He turned and stalked back down the length of the library. “I have her word,” he said, his voice trembling with the conviction and the rage burning within him. “That is enough for me.”
“The word of an actress who has surrounded herself with Fenians,” Arden concluded.
“Bloody hell! I do not give a damn that she is an actress. Her profession does not render her any less capable of telling the truth than anyone else,” he bit out.
“Perhaps not her profession,” Arden said, “but her connections to Fenians certainly do. I want to believe she is innocent as much as you do, Winchelsea, truly I do. But you are too involved in this case, in this woman. You must try to take a step back from it all and view the facts as presented in a calm, objective fashion.”
“Forgive me,” he returned bitterly, “but this soliloquy is rather an irony coming from you, Arden. Tell me, have you ever been capable of viewing your wife in a calm, objective fashion? Were you calm and objective when you ran into a burning warehouse to save her?”
Arden had risen as well, and now he stiffened, almost as if he had been delivered a blow. “She is my duchess. The woman I love. Miss McKenna is a veritable stranger to you, and one you would do well to be skeptical of.”
But Johanna was not a stranger. He loved her. He had spent inside her. Good God, he could have gotten her with child this morning in his mad lust. He had only just found her. He could not lose her. Not now. Not ever.
“I care about her, Arden,” he managed past the lump in his throat. The fear clogging his lungs. “I care deeply. I would run into a burning building to save her, without a thought for myself.”
“This is worse than I feared,” Arden said.
Determination had him moving, crossing the chamber. “What are you saying, Arden? Just tell me and have done with it.”
“Ravenhurst intends to have her arrested when Scotland Yard arrives to take command of the trunk.” Arden sighed. “They are going to use the witness who saw her delivering a package to the Fenian, a man they have already arrested this morning and are holding on charges of possessing an infernal machine. Ravenhurst intends to offer that man an incentive to testify against Miss McKenna.”
All the air seemed to flee from his lungs.
So, too, the capacity to speak.
The thought of Johanna imprisoned was enough to make his entire body go cold. Ravenhurst was calculating enough to do such a thing. Determined enough to use whomever he must in his quest to be the one who put an end to all the Fenian uprisings.
“I will not allow it,” he growled, denial coursing through him. “I will do everything in my power to see that they cannot arrest her.”
Arden’s gaze was searching. “What do you have in mind?”
“First, I am going to marry her,” he said. “And then, I am going to lure her bastard of a brother here once and for all so he can pay for his sins.”
If this was the burning building, he was running inside. And he was not emerging until she was safe in his arms.
Chapter Thirteen
Johanna sat in the small salon following breakfast, Verity at her side on the piano bench. Felix had been inexplicably absent from breakfast, leaving behind a note that he would shortly return. Following everything they had shared, coupled with her realization that she must fast put some time and distance between them, Johanna found his desertion disquieting indeed.
Fortunately, his daughter was there to lift her spirits. They had spent breakfast trading silly tales they invented, each trying to outdo the other, until the both of them were giggling helplessly, wiping tears of mirth from their eyes. She had to admit that not much breakfast had been consumed. But Johanna had been grateful for the distraction from the heaviness of her thoughts and the looming prospect of what she must do.
Just as she was thankful for it now, as her fingers traveled over the ivory keys of the piano in a familiar melody. They were back to their foolishness again, which seemed the order of the day. She had a scant few hours to spare in which she would be forced to say goodbye to the precious child at her side—and her equally precious father—and if Johanna lingered on the reminder too long, she would weep.
Far better to laugh.
It was an old trick she had learned in life. One which had always stood her in good stead.
“Your turn, Miss McKenna,” said Verity gleefully. “You must begin, and I shall sing the next verse.”
“You remember the rules of the game well, my lady,” she told the girl with a smile.
Verity smiled back at her, and Johanna’s heart seemed to clench. “Go now, Miss McKenna. Come up with something suitable for me to rhyme with, if you please.”
Johanna changed the melody and began a new song with ease, clearing her throat. “Very well, I shall. In a moment. Or perhaps two…oh dear, I cannot think of a single word to sing. Perhaps you ought to have your turn first, my lady.”
Verity giggled, seeing through the ploy and enjoying it just the same. “No, no, you cannot talk through the song, or else it is not a song, Miss McKenna. You must invent a verse.”
“I must?” She raised her brows. “Are you certain? I thought you said it was your turn to sing the first verse.”
“No!” Verity squealed with delight. “I said it must be you.”
Johanna pretended to ponder, all the while keeping her fingers moving over the keys. “Oh, I understand now. It must be you who sings first, correct?”
“Incorrect, Miss McKenna,” Verity said, laughing so hard, it was difficult to make sense of her words. “You must be the one who sings first.”
“Yes,” she teased, continuing to play. “You shall be the one who sings first. Go on, I am waiting.”
“Miss McKenna!” Felix’s daughter could not seem to manage a coherent word as she collapsed into another fit of giggles.
“Yes?” Johanna said, pretending to frown. “I have already told you I understand everything clearly. The first verse of the song will be sung by you. I only hope you will choose a verse that is an easy rhyme.”
