth beneath his. Their lips fit together perfectly, hers supple and warm and smooth. She made a kittenish sound of need, her arms linking around his neck, and stepped into his body. They were pressed together, from thigh to mouth, the crush of her silken skirts billowing around his trousers. Her scent was everywhere, and he had the brief, incredulous thought it would stay with him forever now. That her lush perfume of rose and citrus, like the seduction of her kiss, would be imprinted upon him always.
Felix forgot everything in that moment but the woman in his arms. He kissed her furiously, ravaging her mouth with his. Kissed her because he had to. Kissed her because he wanted her to experience the same need careening down his spine, the white-hot desire to be possessed by him in the very same way he wanted to possess her.
God, yes, he wanted to possess her. This rare, enigmatic creature. This woman of secrets and mystery. He wanted her beneath him. Wanted all her bare skin burning into his, her golden hair unbound on his pillow, wrapped around his fist. Wanted to sink inside her wet heat and make her scream.
His desire for her was beyond his capacity to control it. Beyond duty and honor. He was mindless, helpless, thoughtless. She was everything, all around him, making him weak. Making him hers.
On a groan of painful pleasure, he coaxed her mouth to open. Her tongue met his, and the kiss turned decadently carnal. It was primal, a mating. Her fingers were in his hair, tunneling through the strands, grasping handfuls. She rose on her toes, pressing her mouth into his harder.
He had not been wrong about the passion flaring between them. She felt it, too. He would stake his life upon it. This was not the kiss of an actress but the raw, real kiss of a woman. A woman who wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her.
His instincts took over, and he guided them across the salon toward the piano where she had sung for him two nights earlier. Alone, in the darkness of the night, he had imagined having her here. He had thought of her sitting on the bench with her skirts raised, her legs spread to reveal the sweet pink flesh hidden between them. He had thought of sinking to his knees before her like a supplicant at the altar of a goddess. Of licking her, sinking his tongue inside her. Tasting her.
The animal within wanted that now. But he was not certain he could go slowly. A leisurely seduction would not be possible. The raging erection in his trousers was demanding to be freed. He was almost delirious with lust.
So delirious, he missed his aim. Instead of guiding her to the piano bench, he guided her into the keys. The dissonant sound produced by her skirts brushing against the ivory echoed through the chamber, momentarily breaking the thrall in which she held him.
He tore his mouth from hers, his breathing harsh. Her back was to the piano, and her eyes were hooded, almost drowsy. The vibrant blue hit him. The obsidian discs of her pupils were wide. She looked as if she had been drugged. Her lips were full and dark, puffy from his kisses. Her breathing was as ragged as his.
He had never wanted her more.
“I will not accept five thousand pounds,” she told him.
He was so startled by the husky sound of her voice, it took him a moment to focus upon what she had said. They were back to his ill-advised offer of money in exchange for bedding her.
She was turning down his proposition once more. As she should.
Disappointment lanced him, and yet, her persistent refusal buoyed his spirits.
“Please forgive me for the insult I paid you,” he said, thinking again of her stinging slap, the outrage on her countenance.
Either she was playing the grandest role of her life, or she was being honest with him. As honest as she had been yesterday at luncheon when she had revealed some of the details of her past with him.
“No money,” she repeated. “I will not be bought.”
“Of course not,” he agreed, reluctant to loosen his hold on her and allow her to slip from his embrace.
He liked having her in his arms.
“I will give myself to you freely if and when I choose.” Her gaze searched his. “But I still intend to hold you to the wager. You have three more days to attempt to defeat me and fail.”
She was certain of herself, especially after the kisses they had just shared. After he had almost ravished her on the piano bench. After she had turned to flame in his arms.
He would have said as much had not a rapping at the door intruded. Felix released Johanna and stepped away from her, putting some much-needed distance between them once more. Needed for his sanity, anyway.
“Enter,” he called, wondering why the devil his butler would dare disrupt their tête-à-tête.
But when the door swung open and he saw the servant’s expression, he feared he knew. He braced himself, anticipating the worst.
“There has been an explosion at Halford House, Your Grace,” said the butler. “I have received word the Fire Brigade has been sent to
douse the flames.”
Everything inside him shriveled, and an incapacitating rush of fear walloped him.
He could only think of one thing.
“Verity,” he ground out. “Is she safe?”
“She had not yet been found when word was sent, Your Grace.”
Dear God. His daughter. He could not lose her. Would not lose her. He had to go, to find her, to make certain she was safe. She was all he could think about, fear lashing his heart so tightly he could scarcely breathe.
“Carriage?” he clipped.
“It is being readied,” the butler reassured him. “It will be here within moments.”
He nodded, the dread rising within him along with the fear. It was the same sickening churn of emotions that had consumed him when Hattie had passed. She had been ill for days, ravaged by a cough, delirious with fever, and he had known on the final day. That sense of loss was just as vivid now. Just as choking. As mocking. As terrible.
He scarcely took note of the domestic excusing himself so he could see to the sudden preparations for travel. Raking a shaking hand through his hair, he attempted to bring air into his lungs, but it would not come. His chest ached. His heart galloped. He broke into a cold sweat, his fingertips tingling.
Not now, he denied inwardly, railing against himself for this weakness.
He could not afford to suffer one of his fits now, not when Verity needed him. They no longer happened nearly as often as they had in the days after Hattie’s death. By now, he only suffered them every few months.
But one was taking him, and though he tried to gulp breaths, he could not. Could not move. Could not speak.
Verity. His sweet little girl with her round cherub’s face and sparkling green eyes and her undeniable resemblance to Hattie. She was all he had left. God, what if something had happened to her? What if she was trapped somewhere now, alone, flames coming for her?
Through the haze of panic attacking him, a calm, familiar voice comforted. Arms came around him. A hand passed over his back in soothing strokes.
“You will find her,” promised the husky voice of an angel. “As soon as the carriage is ready, you will go to her, and you will find her, and she will be safe.”
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