The Duke and the Lady in Red (14 page)

She whispered his name, then screamed it as a tide of ecstasy enveloped her, carried her under, then lifted her up. She shuddered with a force that threatened to unhinge her bones. “Oh God, oh God.”

Sliding up her body, he took her into his arms and cradled her close, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder, running a hand along the length of her spine. After all he'd given her, how could she find even more pleasure in something so simple, so comforting?

She was lethargic, and had been almost correct about her bones. They had dissolved. She'd never be able to leave this bed. Somehow she managed to drape her hand over his hip. “You should be . . . inside me,” she forced out.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Later.”

“But I want you.”

“I told you: this time was for you. I won't be so unselfish again, so make the most of it. Drift off to sleep in a sated state.” He squeezed her bottom and said in a low voice, “It's the best kind.”

In the coach, she thought she'd experienced the pinnacle of pleasure. She didn't know whether to be pleased or terrified to discover she'd been wrong. Before he was done with her, she thought she might very well die from all the sensations he was so skilled at delivering.

H
is body ached with the need to be buried inside her. He was not in the habit of denying himself what he desired, but then where she was concerned, it seemed all his habits were doomed.

He'd always enjoyed pleasure for pleasure's sake, but with her there was another element that he couldn't quite identify, that he didn't want to examine too closely. Examining her, however, was another matter entirely.

Holding her so near, he was well aware of her languid muscles relaxing even further as she succumbed to the lure of sleep. He did what he should have done earlier, and gingerly unbraided her hair, gently combing his fingers through the long strands without disturbing her. He could still barely fathom that she had marched into his sanctum—­had convinced his housekeeper to unlock the door so she could—­as though it were as much hers as his. With no other woman had he ever felt on such even footing.

He found that aspect to her as tempting as the alabaster skin which he'd revealed when he finally took the time to bare all of her to his appreciative gaze. They were going to have an incredible week together, although he already regretted that it wouldn't be longer.

Her soft breathing stirred the fine hairs on his chest. Her hand on his hip went limp, her fingers twitched. Never before had he noticed so much.

He could have had her for half the amount, could he?

He'd almost confessed that she could have named any price and he'd have paid it.

Moving slowly so as not to disturb her, he reached down, grabbed the covers, and brought them over her. Then as gingerly as possible he eased from the bed, retrieved his silk dressing gown, slipped into it, and walked to a table near the fireplace. After pouring himself a glass of scotch, he sat on the sofa and watched the embers dying on the hearth.

Who was this woman and why was he so obsessed with her? He had a million questions he wanted answered, and he knew she'd answer nary a one. He thought he could be with her for the remainder of his life and still he wouldn't know everything about her.

Why a dwarf? Why a giant? Why London? Why him? Who all had she swindled before? Why had she stepped onto that path?

He considered asking James Swindler of Scotland Yard to make inquiries, to discover what he could about her. The man was skilled at ferreting out information, but that way might lead to her incarceration. Besides, he didn't want another to provide the details of her life. He wanted her to do it.

Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on his thighs, held his glass between two hands, and stared more intently at the smoldering heat. What did it matter who she was?

It mattered.

As nothing else in his life ever had.

She mattered.

He didn't want her to. He didn't want her to provide anything other than surcease. He wanted her to be what every other woman in his life had been: a convenience.

But damnation, she was most assuredly not that.

Tossing back his scotch, he set aside the glass and stood. He was unaccustomed to deciphering relationships. This one would be short and sweet. They'd have no time for delving beneath the surface. Nothing would come of it if they did. She was a criminal, a swindler . . . a woman with secrets.

He had enough secrets of his own.

R
ose awoke to darkness and luxurious warmth, a large body curled around hers, a chest at her back, strong arms holding her near, a hand pressed to the flat of her stomach. He'd undone her hair. It would be a tangled mess in the morning. She didn't care. He made her not care about anything beyond the pleasure he was so skilled at delivering.

Up against her backside, the hard, thick length of him stirred.

She twisted her head back as far as she was able. “Are you awake?” she asked quietly, not wishing to disturb him if he wasn't.

“Mmm. I am now.” The rasp of his voice sent pleasure through her. Everything about him sent pleasure through her. Moving her hair aside, he pressed the heat of his mouth to the nape of her neck. “Are you still sore?”

“No.” It was a small lie, but worth the reward of him rising up and slowly turning her over. He was a silhouette encased in shadows, with only pale light sifting in through the windows, but she was able to follow the outline of him as he lowered his mouth to hers.

He smelled of sleep, of dreams, and she wondered at her fanciful thoughts. Normally she was too pragmatic for such whimsy, but he made her wish for innocence. The lady he eventually took to wife would be. She would be of the nobility, Lady Something-­or-­Other. Never kissed, never touched. She would be innocent to the cruelties of the world, and Avendale would ensure she remained so. He would protect her, and she would cherish him.

