Surely that was the reason for her discomfit.
He sank to his knees before she could stay him. And if she had been warm before, she felt as if she were being scorched by the blazing heat of a July sun now. The duke extended a hand, looking up at her with a calmness which irked.
“May I, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
How dare he be so cool and unaffected when he had set off such a riotous tumult within her? She did not think she had ever been so aware of a man before. She was attuned to his every movement. His breaths. The subtle changes in the way he clenched his jaw, the darkness of his pupils which had flared when her costume had first fallen to the floor.
He wanted to help her to remove her slippers. She could have told him she did not need his aid. After years on the stage, she was quite nimble and flexible, and she could manage anything on her own, even in a tight-laced corset.
But the thought of him tending to her, touching her ankles…it held undeniable appeal. “You may,” she allowed.
He grasped her ankle in a delicate but firm touch, his long fingers wrapping around it. “Lift your foot, if you please.”
She obeyed, doing her utmost to maintain her poise. One tremble, one sway, and he would recognize the effect he had upon her. She watched him, his dark head bent, his handsome profile visible to her, and held still as he gently pulled the slipper from her foot.
She let out a sigh when the slipper was gone, for in truth, it had been rather tight across the fleshy top of her foot. The removal after several hours of wearing it brought welcome relief.
He grasped her foot in both hands, kneading the sole. “You spend much time on your feet. They must ache.”
Dear Lord. The duke was massaging her foot, his thumb digging into muscles that had been drawn tight, knowing just where to touch and how. She bit her lip to hold back an appreciative moan threatening to burst forth from her.
“I am accustomed to it,” she said. “There is no need for you to—”
“Hush, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” he interrupted. “There is every need. Those blasted shoes were clearly too tight. I will tell Saville to acquire new ones more suited to your size.”
His concern struck her. Made a queer sensation unfurl. She refused to acknowledge it. “That is quite unnecessary, Your Grace. The slippers are fine. Most theaters require the actors and actresses to provide their own costuming, so I do not dare complain.”
“The Rose of New York deserves painless feet,” he told her, a frown creasing his countenance.
Here was the expression he wore most often, she felt certain, one of concern.
Somehow, that knowledge touched her. Burrowed its way into a crack in her heart and settled in. But she was stronger than her heart. She always had been. And one show of tenderness from a man was not enough to make her tear down the protective walls she had built around herself.
The Rose of New York did not possess feelings off the stage.
“Thank you for your distress on my behalf, Your Grace. But the slippers will do. I have experienced far worse over my tenure as an actress.” She thought of the first role she had ever played, remembering how ill-fitting her gown had been, and unlaundered, smelling of the stale sweat of dozens of players before her.
His thumb found a particularly sensitive place. “Do not be a martyr, Mademoiselle. If Saville will not grant you the slippers, I will buy you some myself.”
This time, she could not suppress the sigh of contentment his ministrations caused. “You must not make a habit of buying things for me, Your Grace. I have already told you, I do not want your gifts.”
He placed her foot back on the floor and moved to the other. “Lift.”
She did as he asked, eager, in spite of herself, for the same treatment. The slippers were tight, and her feet did ache. She had spent a great deal of time walking in the park earlier that afternoon, determined to clear her mind with some fresh air in preparation for her role that night. However, the air had been murky with fog, and she had been unable to shake the thoughts of a handsome duke with whom she had struck a most unwise bet.
The same duke who was now removing her other slipper and giving this aching foot, too, a slow and knowing massage. How good it felt to have a man’s hands upon her. Hands that were gentle and comforting rather than harsh and angry and painful.
Johanna realized then that she must not allow him to continue. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, relinquishing her foot and moving swiftly away from him.
To the opposite end of the small chamber. Which was not far, unfortunately. Only a handful of steps. She took a deep, steadying breath, attempting to garner control over her vacillating emotions. To tamp down the part of her that wanted to give in to the promise of pleasure in this man’s arms, in his bed. To indulge in a respite, however brief, from what she must do.
To forfeit five thousand pounds she could ill afford to lose.
To take him as her lover although she had to hold firm to her decision to remain an island in this vast sea of London. Indeed, in this vast sea of life.
“Where are your boots?” he asked, just over her shoulder.
He had followed her. Of course, he had. Like any predator stalking his prey, he sensed her growing weakness.
She turned about. “I can manage the rest myself, Your Grace.”
When she found Jenny, she was going to give the woman a harangue. If she had been within Johanna’s dressing room as she was meant to be, Johanna would not be alone and at the seductive mercy of the Duke of Winchelsea.
“Of course you can manage,” he said, and still there was that calm in his voice. In his expression. “But that does not mean you must deny me. You were managing with aching feet as well, were you not?”
Oh, how awful of him to make sense.
“Yes, I was,” she acknowledged.
“But now they feel better, yes?” he pressed, remaining where he was, not encroaching upon her any further.
He did not need to, and they both knew it.
