The Duke and the Lady in Red (12 page)

He knotted a fist around the strands. “Glorious, glorious,” he murmured as he rained kisses over her face before returning his mouth to hers. Within her, he ignited flames that began at the tips of her toes and rose ever upward.

Running her hands over his shoulders, his chest, she relished the feel of his muscles bunching with his movements. She wondered if she made him feel as hot, as tormented, as desperate for more. She was a fool not to return the money, to have bargained with this devil, but he'd given her a flavor of what he could deliver. She thought she might be more of a fool not to welcome the opportunity to share his bed. She was already ruined. She had nothing else to lose.

Slipping her hands beneath his lapels, she ran them up and over, striving to remove his jacket. He reared back, quickly worked himself free of the offending garment, tossing it across to the other bench. With nimble fingers, she unknotted his cravat, unwound the neck cloth, and cast it aside. Without thought or permission, she buried her face against his neck, inhaled the rich aroma that was he. She kissed, nibbled, suckled the soft skin.

He moaned, low and deep. His fingers tightened on her.

“I have long wanted to do this,” she whispered, her voice raspy with her heightened awareness of him. “I've been rather envious of your neck cloth.”

His dark chuckle echoed between them. “Do not dare deny yourself any aspect of me.”

Once again he claimed her mouth, and the sensations swirled through her. She should be afraid by the storm of passion brewing between them, but she seemed capable only of standing in the midst of it and letting it have its way. It had been building between them from the moment she felt his gaze on her that first night, from the first word, the first assessing glance, the first touch. The accumulation of every encounter since had led to this journey within his conveyance, a journey over road, a journey into pleasure.

The coach jolted to a stop. Avendale was out the door in a flash. She made to follow him, and suddenly found herself in his arms, his long legs carrying him toward his grand manor. She'd thought it magnificent before, but the purpose of her visit had her paying little attention to details. Now his mouth on hers served as the distraction.

She was vaguely aware of them passing through the entryway door, the echo of his booted feet on marble before they were ascending stairs. He carried her with ease as though she weighed no more than a willow leaf. Clutching his shoulder with one hand, scraping the fingers of the other over his scalp, through his thick hair, she knew she had never felt so protected, so safe.

Odd when she knew where they were headed, where this encounter would end. She thought she should be trembling with trepidation; instead she was quivering with anticipation.

Marching into a bedchamber—­no doubt his bedchamber—­he kicked the door closed behind them. Dragging his mouth from hers, he tossed her onto the massive four-­poster bed. She landed across it with a soft bounce. Grabbing her bodice, he ripped it asunder, buttons popping off, some clattering to the floor. She tried to do the same with his waistcoat, but she hadn't the strength and had to resort to attempting to unbutton it even as her hands wandered wildly over his chest, his taut stomach.

With a dark bark of laughter, he tore off his waistcoat, flung it aside. His shirt went next and her hands were skimming over the marvelous warm expanse of his chest.

He spread the parted material of her bodice wide, buried his face between her breasts. “You are so beautiful,” he rasped as he stroked and kneaded with fingers, with tongue. He left a trail of tiny bites up along her throat until he was once again in possession of her mouth.

There was a wildness to their actions, a desperation. She could not get enough of touching him, thought she would never get enough of it.

“We'll go slower next time,” he growled, as his heated mouth trailed along her throat.

Suddenly her skirt and petticoats were pooled at her waist, his fingers were slipping through the opening in her drawers.

His breath was hot against her ear. “God, you're wet, so damned wet. So remarkably hot.”

Straightening a fraction, he hastily unfastened his breeches. She barely caught sight of what he'd set free, had less than a second to wonder if she should be afraid before he thrust inside her.

She fought back the cry of pain, but a portion of it escaped in a whimper.

“Goddamn you,” he ground out through clenched teeth as his head reared back, his body bucked, and he emitted a low groan that reverberated from deep within his chest. Then he went still, so profoundly still, only his harsh breathing echoing between them.

