Yes, she did. And she did not bother to ask him how he had arrived at his information. Though she supposed it was common enough knowledge that her understudy would be playing Miranda in the evening’s play while Johanna only needed to attend morning rehearsal.
“It is,” she agreed, attempting to turn her mind to what she would do with that free time.
Anything to distract her from how handsome the duke looked in his evening finery. Black coat, charcoal waistcoat, with a white shirt beneath and black trousers. With his tousled dark curls, he looked like a gothic hero torn from the pages of a romance.
“Would you care for a glass of wine before we dine?” he asked solicitously, releasing her hand and stepping away from her at last.
She felt at once a great mixture of relief and consternation at the distance he had placed between them. “Wine would be most welcome,” she agreed.
Perhaps it would help to settle the riot within her. Perhaps it would dull the attraction she felt for him, one she could not seem to shake.
He moved to a sideboard and poured two glasses of wine as she watched, wondering what it was about him that made her heart hammer so fast in her breast. She had seen handsome men before. Wealthy men. Powerful men. Heavens, she had been courted by a prince.
Why should the Duke of Winchelsea stand out in a sea of so many? Why should he call to her in a different way, in a way no other before him had? It seemed dreadfully unfair, particularly given the tragedy which had become her own life.
He returned with the wine, offering the glass to her in a disquieting echo of the night they had met. Had it only been a mere two nights ago? How did it feel as if it had been much longer? This time, however, she took great care not to tilt the glass as she grasped the stem, accepting it from him.
He raised his goblet. “A toast is in order, I should think. To The Rose of New York. Long may she reign over the stage and the hearts of men.”
She raised her glass by rote, but the wine tasted less than sweet on her tongue. For she had never reigned over the heart of any man, and no one knew that better than she did.
Talk of hearts inevitably made her think of Pearl, and when she did, her own heart gave a pang. She took a long sip from her glass, hoping the wine would numb her pain though she knew it would not. Nothing ever did.
“You are frowning,” the duke observed.
Instantly, she smoothed her expression. Her years as an actress had given her great awareness of her countenance. Ordinarily, she was able to keep her features a mask of indifference. The true emotion was reserved for plays.
It disturbed her to know her mask had slipped.
That he had seen beneath it, if just for a moment.
“I never frown,” she countered, taking care to enhance the French accent she had long-ago adopted as part of her persona as Rose Beaumont. “Life is filled with too much color and joy.”
A lie, as it happened. Perhaps the lives of others were. But never hers.
From the moment she had been born, it had been nothing but sorrow. Her father blamed her for her mother’s death. He had been a cold and unforgiving man by nature, but the whisky had changed him. He had become consumed by it. And then, the violence had begun.
Thank Godshe had escaped.
“Nevertheless, you were frowning now,” Winchelsea observed. “I do hope I am not the source of your distress.”
No, he was not, but she would not think of Drummond now. Rather, she would focus upon the five thousand pounds she needed to win. She would think of her freedom, of doing what she must, regardless of how much it cost her. Of being far beyond her brother’s reach forever.
You are Rose Beaumont, she reminded herself.
The darling of the stage.
She took another sip of her wine, feeling its warmth suffuse her, and recalled this, too, was a role she played.
She smiled. “You could never be the source of my distress, Your Grace. You have been far too solicitous and charming to me. I shall be spoiled.”
“Have you not already been spoiled by others?” he asked, an edge creeping into his tone.
No, she had not. She had loved. Too much, too hard. She had lost as well. Those parts of her could never be regained or restored.
“I have never met a gentleman like you, I think,” she said carefully, realizing it was true.
She could not quite discern what it was about him that made him different, but he was. He was different and she was drawn to him. And being drawn to any man was dangerous indeed.
