“How autocratic of you, Your Grace,” she returned, but there was neither heat nor censure in her voice. “Do you have a request?”
He studied her, thinking she looked at home, not just behind the piano, but in this salon. For a moment, he could almost fool himself into the belief they were lovers, that there was nothing but desire and attraction binding them to each other. But that was a dangerous fantasy indeed, one he could ill afford to entertain.
“Sing whatever pleases you most,” he told her.
She cast him a small smile, and then her fingers began moving over the keys, producing a haunting melody that paled when her lovely voice filled the air. “My life is like the summer rose,” she sang, “that opens to the morning sky.”
Felix could do nothing more than watch her, completely in her thrall. Her tone was melodious and clear, tinged with a poignant note of melancholy which could not be feigned. It was as if she felt the emotion of the song, as if she lived and breathed it much as she did the roles she played on the stage.
“My life is like the autumn leaf,” she crooned on, “that trembles in the moon’s pale ray.”
The evocative lyrics of the song settled over him, until gooseflesh pebbled on his skin. She was not just beautiful as she sat there serenading him. She was magnificent. The melody wound around him as she reached the final crescendo.
“On that lone shore loud moans the sea,” sang Rose, “But none, alas, shall mourn for me.”
As the last key hung in the air, Felix could not fight the powerful rush of attraction hitting him. Every instinct within him screamed to go to her and claim her mouth as his. He wanted her so badly, he did not dare move, lest his restraint snap and he snatched her off the piano bench like a marauding beast.
“That was lovely,” he forced past the lump in his throat, the need pumping through him in a frenzy he had never before known.
Was it the song? The words? Rose’s voice? Or was it merely Rose Beaumont herself, seated before him like one of the Muses?
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She smiled at him, and it was genuine, filled with radiance. “It has been quite some time since I have sung for anyone, aside from the stage. It has always been one of my small pleasures.”
He felt the force of that smile to the soles of his bloody feet. “You have a voice to rival the angels’.”
A pretty pink flush crept on her cheeks. She stood, fussing with her skirts and refusing to meet his gaze. “It is passable, I suppose. You need not flatter me.”
Could it be that he had rendered the famed Rose of New York shy with his praise? The prospect was astounding, but he could not help but to think it true. And he could not keep himself from going to her then. He skirted the piano, stopping when he stood before her.
She glanced up at him at last, and their gazes met and held. So much passed between them in that moment. He felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, and as if she were seeing him too. All his good intentions fell away, crumbling beneath the pressure of the need for her that had become a fire in his blood.
A lone wisp of golden hair had come free of her coiffure, resting upon her cheek, and he could not resist sweeping it gently to the side. “I am not flattering you, my dear. I am being truthful. You possess a rare talent to inhabit the song, as if you are feeling all the emotions yourself as you sing them. I have never heard another sing with such vulnerability, such honesty.”
Her flush deepened, but she did not step away. “It is merely because I have always excelled at playing roles. That is what I do best. I don a mask, a character. I become someone else for a few minutes, a few hours. I forget who I am. I make the audience forget, too. That is the gift of every good actress.”
Now that he had touched her, he could not seem to stop. He traced the backs of his fingers over her cheek, admiring the warm smoothness of her skin. “What role are you playing now, Rose? I confess, I cannot help but to wonder.”
Her lips parted, and he did not miss the hitch in her breath or the way her pupils expanded. “I am playing the role of the woman who wants to win five thousand pounds from a duke who thinks he will lure me into his bed.”
He should have expected as much in her reply. But in truth, the breathiness of her voice gave lie to her words. She was every bit as attracted to him as he was to her. But she was fighting it. Fighting him.
“I think you lie, Rose,” he told her softly. “I think you are playing the role of the woman who does not want me to kiss her. Because in truth, I think you want me to kiss you very badly right now.”
She swallowed. “You are as sure of yourself as ever, Your Grace.”
“Felix,” he countered, and he was not sure why, but the moment the invitation left him, he knew it was right. He told himself it would foster a greater connection between them. Lull her into a false sense of comfort. Help her to reveal everything she knew about McKenna. “Call me Felix when we are alone, Rose.”
But he could admit that he also wanted to hear his name on her lips. Whispered in that husky voice. Better if it were on a cry of passion.
She raised a hand to his face in a fleeting touch. “I cannot call you that, just as I cannot be alone with you again. Thank you for dinner, Your Grace. But now, if you will excuse me, the hour grows late and I truly must go.”
At last, she stepped away from him, and he allowed her to go, not pressing his advantage. Instead, he offered her a bow. “I will have my carriage deliver you to your hotel as you wish.”
She looked startled, as if she had expected him to argue. But while there was nothing he wanted more than to kiss her, he knew he did not dare trust himself. His hunger for her was too great. He needed the night to clear his head and remind himself of the responsibilities he bore.
He needed to recall the true reason for wooing Rose Beaumont.
He needed distance and distraction and, very likely, the use of his hand.