She looked up into eyes filled with molten fury.

“You said you were a widow,” he fairly snarled.

“I lied.”

 

Chapter 9

W
ithout another word, he left her. Sprawled on the bed in a heap of sticky, blood-­spotted skirts, the room echoing with the crash of the door slamming in his wake. She was surprised it remained hinged.

The burn of tears hurt worse than the burning between her thighs. She'd never felt so alone, so abandoned, so hopeless.

Struggling, she sat up and tried to secure her bodice with the few buttons remaining. Was he done with her? Was she supposed to stay now? Did her virginity alter the deal?

Surely not. She wouldn't stand for his reneging on their agreement. The money was hers, even if he never wanted to see her again. Why had he been so mad about it, like she'd done something awful? She'd thought he'd be pleased to know that no other man had ever come before him. Wasn't that what men wanted? What they valued? Virtue?

Noises echoed on the other side of a wall that contained a door. Was that another bedchamber? Was he in there, washing off her blood? Where was she to wash up?

Sliding off the bed, she grimaced at the slight discomfort. With her shoes still on, she tiptoed to the washbasin, not certain why she didn't want him to know that she was moving about.

No water. God, she needed water. She felt so unclean. The tears threatened again, and she forced them back. She would not weep for the loss of what he had so callously taken, for what she had freely given.

A soft rap sounded on a door leading to the other room. It slowly opened, and a young girl with a mobcap covering her brown hair smiled tentatively at Rose. “We've prepared you a bath, miss.”

“Oh.” She needed to say more than that. “Thank you.”

Cautiously she walked into the tiled bathing chamber. It had an immense copper tub in which she could practically go swimming.

“I'm Edith,” the young maid said, obviously striving not to be disconcerted by the sight of Rose's torn bodice or missing buttons. “Are you hurt?”

“No. He didn't force me if that's what you're thinking.”

Relief washed over Edith's features. “I know it's not his way, but he seemed rather upset. He was barking orders—­ Apologies. I've spoken what I shouldn't.” She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders. “I shall begin anew. It will be my pleasure to assist you. A footman is bringing up your things now. I'll put them away while you soak in the tub for a bit.”

So it appeared she was staying. “Thank you,” she said again.

With Edith's help, she managed to get out of her clothing without incident and climbed into the tub, welcoming the warm water seeping in around her as she sank down. Edith put a small pillow beneath Rose's head.

“There now, you just rest for a bit,” Edith said quietly, as though Rose were on her deathbed. “I'll be back to wash you once I've seen to your things.”

Rose wondered what Avendale had told the maid to make her so solicitous. She took a deep breath, exhaled, sinking more deeply into the water. Taking a moment, she made note of the gold fixtures that were part of the tub and a nearby sink. He had plumbing up here. That must have cost him a pretty penny.

Closing her eyes, she allowed the lapping water to soothe her. It was so quiet, almost unnaturally calm within the residence. She heard movement in her bedchamber, no doubt her trunk being delivered, Edith putting her things away.

But where was Avendale?

She wanted him. She wanted him to take her in his arms, hold her near, comfort her—­

With a moan, she buried her face in her hands. That was stupid. From the moment she'd run away from home, she'd relied on no one except herself. Her cunning, her plotting, her determination. She was strong. She didn't need Avendale.

But she
wanted
him. Somehow that seemed so much worse than needing him. It gave him control.

A soft rap.

They had an arrangement. It wasn't based on love, caring, or affection. It was pure lust, some animalistic attraction that had them clawing at each other whenever they got close. It was madness. She had to recognize it for what it was and keep her heart from becoming involved.

Another soft rap.

“Yes?” she called out this time.

The door opened. “Are you ready for me, miss?” Edith asked gently as though she expected Rose to shatter.

It irritated her that Avendale had thought she needed to be mollycoddled, just because he'd taken her maidenhead. Blast him. She wasn't weak.

