Chapter Two
Of all the mutton-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.
“Do you not think so, Papa?” she asked suddenly.
Her voice, too, was another source of sadness, for it was undeniably a sweeter, smaller rendition of Hattie’s. So many pieces of his wife remained, long after she was gone, each one a painful gift.
Christ. He pressed his fingers into his throbbing temples and realized he had not been listening to a word his daughter had spoken for the last half hour. What the devil was the matter with him?
“Of course I think so, poppet,” he told her.
“I am relieved you think reading is a waste of my day as well,” she said, grinning at him impishly. “Shall you tell Simmonds my time should be devoted to something far more suiting, like going to the aquarium or the waxworks instead, or shall I?”
He frowned, for he should have known better than to agree with anything his daughter said. “Verity, you know very well I will do nothing of the sort. Reading is important for a young lady these days. Your mother would have wanted you to study it vigorously and broaden your mind.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Again.
He could afford to lose far more than the five thousand pounds in a wager, but he could not afford to go about things the wrong way with his daughter. He was dreadful at communicating with the fairer sex, and that much was apparent.
Verity’s chin tipped up. “But my mother is not here, Papa.”
“No,” he acknowledged on a sigh. “She is not.”
Most days, he buried himself so deeply in his daily obligations—Home Office, Special League, Verity, estates, Markham’s, his other business interests, and the list went on—he scarcely had the time to reflect upon the gaping absence of Hattie in his and Verity’s lives. The years since he had lost her had taught him distraction was a blessing, though not a panacea.
“You still speak of her as if she is,” Verity accused.
Did he? He stopped attempting to assuage the ache in his temples, surrendering to the headache which would eventually consume him, and raked a hand through his hair. He did not think so.
“I speak of what she would have wanted for you,” he corrected gently, “because she loved you desperately, poppet. I do not want either of us to forget her.”
“I never knew her,” Verity countered, a stubborn edge entering her voice.
She was older than her five years. Perhaps the fault was his. Perhaps being motherless was the culprit. Regardless of the cause, his daughter had been growing markedly more stubborn of late.
“You did know her,” he argued. “She held you in her arms when you were a babe. You know her now. When you look in the glass, you can see her face reflected back at you. When you speak, it is her voice. Deep inside your heart, her love lives on.”
But oh, how hollow and empty his words sounded as he spoke them. Hattie’s death would forever haunt Felix and Verity both. He suspected he would never think of her without the inevitable sensation in his gut, rather like a dagger twisting, to think she was forever lost to him.
Why her, he had cried out to a God who had seemingly forsaken him in the dark days following Hattie’s death. Why not me?
He still did not have his answer. The meaning of some pains in life, he had discovered, were not to be found.
“I love you, Papa,” Verity told him. “All I have to remember my mother is her pictures.”
“And her gloves,” he reminded his daughter. “Her locket. Her hair.”
“Things,” his daughter sneered. “I do not want them from a mother I cannot recall.”
The throbbing in his temples reached a dramatic crescendo. “You are not permitted to speak of your mother with such disrespect, my lady,” he warned.
“I do not want to read,” she said then, pouting. “You cannot make me. Simmonds cannot make me.”
He wondered if her aversion to reading stemmed from the fact that her mother had loved it and would have wanted more than anything for her daughter to be well-read, or if she was truly struggling with learning it. He pressed his fingers into his temples again, desperate for relief. “I can and will, and so does Simmonds. You must take your studies seriously, Verity. Your mother—”
“Would have wished it,” she interrupted.
Her green eyes, so like his, stared at him with unrelenting defiance. She was, at once, the most adorable and beloved creature he had ever beheld, but also the fiercest. Perhaps she was right, and perhaps he did rely too much upon Hattie.
“You may have the rest of the afternoon to do as you wish,” he allowed. “I will inform Simmonds.”
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 she ought 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 saw him, 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. Why are 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 s
ince 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 like me then, 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.
“I need to change from my costume, Your Grace,” she told him. “I have not the time to get acquainted, for I am weary after my performance.”
“Of course.” He was still watching her with that green cat’s gaze, moving the gloves slowly over his palm, the action unbearably erotic.
She imagined him trailing those wisps of satin over her naked flesh. Over her nipples. And beneath her corset, the peaks of her breasts pebbled and ached. If his eyes were cat’s eyes, she was the mouse. Somehow, she did not think she would mind if this big, powerful man played with her.
The acknowledgment filled her with a renewed sense of purpose. She must get him to go. To leave this space. To leave her in peace. Too much was at stake for her, and she could not risk more ruinous complications.
“If you will excuse me, the hour grows late, and I must remove all traces of Miranda,” she prodded, irritated at herself for the breathiness of her voice, a perpetual problem in his presence.
“I can assist,” he offered, the intensity of his regard making a jolt go straight through her.
“I have someone who aids me,” she forced herself to say, wondering, quite belatedly, where Jenny was. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I must decline.”
“Ah,” he said slowly, drawing out the word, as if he had just reached a tremendous realization. “You do not trust yourself in my presence. I should have realized. Forgive me.”
