Of course he was. And so was she, which was entirely the problem.
She liked the way he touched her, the way his warmth and his scent invaded her senses, no matter how much she knew she must not. “Where are you taking me? I think I should have asked before, instead of allowing you to abscond with me.”
“If I were to truly abscond with you, my dear Rose, I would not be taking you somewhere to satiate your stomach,” he said, his voice taking on the tone of a growl. “I would take you to my bed.”
Somehow, the wordbedon Felix’s lips held untold possibility. Such a tempting capacity for sin. It made her pulse leap and heat flare to life in her core.
But she must not think of that.
And neither must she think of him as Felix.
He was the Duke of Winchelsea. A stranger. A man who would never bed her. Never satiate other needs.Good heavens, a man she must keep her distance from if her reaction to him grew one bit stronger…
“I suppose I must consider myself fortunate, then, that you are not in the absconding mood today,” she quipped, disturbed to realize how familiar he felt to her. How right such banter seemed. How natural.
“For you, dearest Rose, I am always in the absconding mood.” His regard was intense.
She felt it in her core, in an answering ache and blossom of desire. For some absurd reason, she had to stifle the urge to beg him to abscond with her now. What was getting into her? She had worked far too hard to get to where she was, to build her reputation as Rose Beaumont. To become an actress who was not only esteemed but in demand. To free herself from the chains of her past. To escape her brother. To make a new life for herself.
She was the phoenix, rising from the ashes. She was the Rose of New York, and she must not allow herself to lose sight of that. Not for the handsome duke at her side. Not for anyone.
“You would find it difficult indeed to abscond with a woman who is unwilling,” she told him then. “I would beat down the walls of the carriage. Holler from the window for everyone to hear.”
His lips twitched with mirth. “Somehow, I do not believe you would be that unwilling, Rose. But I will not test you today. Today, I merely want to feed you.”
The warmth in his regard and in his tone settled deep inside her. “I did not expect to find you here today.”
“If I had warned you, you would have been prepared with your arsenal of weapons. You would have told meno, I have no doubt.” He paused and raised a brow at her, maddeningly handsome. “I could not risk you denying me. However, I had a strong suspicion that if I arrived when you were hungry, my chances of your acquiescence would be exponentially increased.”
She could not suppress her laughter at his admission. “Quite sly of you, Your Grace. I would applaud your cunning, but I have a feeling that would only encourage you.”
“Come now,” he said softly, “you must give me a fair chance to win the wager. How can I win it if I do not see you?”
“Perhaps I should go into hiding,” she suggested thoughtfully. “I could tell Mr. Saville I am dreadfully ill for the next few days. Leave for Paris early.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “And leave me here nursing a wounded heart?”
She sent him a sidelong glance. “I hardly think your heart would be wounded. You have known me a scant handful of days.”
“Long enough to know I admire you greatly.”
She tried to steel herself against the delicious rumble of his baritone. But how could she not feel those words in her core? How could they not affect her, especially when coming from this elegant, beautiful man?
She flushed and looked away, turning her attention to the window and the passing panorama of the London cityscape instead. If she looked at him for one moment more, she was going to give in to temptation, she was sure of it. And she could not do that. Must not do that.
“How can you admire me when you do not know me?” she asked against her better judgment. “You admire the idea of me, Your Grace. The notion of the Rose of New York on your arm. In your bed. Do not think you are the first, and nor shall you be the last.”
“Rose.”
There was a note of urgency in his voice, but she kept her gaze averted. For if she looked at him, met his gaze, listened to any more of his silver-tongued words, she was not sure she could trust herself to remain impervious. She had believed she possessed a hardened heart, but he was fast proving her wrong.
“Rose, look at me.”
Still, she did not look.
“Please.”
In the end, it was the beseeching tone in his voice as much as the entreaty that chipped away at her resistance. She glanced back toward him once more. A mistake.
