A shiver went through her that only deepened when his fingers brushed against her skin. She could not be certain if it was her imagination or if he lingered there. But it seemed an eternity passed between the first brush of his fingertips on her flesh and the subsequent gaping of the back of her gown.
As each tape came undone, it loosened more and more until he was drawing her dress over her shoulders. And here, thank heavens, her chemise kept his bare hand from her weak flesh. He peeled the twain ends of her costume down her body until it pooled about her feet.
And then, his hands settled upon her waist, spinning her about so she faced him.
“Your slippers,” he said.
She was acutely aware of her state, clad in only her undergarments before him, her every curve on display. The corset she had worn to fit into Miranda’s gown had been laced tighter than she ordinarily preferred. So much so that her bosom was pressed high, crowding over the edge, spilling over the décolletage of her chemise.
And he was speaking to her of slippers. For a wild beat, she could not fathom why.
“I beg Your Grace’s pardon,” she managed, gratified her voice did not sound entirely dazzled and breathless.
For this was dangerous territory she had entered indeed.
“Your slippers,” he said again. “I assume you are exchanging them for something sturdier in the streets, yes? It was raining quite a torrent when I arrived, and I should think these little scraps would be of little use to you in a deluge.”
Of course. The slippers she had worn on stage were thin and unsuitable for wearing out of doors. They were excellent for gliding across a stage. But hardly acceptable for a grim, rainy London evening.
Then, something else occurred to her. He had been concerned about her welfare. He had thought about her comfort. She could not recall when anyone else ever had. But she ruthlessly squelched the small flare of appreciation. He was watching her, awaiting her response.
“Yes, you are right. These slippers are made for the stage and not for the business of traveling about London.” Her cheeks were hot. In fact, her entire body felt flushed. Overheated. She tingled. It was insufferably warm in here. Dressing rooms of theaters had notoriously poor ventilation, after all, and this one, while one of the better she had experienced, was little different.
Surely that was the reason for her discomfit.
He sank to his knees before she could stay him. And if she had been warm before, she felt as if she were being scorched by the blazing heat of a July sun now. The duke extended a hand, looking up at her with a calmness which irked.
“May I, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
How dare he be so cool and unaffected when he had set off such a riotous tumult within her? She did not think she had ever been so aware of a man before. She was attuned to his every movement. His breaths. The subtle changes in the way he clenched his jaw, the darkness of his pupils which had flared when her costume had first fallen to the floor.
He wanted to help her to remove her slippers. She could have told him she did not need his aid. After years on the stage, she was quite nimble and flexible, and she could manage anything on her own, even in a tight-laced corset.
But the thought of him tending to her, touching her ankles…it held undeniable appeal. “You may,” she allowed.
He grasped her ankle in a delicate but firm touch, his long fingers wrapping around it. “Lift your foot, if you please.”
She obeyed, doing her utmost to maintain her poise. One tremble, one sway, and he would recognize the effect he had upon her. She watched him, his dark head bent, his handsome profile visible to her, and held still as he gently pulled the slipper from her foot.
She let out a sigh when the slipper was gone, for in truth, it had been rather tight across the fleshy top of her foot. The removal after several hours of wearing it brought welcome relief.
He grasped her foot in both hands, kneading the sole. “You spend much time on your feet. They must ache.”
Dear Lord.The duke was massaging her foot, his thumb digging into muscles that had been drawn tight, knowing just where to touch and how. She bit her lip to hold back an appreciative moan threatening to burst forth from her.
“I am accustomed to it,” she said. “There is no need for you to—”
“Hush, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he interrupted. “There is every need. Those blasted shoes were clearly too tight. I will tell Saville to acquire new ones more suited to your size.”
His concern struck her. Made a queer sensation unfurl. She refused to acknowledge it. “That is quite unnecessary, Your Grace. The slippers are fine. Most theaters require the actors and actresses to provide their own costuming, so I do not dare complain.”
“The Rose of New York deserves painless feet,” he told her, a frown creasing his countenance.
Here was the expression he wore most often, she felt certain, one of concern.
Somehow, that knowledge touched her. Burrowed its way into a crack in her heart and settled in. But she was stronger than her heart. She always had been. And one show of tenderness from a man was not enough to make her tear down the protective walls she had built around herself.
The Rose of New York did not possess feelings off the stage.
