The smile Verity gave him was another arrow directly to his heart, because it was Hattie’s too. “Thank you, Papa. I knew you would see reason.”
He passed a hand over his face, feeling overwhelmed. It was no easy task to raise a small child, grieve a wife, and take upon an ever-increasing list of responsibilities from the Home Office. “You are welcome. Now run along, Verity dearest. I have a great deal of work to which I must attend.”
She rose and performed an excellent curtsy. He watched her go, her glossy curls flying behind her as she sailed across his study with far too much enthusiasm for decorum. And then he stalked to his sideboard and poured himself some whisky before settling back into his desk to pore over reports from his American agents who had been tasked with watching New York Fenians.
Inevitably, his mind returned to Rose Beaumont and the daring cut of her red silk dress. In just a few, short hours, he should see her again.
And though it should not, the prospect filled him with anticipation.
Far better than grief, he supposed. The whisky would dull his aching head, and the papers before him would remind him of what he must do and why.
Johanna supposed sheought not to have been surprised to find Winchelsea awaiting her that evening in her dressing room. But somehow, she was. She had just finished another night as Miranda, and the heightened emotions that always roared through her during a performance remained with her as she crossed the threshold and saw him there.
Saville’s theater was new and well-appointed. The audience tonight had been abuzz with anticipation and eagerness. The Rose of New York was taking London as she imagined a conqueror would. Gratification was exactly what she needed, a welcome distraction from the painful course ahead of her. And she felt, in that moment, incredibly powerful.
She felt as if she were capable of anything. As if she astounded even herself.
Until she sawhim, and he sucked all the breath from her lungs. The door snapped closed behind her back, but she remained where she was, staring. Though the room was a fair size compared to most dressing areas in theaters she had experienced over the years, the duke dominated the space, making it—and her—seem hopelessly small.
“Your Grace,” she said. “How did you get in here?”
“Mr. Saville was kind enough to assist me.” The low purr of his voice slid over her senses like fine silk as he prowled forward in a self-assured manner.
He was every bit the duke, exuding an aura of command. As if he could snap his fingers and make all the world do his bidding. Including her.
But she was not the same naïve girl she had once been, and she forced herself to remain stern and unaffected. “Perhaps there is a different question I ought to have asked.Whyare you here?”
With a slight smile, he extracted a pair of gloves from his coat and held them out to her. “If you will recall, I owed you these, and since you were not obliging enough to provide me with your direction, I was left with no choice but to call upon you here.”
She stared at the gloves, refusing to take them although she could see how fine they were. They looked soft, adorned with delicate embroidery. A single rosebud, she realized.
“I already told you the gloves are an unnecessary gift,” she said. “One I cannot accept.”
No matter how beautiful or expensive they were. Winchelsea had made his intentions clear. He wanted her in his bed. And she was determined she would not make herself his conquest. Besides, she could make excellent use of his five thousand pounds in her new life abroad.
“And I told you they are no gift.” His response was smooth, the gloves outstretched between them, dangling from his long, elegant fingers. “Consider these remuneration for the damage I inflicted upon your other pair.”
She pressed her lips together, refusing to be swayed. It did not matter how lovely the gloves were, or that it seemed he had specifically commissioned them for her, with the red rose emblazoned upon them. “I consider them what they are, Your Grace. An attempt to win my favor so you can find yourself in my bed. But I remain firm on both the gloves and the vow I will not take you as a lover.”
“You do not like the gloves?” he asked, dragging the empty fingertips of the glove over the palm of his left hand.
“They are lovely,” she admitted, briefly following the motion of the empty gloves, rather like a caress.
For one wild moment, she wondered what his palms would feel like beneath her own seeking fingers. The hand was such an intimate part of the body, capable of bringing great pleasure. When he had taken hers in his yesterday, she had felt only the suggestion of warmth and strength. What would a more leisurely exploration discover? She supposed a duke’s palm would bear no calluses. Rather, it would likely be softer than hers.
Almost as if he were privy to her thoughts, he stilled. “You do not likemethen, Mademoiselle?”
“I do not know if I like you or not,” she informed him, and that much was true. “I am not acquainted with you well enough to decide.”
That last was a desperate lie. For she already knew part of her liked him far too much. The weakest part of her.
“I can remedy that.” He grinned, slowly. A rakish forelock fell over his brow.
His hair had a curl to it, and he wore it rather long on top, natural and without the heaviness of pomade or hair grease. When he smiled, she could not deny the desire pooling in her belly. Lower still. Between her thighs.
But she had not come to London to fall into a duke’s bed. She had come here to finally free herself from the last ties to her past. To free herself from Drummond and the hold he had over her.
She realized, belatedly, she still wore the grease paint, wig, and gown to remind herself of the latest role she played. One of many.