“Yes,” she answered with a bit more firmness in her voice. As she sat up, the pillow plopped into the water.

Edith retrieved it, before she began washing Rose's hair.

It wasn't long before Rose found herself in her nightdress, sitting on a sofa before a low fire, her hair braided. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised by Edith's expertise at assisting her. She had no doubt that Avendale entertained lots of ladies here. She thought about inquiring but she was in no mood to have confirmed that she was one of many. Perhaps it was because of what she'd given up tonight that she wanted to feel special. Even though she knew she wasn't.

Yet one more soft rap on the door.

Merrick and Sally never knocked so softly. It was almost as though this residence was in mourning. Suddenly she wished she were back with those she cared for.

Edith set a tray with covered dishes on a low table in front of her. “Your dinner, miss.”

“Where is the duke?”

Straightening, Edith interlaced her fingers tightly together. “In the library.”

Rose got to her feet. “I should like to see him.”

Edith paled. “I'm sorry, miss, but no one is allowed to disturb him when he's locked himself away.”

Blinking, Rose stared at her. Surely she'd not heard properly. “He locked himself in?”

“Yes, miss. He does that on occasion when he's in an ill temper.”

Rose had never heard the like. “Take me to the library.”

“Oh no, miss. I was told to see to your comfort. To have you fed and put to bed.”

“Put to bed?” Rose laughed. “I'm not a child to be put to bed. I go when I damned well please.”

Edith's eyes nearly popped right out of her head. Rose assumed it was because she'd never heard a lady utter profanity. “If you won't take me to the library, I shall find it on my own.”

She headed for the door. The patter of footsteps echoed through the room as Edith beat her to the door and opened it for her.

“I'll take you,” Edith said, “but His Grace is not going to like it one bit.”

Rose cared not one whit what he liked.

B
rooding, Avendale sat in a chair in front of a low fire in the hearth and took another long swallow of scotch. For all his sins, he had never harmed a woman, never caused one pain.

Until tonight. Until Rose.

Why the bloody hell hadn't she stopped him, or at least slowed him down?

He didn't understand this obsession, this need to possess her that coursed through him. Never before in his life had he thought,
If I don't have this woman now, I shall die
.

In her presence he lost all reason. How else to explain his giving her five thousand pounds instead of having her arrested for swindling him? She had swindled him further. Not a widow, but a virtuous woman.

His dark laughter echoed around him. No, not virtuous. She might have never had a man between her legs but she was not virtuous. He didn't know what she was. Who was Rose Sharpe?

What did he know about her really? That she could bring his cock to attention so swiftly that he went dizzy. But other than that—­

A loud knock sounded. “Avendale, open the door.”

Bloody hell, what was she doing here?

“Go to bed, Rose.”

“I've sent someone to fetch the housekeeper with the key. You might as well let me in.”

He was master here, not her. And his servants understood not to intrude when he was in a dark mood. He'd seen his father in enough of them to know that they were not something he wanted others to witness. His staff was fully aware that if they unlocked that door, someone would lose his or her posi—­

Click. Rattle. Creak.

Rose stepped through the open door and closed it behind her.

What the devil? Had the entire world gone mad or just his world?

He came to his feet and stormed to the sideboard. “You do not want to be in here.”

“I quite disagree,” she said calmly. “If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be.”

Splashing scotch into his glass, he ground out, “You really need to leave before I do something that we shall both regret.”

“May I have one of those?” she asked.

Jerking his head to the side, he wondered when she had approached. Could she not see his temper flaring?

Looking into her blue eyes, he felt his fury dimming—­

“I could truly use it,” she said.

—­sputtering . . . dying out. Gone.

He handed her his glass, reached for another. “While you're here, I expect you to do as I command.”

“I daresay that you're in for a time of it then as I have no intention of becoming your slave.” When his glass was full, she tapped hers to it. “To an evening of surprises.” Taking a sip, she nodded in approval. “Very nice.”