“They do.” She paused, her wits scrambled, as she attempted to find the means of convincing him—and herself—that he must go away and not come back. “But I have been suffering through tight shoes, sore feet, and all manner of discomforts and pains my entire life. I am accustomed to it.”
“If a man grows accustomed to the rain, that does not mean he does not also long for the sun,” the duke quipped. “I want to take away all your discomforts and pains.”
“You cannot possibly do that,” she said, and of this she had no doubt. “No one can.”
Because no matter how far she traveled or how much she overcame, the sins of her past were never far from her heels.
“Let me try, Rose.” His low voice was an invitation. To sin. To indulgence. To pleasure.
He had called her Rose. And though it was the name she answered to, for some reason, hearing it in his decadent baritone felt wrong.
“Why?” she asked, though she knew she should not. “Do you make a habit of chasing after actresses?”
“No,” he said simply.
“You are familiar with Mr. Saville,” she pointed out, mistrusting him and his motivations.
“He is my friend.”
“You are proficient at removing costumes.”
A half smile quirked his well-molded lips. “I confess, you are not the first lady I have ever helped to disrobe. You are not shocked by such a revelation, I hope.”
Of course she was not. Everything about this man was masterful. Measured. He knew how to woo a woman. There was seduction in his every gaze, in his deep voice, in his touch.
“Nothing shocks me,” she told him honestly. “I have been an actress for almost half my life. I believe I have seen, heard, or done everything anyone can possibly fathom.”
A muscle tensed in his jaw, his gaze going hooded. “Then one man assisting you in your toilette can hardly be cause for alarm.”
He was right. She stared at him, at a stalemate. If she insisted he go, she was reveal
ing more of herself than she wanted. It would be an admission of how greatly he affected her. How badly the wickedest part of her wanted him and all the unspoken pleasures he promised.
“I am hardly alarmed, Your Grace,” she denied, reminding herself she must be Rose, always, and never Johanna. Rose was bold. Daring. She flashed him Rose’s coquette’s smile. “Continue aiding me if it pleases you. My boots are just over there beside the chair, and my button hook is on the table.”
“It pleases me greatly,” he said, and there, once more, was the intensity in his countenance she could not define.
Could not look away from.
How odd it was to order about an aristocrat. To tell the duke he could fetch her boots, as if he were a lowly servant rather than her social superior in every way. Before she could say anything else, he turned and acted upon her directions, gathering her boots and the button hook before returning to her.
Once more, he sank to his knees. This time, he did not linger over her feet, however, and she had to admit she mourned the lack of attention he paid them. One by one, he slid them into her boots and fastened the buttons.
He stood, his gaze devouring her, lingering over her breasts, which still swelled over her corset, perhaps more so now because of her agitation “Where is your gown?” he asked.
“In the wardrobe,” she said, once more marveling at the strangeness of the moment.
The man.
She felt at once as if she had known him forever, as if she had known him always. An abrupt rush of familiarity swept over her. It was as if she had dreamt this moment, this day when she stood in a London dressing room after performing in The Tempest and a handsome, enigmatic duke played lady’s maid for her.
He turned away from her, crossing to the wardrobe with even, measured strides. And she admired the breadth of his back as he went, the long leanness of his form. He even moved with great command.
When he returned, he drew it over her head. She busied herself with settling the fall of her skirts and drawing on her sleeves before presenting him with her back. He fastened the buttons lining her bodice with effortless ease, as though he had been born to the task.
He reached the last button, his fingers brushing her nape. “Ride with me in the park tomorrow.”
She froze, the combination of his touch and his words almost too much. “I cannot.”
“Why?” His hands settled back on her waist, gently spinning her until she faced him. “Is there another?”
“That is none of your concern,” she told him. “Especially since you will never be my lover.”
The half smile flitting with his lips widened. “I have six days following this one to prove you wrong, Rose.”
She wanted to remain impervious to him, truly she did. But his persistence was battering her already-weakened defenses. “You will need far more than six, Your Grace.”
His smile at last reached his eyes. “I will send a carriage ’round to fetch you for dinner following your performance.”
“I have not agreed to dinner.” She raised a brow at him, trying to ignore the way he held her waist. To forget about how much she liked the feeling of his hands on her.
“You cannot deny me twice in one day,” he countered. “It is against the rules of the game.”
“I was not aware we were playing a game.” Though her tone was wry, she could not deny, at least inwardly, that she found this man and his banter intriguing.
That she wanted more of both. What was wrong with her? A dalliance with him was an impossibility.
“You are correct, Mademoiselle.” His levity faded, those green eyes of his searing into hers. “This is far from a game. But I have never wanted to win anything more.”
Her heart thudded. And though she was fully dressed once more, she felt more vulnerable than she had earlier. More exposed. Because she wanted him, too.
And it terrified her.
“Dinner,” she found herself saying.
What would be the harm? One dinner with a handsome duke. Just one. Nothing more.