Her lips tightened. Precisely what was he suggesting? She was not so weak she was unable to succumb to his handsome, ducal face. “You have it wrong, Your Grace. It is you whom I do not trust.”
Removing Miranda’s dress was not terribly difficult—tapes in the back, to facilitate removal between scenes. And like most theater garb, it had been repurposed at least a dozen times by a seamstress with a deft hand, which meant it was loose and free-flowing. Beneath it, she wore her corset, chemise, drawers, and a petticoat.
She had been seen wearing far less by dozens of others. In her early days of theater, before she had built the clout she now possessed, before she had been The Rose of New York, she had been forced into innumerable situations in-between scenes which had necessitated a lack of inhibition.
“I assure you, I am perfectly capable of offering you aid without ravishing you,” he told her then, a smile working at his lips.
His mouth was beautifully sculpted, she noted, the lower lip full and lush. The bow firm and quite masculine. A delightful dichotomy. She liked that small smile of his. The urge to see it deepen, to watch it bloom, hit her with sudden force. Along with the desire to be the reason for it.
She dashed such ridiculous notions away, for they would only hinder her purpose.
“Nevertheless, I must insist you go now,” she told him, pleased with how firm her voice sounded.
“Very well, Mademoiselle Beaumont.” He offered her the most elegant bow she had ever received. “I shall tell Mr. Saville to find your woman. Forgive me for mistaking your boldness for daring.”
Johanna stiffened. She prided herself upon her daring, her mettle, her consequence. These few, precious traits, aside from her ability to become whomever she wished, whenever she wanted, were her only sources of vanity. Indeed, they were all she had left. And she was grasping them with both hands in a life that had left her with precious little beyond the belongings she had packed into a trunk and two valises back in New York.
“Wait,” she ordered him when he made to leave.
He stopped, his expression questioning. “Mademoiselle?”
“You may assist me.” The capitulation left her before she could think better of it.
Her vanity was speaking for her, but her vanity was not what she fretted over. All the rest of her was. The dangerous tasks before her were. It would be best, she knew, to keep herself from everyone. She had no wish to embroil anyone else in her misery.
“Splendid.” He moved swiftly back to her, tucking the gloves inside his coat before eying her sternly. “Turn.”
His terse directive took her by surprise. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at him, drowning in his fathomless gaze. “Turn?”
“Turn,” he repeated. “Your tapes are at the back, are they not?”
“Yes,” she agreed, swallowing against a rush of unwanted sensation this abrupt suggestion of intimacy brought with it. “They are.”
And then some small part of her wondered, once more, how and why he knew so much about an actress’s costume. She was almost certainly not the first, though why the thought should disturb her so, she could not say.
“Then aid me in aiding you, if you please,” he said, his voice low.
She felt the gruff timbre of his voice in every part of her. Every instinct she possessed warned her to flee. To run. To never let this dangerously handsome duke with a voice of sin assist her in disrobing.
But her pride was stronger than her common sense. Perhaps it always had been. And so, she turned, presenting him with her back. “How is this, Your Grace?”
“Excellent.” He stood so near, the heat of his breath fanned her nape.
A shiver went through her that only deepened when his
fingers brushed against her skin. She could not be certain if it was her imagination or if he lingered there. But it seemed an eternity passed between the first brush of his fingertips on her flesh and the subsequent gaping of the back of her gown.
As each tape came undone, it loosened more and more until he was drawing her dress over her shoulders. And here, thank heavens, her chemise kept his bare hand from her weak flesh. He peeled the twain ends of her costume down her body until it pooled about her feet.
And then, his hands settled upon her waist, spinning her about so she faced him.
“Your slippers,” he said.
She was acutely aware of her state, clad in only her undergarments before him, her every curve on display. The corset she had worn to fit into Miranda’s gown had been laced tighter than she ordinarily preferred. So much so that her bosom was pressed high, crowding over the edge, spilling over the décolletage of her chemise.
And he was speaking to her of slippers. For a wild beat, she could not fathom why.
“I beg Your Grace’s pardon,” she managed, gratified her voice did not sound entirely dazzled and breathless.
For this was dangerous territory she had entered indeed.
“Your slippers,” he said again. “I assume you are exchanging them for something sturdier in the streets, yes? It was raining quite a torrent when I arrived, and I should think these little scraps would be of little use to you in a deluge.”
Of course. The slippers she had worn on stage were thin and unsuitable for wearing out of doors. They were excellent for gliding across a stage. But hardly acceptable for a grim, rainy London evening.
Then, something else occurred to her. He had been concerned about her welfare. He had thought about her comfort. She could not recall when anyone else ever had. But she ruthlessly squelched the small flare of appreciation. He was watching her, awaiting her response.
“Yes, you are right. These slippers are made for the stage and not for the business of traveling about London.” Her cheeks were hot. In fact, her entire body felt flushed. Overheated. She tingled. It was insufferably warm in here. Dressing rooms of theaters had notoriously poor ventilation, after all, and this one, while one of the better she had experienced, was little different.
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