Johanna forced herself to remember who she was, the sought-after Rose of New York. Her pictures were produced by the thousands. Every man who saw her wanted her. None of them could have her.
She faced him, stealing herself against the potent magnetism he exuded. “If you think to make me your lover, Your Grace, I must disabuse you of such fancy.”
“You are jaded, Mademoiselle,” he observed mildly. “I have yet to make my intentions clear.”
She inclined her head. “You need not have; they are transparent enough. I have been an actress for many years. This is not the first time I have been propositioned. Nor, I suspect, will it be the last. And yet, my answer will always remain the same.”
A small smile flirted with his sensual lips. He was seemingly unconcerned by her assertion. “Would you care for some brandy, Mademoiselle Beaumont?”
He strode past her to a sideboard she had not noticed. It was clear he was familiar with Mr. Saville’s home. She wondered if he made a habit of wooing actresses here, and then she wondered why the thought made her stomach tighten. Why the thought of him with another should nettle.
He was nothing to her. A stranger. Why, she would likely never see him again after tonight. Besides, she had matters of far greater import to concern her. She could not afford to become involved with any man, let alone a handsome nobleman who would never accept her as his equal.
But he was awaiting her response now, watching her with a hooded gaze she felt like a caress. Wondering if she wanted brandy.
“Yes, please,” she said, watching as he poured equal measures into two snifters.
Perhaps some spirits would calm her. Or at the very least cure her of this strange affliction. This affinity for a self-assured duke she should not want. She had promised herself long ago she would no longer make foolish mistakes.
London was her chance to be free of the chains of New York City. She had left all the ghosts, all the pain, behind. And she could not give in to the charms of a handsome duke who had never known a speck of the suffering she had weathered in her life.
He sauntered back to her, holding out an offering. “Truce, Mademoiselle. I believe we began in rather the wrong fashion, and I seek to make amends.”
She accepted the snifter, their fingers brushing as she did so. An arrow of pure need shot straight through her with such ferocity, she bobbled the glass. Some of the liquid spilled over the lip, onto her hand and his.
Heat flared to her cheeks, a seeming impossibility for a woman who had not flushed unless it was on command for years. “Forgive me my clumsiness, Your Grace.”
Her fine gloves were stained, as were his.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said mildly, removing the snifter from her hand. “Allow me to assist.”
She watched helplessly as he placed both their glasses upon a table, then removed his gloves. The sight of his hands, large and long-fingered, elegant, dusted with a fine smattering of hairs, should not affect her. She had seen men’s hands before. Had been touched by them on stage almost every night. Men’s hands were nothing new. Nothing unfamiliar.
Why this man’s hands made longing flare to life deep within her, she could not say.
“That is hardly necessary,” she protested. “My gloves will dry.”
“Nonsense.” He withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief and took her hand, deftly plucking away her glove.
She thought she had been moved before, but the touch of his bare skin upon hers was a revelation. Desire simmered to life. Her nipples puckered beneath the stiff constraint of her corset. She inhaled against a rush of sensation she did not want.
But through the maelstrom assaulting her, he remained calm and firm, dabbing at her fingers with the silken square of fabric. Quite as though he were accustomed to tending to others. Which was silly, for she was sure he could not be.
He was a duke. He must have a legion of servants at his command.
And yet he was fretting over the ruined silk of her gloves, the liquid coating her fingers. His head was bowed, his handsome face a study in concentration as he applied himself to his ministrations.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, irritated by the breathless tone of her voice.
Completely unfeigned.
She needed to calm herself. To keep her mask firmly in place.
“I am afraid I owe you a pair of gloves,” he said, holding her hand in his as he glanced up.
His verdant eyes were the precise color of spring grass. They trapped her for a heady moment.
“You owe me nothing,” she denied, not about to accept a gift from him or from any other man. “I am certain the stain can be removed. But if I should require a replacement, I possess more than enough coin.”
