She stopped on the threshold of the salon and looked back at him, a golden goddess in the gaslights. “I have not enjoyed myself this much in as long as I can recall. For that, I am in your debt.”
And then, in a swish of silken skirts, she was gone.
Chapter Four
She had almostallowed the Duke of Winchelsea to kiss her. The thought had chased her all the way back to her hotel the night before in his carriage. It kept her from sleep until the faint strains of dawn had painted the London sky. During her morning rehearsal, she had forgotten her lines and missed her cue twice.
Twice.
Rose Beaumont did not forget her lines or her cues.Ever.
Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she left the theater near noon, only to find the same gleaming black carriage awaiting her. This time, the door opened and the man who had been invading her thoughts ever since last night—ever since she had met him, if she were honest—stepped down. He was dressed informally, but the sight of him in a coat and top hat, his sensual lips curved in a welcoming smile that was just for her, made her heart beat faster than the wings of a hummingbird.
“Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he greeted.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a semblance of a curtsy, as she supposed was only proper. “What are you doing here?”
“Making certain you have something more to eat than bread and tea today,” he said, extending his arm.
He was a caretaker. She had come to understand that about him. He fretted over her feet, her stomach, her comfort. Overher. It was disconcerting and yet also strangely heartening. That a duke, a nobleman of such elegance and stature, would show such consideration for an actress, spoke a great deal of his character.
He wants you in his bed, reminded a cynical voice inside her.That is the reason for his kindness. His shows of compassion. He wants to keep his five thousand pounds, to show you off on his arm.
But as she stared at him in the midst of the bustling city, just outside Mr. Saville’s West End theater, she did not want to believe the jaded part of her. She wanted, instead, to allow herself to believe in the fiction that Winchelsea cared. Because she was a woman who had reached the unlikely age of twenty-six without ever having been truly cared for by anyone.
What is the harm, asked a different voice inside her,in indulging just once? In forgetting about Drummond and what you must soon do?
She listened to the latter voice and accepted his arm although she knew she should not. “Feeding me will not make me any more inclined to change my mind,” she informed him. “I am still every bit as determined to win.”
“And I am every bit as determined you shall lose,” he returned, his smile deepening until it reflected in his eyes and a tiny set of grooves bracketed those vibrant emerald orbs. “You have no notion of the lunch I have in store for you.”
Yesterday’s dinner had been a veritable feast. The endless procession of courses had been more food than she had ever dreamt of consuming in one sitting. But for a woman who recalled all too well the sharp pangs of a hungry belly, it had been pleasing.
“We shall see,” she told him primly, allowing him to escort her to the carriage and hand her up neatly.
She settled on the well-upholstered bench and expected him to sit opposite her. But he did not. Instead, he climbed inside—and even this action, he achieved with flawless elegance—and settled his long, strong body at her side. His thigh brushed her skirts. His delicious sandalwood scent hit her.
And so did a wave of longing.
She supposed it was inevitable. One could not remain in the presence of a man as devastatingly handsome as the Duke of Winchelsea and continue to be unaffected by him.
Felix, said the second voice inside her.
The wicked one.
But no, she must not think of him so familiarly. Nor allow his nearness to undo her resolve. She had far more important matters to occupy her mind than a man. Except he was crowding her. His coat was a soft temptation brushing against hers. Even his elbow seemed somehow sinful as it jostled hers.
She inhaled at the contact, and he took note, mistaking her reaction.
“Forgive me my lack of grace,” he said in his perfectly clipped patrician accent as the carriage swayed into motion.
It occurred to her she ought to ask him about their destination. How trusting she was, merely following him. Going wherever he chose to take her. Acting the part of the kept woman. And of all the roles she had played in her life, kept woman was one she had never played. She was no man’s mistress.
Falling into this ease and familiarity with the duke so quickly was dangerous in so many ways. Foolhardy. Stupid, even, given what lay ahead of her. She was, at this moment, a drowning woman after her ship had sunk, watching the last lifeboat sail into the horizon.
“You are forgiven, Your Grace,” she said, acutely aware of his regard. “But I wonder if you might not be more comfortable on the opposite squab.”
“No,” he said, his voice a low and decadent rumble she felt everywhere. “I am most comfortable right here.”