“No,” Verity countered, still laughing uproariously. “That is not what I said.”
“I beg your pardon?” Johanna shouted as she pounded on the keys harder, filling the room with sound. “I cannot hear a word you are saying, my lady.”
“Stop!” Verity hollered at the exact moment Johanna ceased playing.
“Yes,” she said in an agreeable tone, as if she had not heard the girl at all. “I will begin playing once more while you contemplate the perfect verse. Do take your time.”
When she held her hands poised dramatically over the keys as if she were about to play again, Verity grabbed them, laughing.
“No, Miss McKenna! You are a silly goose, deliberately misunderstanding me.”
“Must I be a goose?’ she teased. “I would far rather prefer to be a different sort of bird. A duck, for instance. Or perhaps a swan.”
Verity’s giggles were interrupted by the salon door opening. There, at last, stood Felix on the threshold. The mere sight of him alone was enough to send a jolt of awareness straight through her, landing between her thighs where she still ached from all the times he had claimed her body.
“Papa!” Verity cried with delight, shooting from the piano bench and dipping into a perfect curtsy.
Remembering herself belatedly, Johanna stood as well, curtseying to Felix, which felt strange indeed given the closeness they had just shared. After waking skin to skin, formality between them seemed not just odd but almost painful.
Still, she reminded herself she must grow accustomed to it. Her time here was limited. Growing shorter with each tick of the mantel clock.
“Lady Verity,” he greeted, bowing formally as his gaze traveled to Johanna’s. “Miss McKenna.”
Their stares met and held. A jolt passed through her. A current she could not deny. Her heart was breaking, then and there, to know what she must do.
She swallowed against a rush of emotion. “Your Grace.”
He stared at her for a beat longer than necessary, and she could not help but to wonder what he was thinking. Had he regretted their passion together? Where had he gone this morning? What could have been the reason for his absence?
But then, none of that mattered, did it?
“Where have you been, Papa?” Verity asked, giving voice to Johanna’s inner turmoil in her innocent way. “Miss McKenna and I were just about to sing a silly song. Would you care to join us?”
“No silly songs today, poppet,” he said. “But I do understand Mrs. Cuthbert has made some cocoa biscuits just now. Why do you not run along and have a taste of them, see if they are as good as the ones Monsieur Favreau makes?”
“But Papa,” Verity protested. “I would rather sing with Miss McKenna than eat biscuits.”
“Off with you, poppet,” he told her, his voice firm, though tender. “There will be plenty more opportunities for you to sing your ditties with Miss McKenna.”
Verity cast a glance in Johanna’s direction.
No, there will not be, Johanna wanted to cry out.
But her heart was still breaking, and she could not seem to find the strength within her to say a single word. And so she smiled reassuringly at Felix’s daughter instead.
“I shall go,” Verity decided, “but only because Papa demands it. I am certain no one can compete with Monsieur’s biscuits.”
Felix was only halfway across the chamber from her now, drawing nearer. And she could feel her inner resolve weakening accordingly. There were the lips she had kissed, just this morning. There was the body that had been so strong and powerful beneath hers. His cat’s eyes were fathomless this morning.
How she wished she knew what he was thinking.
“Go on now, poppet,” he instructed Verity.
Verity curtseyed, and then she flounced from the room.
Felix watched her go before turning back to Johanna and closing the last of the distance between them. His gaze searched her face. “Good morning, Johanna. You are well?”
She knew what he was asking, and her cheeks went hot. “Quite well, Your Grace.”
“Verity is likely halfway to the kitchens,” he countered, his voice low. “You need not resort to formality with me now.”
“I am afraid I must,” she said. “What happened between us, it was wonderful, Felix, and I shall hold the memories in my heart forever. But what we need most—what you and Lady Verity need right now—is to be safe. You will not be safe for as long as I remain beneath your roof.”
“You belong here,” he argued, reaching for her hands.
She clutched him back, much to her shame, linking her fingers through his. Because she could not resist. One last touch. One last time…
“I do not belong anywhere,” she corrected him gently. “I never have.”
“Perhaps not before, but you belong here now.” He pulled her gently into his chest. “You cannot imagine I will let you go, Johanna.”
“You must,” she insisted. “The danger is far too great. If something were to happen to you or to Lady Verity, I could never forgive myself.”
“I understand how you feel, because I feel exactly the same.” His gaze was tender. “I want to protect you. I will protect you.”
She wanted to look away, but she could not. This man had become her greatest weakness. Every part of her longed for him. Her body, her heart, her mind.
But it was not meant to be.
“This is not your battle to fight, Felix,” she told him. “I alone am to blame for the untenable position in which I now find myself. I must face this on my own.”
“You will face it at my side.” He withdrew his hand from hers and cupped her face. “As my wife. Marry me, Johanna.”
She stared, certain she had misheard him. Foolish, foolish heart to invent fictions. Stupid, wild imagination. Fleeting, nonsensical fancy. Or perhaps she had fallen asleep, and this was nothing but a dream.