Then she wandered to the sitting area by the fire and sat in
his
chair.

He walked over. “I was sitting there.”

With a gamine smile, she peered up at him. “Yes, I know. I can still feel the warmth from your body. It's quite lovely.”

She brought her legs up, tucked them beneath her. Any other woman would have scrambled to the other chair. But then she wasn't any other woman. He'd known it the moment he set eyes on her.

Dropping into the opposite chair, he stretched out his legs, took a sip of his scotch, and studied her. Her braided hair draping over one shoulder, she wore a plain muslin nightdress. Tomorrow he would purchase her something in satin and silk. What was the point? Two seconds after she donned it, he would have it off. It irritated him that he wanted her again with a fierceness that nearly unmanned him.

“So your being a widow,” he began, “it was all part of the ruse?”

“Yes.”

“There is no estate to settle?”

“No.”

“But you had Beckwith jumping through hoops like a well-­trained dog.”

“Quite so. However he is becoming suspicious, close to figuring out that I sent him on a wild-­goose chase. That I had no husband, had no inheritance, had never been to India. Never so much as set foot out of England, to be honest. Therefore it was time to move on, a bit sooner than I would have liked, but necessary.”

“Why didn't you tell me about your untouched state?” he asked quietly. “You had ample opportunity in the coach.”

“Not really, not once your mouth landed on mine. All reasonable thought seems to scatter when you touch me. Besides, I didn't think it would matter.”

“I tore into you like a battering ram trying to breach the walls of a castle.”

“You weren't quite that uncivilized, and it wasn't that bad.”

“You cried out.”

“I'd have not expected you to be upset that you hurt me.”

“This game we've been playing . . . I thought you were more experienced, that you understood—­”

“I did understand. Lack of experience does not make one ignorant.”

“But lack of knowledge made me so. Had I known—­”

“What would you have done differently?” she demanded with a raised eyebrow.

“I intend to show you when I'm no longer angry with you.”

She gave him a slow, sensual smile, and the last remnants of anger he'd been harboring melted away. Damnation, he was going to show her before dawn.

“Who are you, Rosalind Sharpe?”

“I am the woman who will warm your bed for a week. Then I shall move on.”

His gut clenched with the thought of her leaving. “That easily?” he asked.

“Neither of us is looking for anything permanent.”

She had the right of it there. He would grow tired of her soon enough, and she definitely wasn't the sort he'd take to wife. He needed a respectable woman who could cloak him in her virtuousness.

“I don't think I've ever met anyone as forthright—­” He stopped, shook his head. “You speak in a forthright manner, but I fear you are full of deceptions.”

“My desire for you is not false.”

This time the tightening in his gut nearly doubled him over. “How have you remained untouched?”

“I never before met anyone with whom I wished to be so intimate. You could have gotten me for half the amount.”

He laughed. “I like you, Rose. Damned if I don't.”

“I like you as well, Your Grace.”

“Not so well if you had no compunction about swindling me.”

Lifting a shoulder, she peered at him over the rim of her glass. “As I said, I had creditors breathing down my neck. I was a bit desperate, and you did confess that money meant nothing at all to you.”

“I was foolish enough to say that, wasn't I?”

She glanced around. “When you have so much it's easy to forget there are those who have so little.”

He would not feel guilty for all that he possessed. In spite of his errant life, he had managed his estates well, ensuring they were profitable. “I make considerable contributions to charity.”

She gave him an impish grin. “Is that the name of a harlot you frequent?”

He barked out his laughter. He'd never known a woman so open about matters of which ladies never spoke. “You are a contradiction. Until an hour ago, you were a virgin, and yet you have no compunction about spewing bawdy talk.”

“I've led a singular life, which I will not discuss. I've been on my own since I was ten and seven, no chaperone to ensure I remain pure in thought and ignorant of all that transpires between men and women.”