“And if I do want you, Mademoiselle Beaumont?” he dared to ask, allowing his gaze to devour her face. Part of his task would be easy. His desire for her was inexplicable, yet real. “What would you say?”
Those inviting lips curved higher. Her smile was intoxicating. “I would say though you flatter me, you cannot have me.”
Damnation.
He ought to have known getting the Rose of New York to fall into his arms would not be an easy feat. But determination was a river that had run through him all his life, and it had yet to run dry. The evidence suggesting the gorgeous viper before him was privy to a great deal of invaluable information concerning her lover was far too strong to deny.
“You speak with such conviction, my dear lady,” he told her smoothly, playing the part of lover as he knew he must. This mission was too delicate. Too important. “But I am a man who cannot resist a challenge.”
“Some challenges are better resisted,” she returned, and though she denied him, she did not make an effort to put any distance between them.
Felix did not disagree.
“Better for whom?” he wondered.
Her smile faded. There was a world-weariness in her eyes he had not noted before, but he saw it now. “Better for you, of course.”
What could have caused the sadness haunting her husky voice? The strange urge to discover it, to learn her secrets, hit him. Not because of the task ahead of him, but because there was something about her that affected him. He knew better than to allow it. Better than to think of her as a woman.
And yet, he could feel the warmth emanating from her. Though they were in the midst of a ballroom filled with others, it was as if the two of them were alone. Another surge of awareness licked through him, languorous and hot and laden with sensual promise. He had not been this attracted to a woman in as long as he could recall.
Damn it.
He had not expected to want her, not with everything he knew about her and her ties to McKenna. He had believed himself beyond the throes of lust. He was so inundated with his work for the Home Office and Verity, he had not bothered to acquire a new mistress after his last affair had ended. That was the reason for this unwanted desire coursing through him now, he was sure of it.
“I shall be the judge of that, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he said at last. “Perhaps we could find somewhere more private to speak and better acquaint ourselves with each other.”
He was at home in Theo’s house. And as a sybarite, Theo knew the importance of comfortable, private rooms in abundance. There was a red salon just down the hall Felix could put to good use.
And put his plan into action. Because there was one reason he was pursuing Rose Beaumont, and it was not her fair face or form, nor was it the mysteries of her past, and it most certainly was not the hunger she had awakened within him.
He needed to find out everything she knew about Drummond McKenna and use her to sink the bastard’s ship before he could do any more harm to innocents.
Johanna ought tohave denied the duke, and she recognized her mistake the moment he escorted her from the ballroom. Before that, in fact. When she had placed her hand in the crook of his arm. Touching him had been unwise. Because he made her feel the same restless stirrings that had once caused her so much pain.
But that had been years ago, and she was far too world-weary now. Johanna had been known as Rose Beaumont for so many years, the name had become a part of her. It was the role she played best of all. One she was constantly honing. She liked to think of Rose as her shield. A mantle she donned to protect her from everything and everyone she wanted to forget.
The Duke of Winchelsea was shattering that role. Stripping her of the shield. For a brief, mad moment, when he had suggested they retire to another chamber together, she had forgotten to be Rose. She had allowed herself to be Johanna. Her guard had dropped.
He had kind eyes.
A serious countenance.
One had but to look upon him to see he shouldered great responsibility.
But none of that mattered now, for he was dangerous. She had recognized the frank admiration in his gaze, the carnal hunger, the blatant sensuality. She had seen it all before, in the eyes and the countenances of hundreds of men.
She had never, however, been tempted by it with such ease. Nor had she been so thoroughly bound by secrets and lies. The documents and dynamite secreted inside a trunk in her hotel were a burning coal of guilt, searing her from the inside out. She knew what she must do with them, but the knowledge was heavy.
The duke said nothing as he guided them into a low-lit chamber decorated entirely in shades of scarlet. The door closed behind them, drowning out the strains of the orchestra in the ballroom and the gay din of the revelers a few doors down.
She recognized the recklessness of her acquiescence. She never should have agreed to speak to him alone. But the truth was, she was weary after her journey across the Atlantic, followed by days of rehearsals. Weary from worrying over her brother, fearing she could never truly escape him. The ballroom had been an overwhelming swirl of faces and the urge to escape, to find some quiet, had been preeminent.
“Here we are,” he said then, three simple words she felt in her core.
Was it his clipped, patrician accent? The deep rumble of his baritone? His masculine scent of sandalwood and amber? She had been alone with many men, desired by them. Powerful and wealthy men had chased after her, and she had denied them all. Nobility no longer awed her as it once had.
For some reason, being alone with the Duke of Winchelsea left her feeling shy. She released her hold on his arm and stepped away from him.