She blinked, and the Duke of Winchelsea still stood before her, wearing the same earnest expression upon his handsome face. Looking as serious and somber as he ever had. He seemed to be awaiting an answer from her, which was entirely silly. But it was apparent that he was all too real, and she was not, in fact asleep. Still touching her face as gently as if she were fashioned from the finest porcelain.
She had to say something.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked him. “I must have misheard you.”
He lowered his lips to hers then for a long, slow kiss.
When he pulled back at last, she almost forgot all her objections.
Almost.
“If you heard me asking you to marry me,” he said, “then you did not mishear at all. You would do me the greatest honor, Johanna McKenna, if you would agree to become my wife. My duchess.”
His words were so fantastical, so unexpected, that for a moment she could do nothing more than gape at him, wondering if he had somehow gone mad in the course of the hours since she had seen him last. He appeared quite serious, however. Quite sane.
Except for the words he had uttered.
“You cannot wish to marry me,” she said. “I am not at all the sort of woman a duke would take to wife. Indeed, I am no lady. I am a woman who has always treasured her independence. I am an actress. I have committed scandalous sins in my past. I was an unwed mother. And beyond all that, I am the sister of a Fenian.”
“Everything you have said is true,” he observed calmly. “With the exception of three of your statements, I shall not offer any arguments. However, I must point out that I do wish to marry you, you are just the sort of woman this duke would take to wife, and you are, indeed, a lady of the finest mettle. As for treasuring your independence, I can see and admire that in you, and I would never seek to encroach upon yours when we are wed. You are one of the most talented actresses of our age. You were taken advantage of by a much older man you viewed as a brother, and when he abandoned you, you did everything in your power to care for your daughter, and—”
“Stop,” she interrupted him, unable to listen to him extol her virtues for another second. “You make me sound so good. I am not, Felix. I am weak, and I have allowed my brother to rule me when I knew better. I failed to fight when I should have. I should have been stronger, too, with Pearl’s father. I should have known better.”
He stopped her with a finger pressed over her lips. “Hush. You are good, Johanna. You are one of the most kindhearted people I have ever met. I have never met another woman as good as you, aside from one.”
When he paused and clenched his jaw, he did not need to say more. She knew who he referred to. And though in a sense, she was honored he compared her to the woman he had so worshiped and loved, she was also acutely aware of what that appraisal meant for her.
“I am not her,” she told him, the fear that had been slowly burning inside her for the last few days finally finding its voice. “I am not your wife, Felix.”
She had no wish to be the replacement for the woman he loved. She was not a different version of his former duchess. She was herself. And she had no doubt his wife would have been perfection. Her hair would have always been neatly tamed into the most fashionable styles. Her dresses would have been the latest styles from Parisian fashion. She would have been an aristocrat. A lady. Someone who had been born and bred to be a duchess. Someone who would have brought neither shame nor scandal to his name.
Someone he could have been proud of.
“You will be my wife,” he countered. “When you marry me.”
“No.” She shook her head, steeling herself against a bitter flood of tears that threatened to consume her. The fear of inadequacy was beginning to steal her breath. “That is not what I meant. You misunderstand me. And you do so intentionally, I think.”
His gaze searched hers, unfathomable. “What would you have me say, Johanna?”
“The truth,” she whispered. “Tell me the truth, Felix. Do not insult my intelligence by expecting me to blindly believe you want
to make an American actress who once bore a child out of wedlock your wife.”
His expression hardened, becoming impassive. “I do not scorn your past. I, too, have a past. Just as we all have.”
But that was not the point.
“We all have pasts, yes, but not all of our pasts are as scandalous as mine,” she reminded him gently. “You are a nobleman. You are held to different, higher standards. I am a lowly American girl. I am a no one. A nothing.”
“There is nothing,” he said, his voice vibrating with quiet fury, “not one single thing about you that is lowly, Johanna. Nor are you no one or a nothing. You are the most gifted actress I have ever seen tread the boards. You are the great Rose Beaumont. You have worked so hard to be who you are, to attain what you have. There is no shame in that, only pride.”
How easy it was for a man to say that. For a duke. There was shame in who she was. In what she had done. And that same shame had followed her here, to London. She was still the same woman he had invited only to the home he had shared with his paramours.
And while she had accepted it before, in the maelstrom surrounding them, she could not forget it now. Not when she needed to remember it most. And use it like a shield. A protective shield.
“And was it pride in my abilities that led you to want to take me to bed?” she asked, finding the courage to ask the question. “Was it pride that kept you from inviting me to your true home? Was it pride that relegated me to this townhome, with its remembrances of all your former paramours?”
She loved Felix. She knew she did. But she could not accept being his wife, his duchess, because she did not belong to his world. He was infatuated with her, she was sure of it, and he was allowing those feelings to rule his common sense.
There was no other reason why a man like the Duke of Winchelsea would ask Johanna McKenna—or even Rose Beaumont, for that matter—to become his wife.
“No,” he said, his voice low, the lone word sounding as if it had been torn from him. “It was not.”
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