His sculpted lips twisted. “Life is dark, my dear. After all the tragedies you have acted in, surely you know it just as well as I.”
Oh, she did. But no drama could compare to the tragedy she lived.
“Of course,” she agreed simply, drinking more of her brandy, for nothing could induce her to put the unspeakable pain of her past into words.
Especially not to a man she had just met this evening.
A man who was her social superior.
A man who wanted her in his bed just like all the others before him had.
He was no different, she told herself. She had far weightier matters to concern her.
“But I am willing to divert myself from it,” he said then, “with the proper inducement.”
His gaze settled upon her mouth.
She felt the effect of that bold stare all through her traitorous body. “I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere, Your Grace. My stay in London will be a short one, and I have no interest in dalliance.”
He finished his brandy, cradling the snifter in his long fingers as he watched her, assessing. “You were correct, you know.”
She frowned at him, trying to follow the direction of his conversation and failing. “I beg your pardon?”
“I do want you, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he said, as calmly as if they were speaking of the weather.
With a nonchalance that struck her, chipping at her veneer. Once more, she was Johanna, just for a flash, before the indomitable Rose returned.
Her chin went up. “Of course you do. But that does not mean you shall have me.”
But his admission shook her, all the same. Part of her longed to accept the promise of pleasure he offered.
“Would you care to make a wager?” he asked.
“No.” She finished her brandy as well, but it did nothing to calm her wildly racing heart. “I would not.”
He moved toward her again, and this time, a small smile curved his lips.
She liked that smile.
She wanted more of it.
“Five thousand pounds says I will have you in my bed within the next sennight,” he said.
She would deny him. Tell him no, quite firmly. Leave the red salon and the Duke of Winchelsea behind.
But the wickedness inside her was clamoring to life.
“I accept your wager,” said her foolish, foolish lips.
She did not think she imagined the flash of triumph over his handsome features. But all too quickly, it was gone, leaving her wondering.
He bowed before her. “Until we meet again, Mademoiselle Beaumont. Tomorrow is day one.”
Chapter Two
Of all themutton-headed things he could have done, making a bet about bedding her was surely the worst. That had been Felix’s first thought when he had risen earlier this morning, and it had continued to dog him with the persistence of a canine who wanted his dinner in all the hours since.
It plagued him now, as he was seated in his study with Verity across from him, her sweet little round face so much a precise replica of Hattie’s that looking upon her never failed to make the old ache rise in his chest. An ache of four-and-a-half years and counting.
