He tucked the ruined glove inside his coat, and then he stole her other glove as well, his movements so swift and efficient, she did not realize what he was about until it was too late to stop him. And then both her hands were in his, and he was lifting them to his lips.
His mouth glanced over her flesh so lightly, it may have been the gossamer touch of a butterfly’s wings except for the fire it sparked inside her. “Give me your address, and I will see them sent ’round.”
She swallowed. There was something about revealing where she was staying to the Duke of Winchelsea that seemed intimate. Far too intimate. “There is no need for you to thieve my gloves.”
“I fancy the notion of keeping a little piece of you, Mademoiselle.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze before relinquishing them.
His words and his nearness sent a frisson down her spine. “I am not giving you my direction, sir.”
“A small matter,” he said, sounding unconcerned. “I will discover it with little trouble.”
“I will not accept your gift,” she countered.
“It is not a gift, Mademoiselle Beaumont, but a replacement. An apology for my injudicious spilling of brandy upon you.”
She was the one who had caused the glass to move, and they both knew it. But if she further pursued the matter, perhaps he would probe into the reason why. Her unwanted reaction to him.
A reaction she could neither deny nor shake.
Where was the brandy when she needed it?
“You wished for an audience with me, Your Grace,” she reminded both of them. “What was it you wanted to discuss? The hour grows late.”
Perhaps the crush of the ballroom would have been a better place to remain after all. Mindless distraction was preferable to dangerous distraction.
“Of course.” He retrieved the brandy, offering the snifter to her once more. “How thoughtless of me to keep you here to myself, away from your many admirers.”
He misunderstood her. So much of her life had been spent with eyes upon her—audiences, the public, the men who wanted more from her than she was willing to give, her brother—that following the conclusion of a performance, all she wanted to do was return to the privacy of her hotel. Enjoy a warm bath.
She had only been in attendance this evening because Mr. Saville had required it of her. He was paying her a small fortune, and a handful of social appearances were part of her contract. It was a wise display of the man’s business acumen, for her presence drew much attention to both himself and his theater. And she needed this money and her reputation both in order to make her bid for freedom at the end of her stay in London.
But she said none of that as she accepted the brandy and lifted it to her lips for a bracing sip. “I am afraid Mr. Saville may take note of my absence.”
“Do not fret about Mr. Saville,” he assured her, his watchful gaze studying her. “With performances as masterful as yours, I daresay he will not give a damn what you do or whom you do it with.”
There was a subtle suggestion in his words, an underlying hint of the wicked.
She heard it, and a part of her she had thought long gone resurfaced. The reckless part of her. The part of her that thrived on passion and impetuousness. She took another sip of her brandy, seeking to drown it beneath the alcohol’s impending glow.
“Do you visit the theater often?” she asked Winchelsea, in lieu of the question she truly wished to ask.
Do you make a habit of seducing actresses?
“Whenever I am able,” he said solemnly. “Not nearly as often as I would prefer.”
She had no notion of what might keep a duke busy. She had once been courted by a German prince, but he had been a vainglorious man who occupied all his time with the procuring of new bed partners. He had offered her a veritable king’s ransom for one night with him and her fellow actress Fanny Carlton. She had declined, of course.
But Winchelsea did not seem the sort for such libidinousness.
“Why not?” she asked, the brandy making her bold.
Making her forget she ought to be seeking an end to their dialogue and time alone rather than prolonging it.
He lifted his snifter to her in salute. “Duty, Mademoiselle.”
She had been correct in sensing the weight of responsibility upon him, then. For a man she judged to be in his mid-thirties, he did not possess any of the laugh lines one would expect of a man his age. No grooves bracketing his mouth, but there was evidence of a frown crease on his forehead.
“Duty,” she repeated, wondering what kept him from smiling more. From laughing. “You strike me as a very solemn man. One who would benefit from more lightness in his life.”
