Five thousand pounds, she thought again, a litany.Your freedom. Think of never again looking over your shoulder. Never again knowing the sick taste of dread, the grip of fear in your gut. Think of all the good that will be done when Drummond no longer has the capacity to hurt anyone.
Those funds could aid her in the future she sought. From London, she would go to Paris. And from there, Berlin. Drummond would never chase her that far if he somehow escaped prison, and if he did, she would outrun him. Five thousand pounds could hide her quite well, and she must not lose sight of that unexpected windfall.
“I am not certain if I should consider that a compliment or an insult,” the duke said wryly, watching her with a twist to his lips she could not help but to find irresistible.
“Perhaps both.” Her own smile deepened, and it was not feigned. He amused her. Intrigued her.
This was not good.
How would she manage to resist him through the next hour? The next five days? Ever?
“I can honestly say the same of you, Mademoiselle,” he told her.
Their gazes held. “But surely you know a great deal of other actresses.”
There it was again, the knife’s edge of jealousy creeping into her heart. She did not know why the notion of him seducing others before her should bother her so.
“I have known others,” he agreed mildly. “But there is only one Rose of New York.”
She wondered, then, if he was attracted to her because of her notoriety. Some men had sought her out and attempted to woo her for just that reason. They wanted Rose Beaumont on their arms. Rose Beaumont warming their beds. They wanted to parade her before their friends and cronies as if she were a prized stag.
“You were familiar with me, then, before my performance?” she pressed.
“I had seen your photograph,” he said carefully.
Ah.
She did not know what to make of his words. Her stomach tightened. But there was an undeniable burst of pleasure inside her too. “You arranged with Mr. Saville to meet me.”
It was not a question but rather a statement, for she knew the answer already.
“I did,” he acknowledged, before taking a sip of his wine.
This man wanted her. She had known it from the first moment his vibrant emerald eyes had burned into hers. Had felt it, deep within her. He had made it apparent. But she knew his kind, she was sure.
“You wanted me because the notion of a famed actress on your arm appeals to your manly sensibilities,” she guessed.
“If I have manly sensibilities, no one has made me aware of them.” He drained his glass and placed it upon the sideboard before sauntering toward her. “They sound dreadfully boring and terrifically unctuous.”
She had not expected levity. He was smiling now. And she could not shake the impression it was a true smile. She drank more of her wine because she did not know what to say.
He was watching her, and his smile made him seem younger than his years. Almost boyish. An answering ache she did not want to feel flared to life at the sight of those lips curved. The urge to feel them against hers was strong.
But foolish.
She would not give in.
“You are making light of me, Your Grace” she observed at last, because she had finished her wine, and because it seemed he was waiting for her to speak.
It had been her turn, after all.
Why did he make her feel so off-kilter? The same way she had after traveling on the steamer from New York. For days after her arrival, she had still felt as if she were swaying on the rolling tides of the sea. It had been most disconcerting.
“I would never make light of you, Mademoiselle.” Neatly, he plucked the empty glass from her fingers. “Dinner should be ready by now. Are you hungry, my dear?”
As if on cue, her stomach gave a rather aggressive rumble as response. Her ears went hot as she flattened her palm over it. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am hungry, yes. Between rehearsals and the performance, I do not believe I consumed more than tea and bread all day.”
“Tea and bread?” His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Is Saville working you into the grave? Surely there was time for more of a repast.”