He smiled, but this time it did not reach his eyes. “Until then, Mademoiselle.”
Abruptly, he released her, stepping away before offering her a bow. She wondered at the hint of sadness she had seen in his gaze. Any why he had not pressed his advantage. Why he had not at least attempted to kiss her.
But then she told herself she should be grateful he had not. That she did not want his kiss.
“Until then,” she said, feeling the loss of his touch despite her determination to remain aloof and unaffected.
She watched him go, the door closing quietly on his departing back. It was only after he had gone that she discovered the gloves, with their beautifully embroidered roses, laid out on the table. She had not seen him place them there.
Against her better judgment, she slipped them into her reticule, telling herself she would return them to him tomorrow.
Chapter Three
Johanna arrived at a handsome townhouse late the next evening. True to Winchelsea’s word, a sleek black carriage had awaited her at the theater following her performance. Part of her had expected him to be within, but the conveyance had been mercifully empty.
She was not certain how she could withstand such proximity to him. In a confined space. With his handsome face and intense gaze and his deliciously masculine scent.
The ride to her destination had not been long. But she had fretted the entire way.
Wondering what she was doing.
Knowing she should never have accepted Winchelsea’s invitation.
As she descended from the vehicle, she took in her surroundings. The edifice was not nearly as large as she would have expected for a duke. At home in New York City, the mansions of the wealthiest were immense, taking up entire city blocks. More like castles than homes.
The coachman aided her down, and she noted he wore livery. Even the duke’s servants were impeccably dressed. She thanked him and went up the walk, a new bout of nerves assailing her as she lifted the brass knocker bearing a lion’s head and rapped.
An august-looking gentleman—the butler, she supposed—opened the door, greeting her with perfectly polite formality. “Good evening, Mademoiselle Beaumont.”
It was a reminder that she was expected.
But then, of course, she was. She had known that. Still, for some reason, the aide-mémoire nettled just a bit. The duke had been certain of her acquiescence. She allowed the butler to take her wrap, hat, and reticule, the knot inside her drawing up tighter with each passing second. A sense of excitement, along with a matching foreboding, had settled within her.
Accepting this invitation to dinner had been unwise and reckless. She had enough to worry her without adding a lover to the mix. Without adding a man who looked at her in the way Winchelsea did. A powerful man.
An enigmatic man who still remained so much a mystery.
The wall coverings were vibrant, she noted, shades of deep, bold emerald damask. A smattering of pictures adorned the hall in equally bold colors. There was an expensive-looking vase, and the heels of her boots clicked on the marble floor as the butler escorted her to the blue salon, where he informed her His Grace awaited her.
The butler announced her formally before bowing and taking his leave, closing the door behind him. The duke had been pacing the length of the chamber when she entered, and he moved toward her now in slow, purposeful strides.
“Mademoiselle,” he said softly, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. “You are enchanting this evening.”
His elegant beauty struck her in the chest. Her pulse leapt. And the heat of his mouth, even through her gloves—not the embroidered gift he had given her, but her own serviceable pair—sent matching warmth to pool low in her belly.
“Your Grace,” she acknowledged. “Thank you for sending the carriage.”
“I promised I would.” A brief frown creased his forehead. “I would have accompanied the carriage, but I was detained. I hope you will f
orgive me?”
She wondered what had detained him, and realized just how little she knew of this man who was charming her with such ease. “There is nothing to forgive. I was pleased to pass the journey here in silence after another exhausting performance.”
The whirlwind of the stage never failed to amaze and delight her. No matter how many times she claimed the stage and took on a role, she was still in awe. The cast of players, the audience, the lights, the raw emotions a drama required an actress to harness and then bring to life, it was heady stuff. But taxing.
He lowered her hand but did not release it. “You must be quite tired after three performances in a row. It is fortunate you have a day of rest tomorrow evening.”
Yes, she did. And she did not bother to ask him how he had arrived at his information. Though she supposed it was common enough knowledge that her understudy would be playing Miranda in the evening’s play while Johanna only needed to attend morning rehearsal.
“It is,” she agreed, attempting to turn her mind to what she would do with that free time.
Anything to distract her from how handsome the duke looked in his evening finery. Black coat, charcoal waistcoat, with a white shirt beneath and black trousers. With his tousled dark curls, he looked like a gothic hero torn from the pages of a romance.
“Would you care for a glass of wine before we dine?” he asked solicitously, releasing her hand and stepping away from her at last.
She felt at once a great mixture of relief and consternation at the distance he had placed between them. “Wine would be most welcome,” she agreed.
Perhaps it would help to settle the riot within her. Perhaps it would dull the attraction she felt for him, one she could not seem to shake.
He moved to a sideboard and poured two glasses of wine as she watched, wondering what it was about him that made her heart hammer so fast in her breast. She had seen handsome men before. Wealthy men. Powerful men. Heavens, she had been courted by a prince.
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