The hunger in his gaze was undeniable.
It filled her with a want all her own, and she knew her need was reflected back at him. She was an actress, yes, but this moment, the connection between the two of them was as compelling and real as it was nettling. She could not always hide herself behind a mask.
“I admire you,” he said. “Just as you are. Not the Rose of New York.You.”
Everything inside her froze at his words, and she knew a sudden, knife-like pang inside her breast that she was deceiving him. After she had taken the stage name Rose Beaumont and invented her French background to lend herself an aura of mystery, she had only ever admitted the truth to one other man. With others, she had never wanted to; the delineation was always there.
The separation had been clear. She had never felt truly drawn to anyone, and after the last time, she had vowed she would never allow herself to lower her guard and feel it again. But for some reason, she almost blurted the truth to him.
My name is Johanna McKenna.
It was there. On her tongue. In her heart.
The carriage stopped.
He gave her a lingering look. “We have arrived at our destination.”
She inhaled, giving him a jerky nod, preserving her secret as she knew she must. Thank heavens they had reached wherever they were headed when they had. But a minute more, and she would have revealed far too much of herself to him. Then she would have been well and truly vulnerable.
“The timing is perfect,” she said brightly, slipping back into Rose Beaumont once more. “I am famished.”
“As am I,” he said, his voice low and gruff.
And she knew he was not speaking about food.
But then, neither was she.
For the secondtime in as many days, Felix was seated opposite Rose Beaumont as they dined together. And this time, no less than the first, he was once more in sensual agony perpetuated by her nearness. They were ensconced at his customary private rooms at the sumptuous hotel on Regent Street he had owned before he had unexpectedly inherited the title and all its burdens from his cousin. He still owned Markham’s, in fact, though he employed others with its daily management and operation and went to great cares to keep his ownership to himself.
She cast him a glance from beneath lowered lashes. “You have not eaten a bite of your luncheon, Your Grace.”
He stared down at hisvol-au-ventandoeufs au bouillon, realizing belatedly she was correct. He had not been hungry. Strike that, hewashungry. But it was not for the damned food, even if the French chef on staff was one of the finest in London. And even if the hunger in question was altogether wrong.
Base and shameful. A violation of everything he held sacred.
He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly as transparent as a window. And as lost as a ship being tossed about on a stormy sea. “I was momentarily distracted,” he said, and this, at least, was true. “Is the fare to your liking, my dear?”
With each moment he spent in her maddening presence, he had to remind himself with an increasing amount of sternness that he was not meant to be enjoying this.
He was performing a duty.
A task.
Rose Beaumont meant nothing to him. She was the enemy. A woman he could not trust. Every American agent he had in New York had reported she was colluding with the Fenians.
Except, those words he had spoken to her earlier in the carriage? They were true. Hedidadmire her talent, her beauty. Somehow, half of him felt what the other half could not bear.Good Christ.This was madness. The woman was connected to one of the worst villains of the century, and she was probably every bit as guilty as he was.
“The fare is delicious,” she said then in her sweet, pleasing tones, and once more, that husky voice wrapped around him like an embrace.
He could not help but to notice a lilt in her words, dancing beneath the French accent. Some hint of another land entirely. Ireland, it seemed, but there was no mention of that in any of the stories of her history which he had read. If it were true, it would certainly make sense.
“I am pleased you enjoy the meal.” He took a bite of thevol-au-vent, the earthy flavor of truffles and the richness of pastry and chicken briefly distracting him.
His chef was fine, damn it. Exceedingly talented. The man had fashioned cookery into an art form. Little wonder the guests of Markham’s were so well-pleased, its recommendation clear in all the best London guidebooks being printed.
“You come here often, do you not?” she asked, eying him curiously. “The staff seem very acquainted with you.”
There was almost an edge to her words, to her query. Jealousy? Though he was certain she felt the spark between them—like electricity coursing through wires whenever they were in each other’s presence—she was McKenna’s mistress. Or she had been recently enough for it to matter.