Rose was certain his wife would do so, because already she herself was feeling the spark of caring for him as he came to rest between her thighs. He nuzzled her neck. It seemed so wicked in the darkness. But then everything about him was designed for wickedness. This time, she wouldn't allow him to deny her everything, to deny her anything.

Working her hand between them, she felt the steel covered in velvet. She sighed as he groaned. Raising her hips, barely noticing the discomfort, she welcomed him sliding into the depths, stretching her, making her so aware of the fullness of him as he settled in. She pressed her soles to his calves as he slowly eased out, eased back in. Raised on his elbows, his hands cradling her head, he kept most of his weight off her as he continued to plunder her mouth.

Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she wondered if she would ever tire of his attentions. Each time was different, each time brought another aspect of him to her notice. The languidness of their motions made her wonder if perhaps they were both hovering on the twilight edge of sleep, where dreams beckoned.

She feared she might awaken to discover that he was a dream, that all of this was but fantasy.

Except the lovely sensations coursing through her assured her that everything was very much real. He tore his mouth from hers, his breath harsh in the quiet surrounding them. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, scraped her nails along his back. His guttural groan shimmered through her.

The pleasure built and built—­

She cried out as the cataclysm rocked through her. With a feral growl, he threw his head back as he slammed into her, his back arching, his body going still. She could feel the tremors cascading through him. Without separating himself from her, he rolled to his side, bringing her in close, her leg draped over his hip.

Their breathing calmed, but she thought her heart might never cease its pounding.

“You shall be the death of me,” he said.

“But what a lovely way to go.”

“Much better than being a tiger's dinner, I suppose.”

She nipped at his skin with her teeth. He merely released a tired laugh, drew her in more tightly against him, and held her as she drifted off to sleep.

 

Chapter 10

W
hen next Rose awoke, she found Avendale still with her, his hand splayed over her hip as though to keep her there beneath the sheets with him until he was ready to let her go. They'd fallen asleep without closing the draperies so sunlight spilled in through the many windows of a room that was nearly as large as the entire floor that housed bedchambers in her residence. He was facing her, his long dark lashes resting gently on sharply defined cheeks.

Striving not to disturb him, as unobtrusively as possible, she pressed the flat of her hand to the center of his chest, smiled as the hairs there curled around her fingers similar to the way he'd been curled around her for most of the night. She'd not expected him to stay with her, but then there was a good deal about him that she had not expected. A good deal about herself as well.

The gladness that swelled within her because he was still here. The joy frightened her because she knew at the end of her time with him, he would bundle her into the coach without remorse, without any thought of missing her. Yet she already knew that she would miss him dreadfully, that she would have numerous regrets, that there would be an agonizing ache in her chest.

He opened his eyes. The brown depths seemed warmer than she'd ever seen them. A corner of his mouth tipped up slightly. “Hello.”

His voice, rough with sleep, shimmered through her. She swallowed. “Hello.”

He moved his hand over her bottom before gliding it up her back. “Are you hungry?”

If she were a light-­skirt, he would probably expect her to say,
Hungry for you
. She almost said the words anyway, because she was, but they sounded so silly, so unlike her. “A bit, yes.”

“Then we'll have breakfast in bed, shall we?”

She nodded. “That sounds lovely.”

Pressing the flat of his palm to her spine, he brought them closer together until their bodies were nestled together, but they could still look into each other's eyes. “Are you still sore this morning?”

“A little,” she reluctantly admitted.

“Mmm,” he murmured as he leaned in and nuzzled her neck.

She sighed. “Not so very much.”

The barest of laughs escaped, his breath fanned over her neck. “After breakfast then.”

“Why not before?”

His laughter was deeper this time as he leaned back. “Because I want you to recover a bit more so you'll enjoy it to your fullest. I'm not a complete bastard.”

“I enjoyed it very much last night.”

“I was in a haze of sleep when we started, with no strength to resist you.”

“Now you can resist me? Growing bored with me already?”

His mouth formed a wicked grin. “Not at all.” His hold on her tightened. “We'll have it your way. Breakfast later.”

They made love slowly, tenderly. While she experienced some discomfort, it wasn't enough to make her want to give this up. She loved the weight of his body over hers, the fullness of him filling her. She loved the sensations. She loved the sunlight for its gift of letting her see him clearly as he rode her, as he rode passion.

When they lay sated and content, she wrapped herself around him, held him near. Yes, she was going to have regrets when she left him, but they were the sort that in later years would make her smile with fondness. She should hate him for the bargain he insisted they strike. But then he should hate her for the advantage she'd taken of his generosity.

They were each getting what they wanted. Strange to realize that she needed something else entirely.

“W
ill you give me a tour of your residence?” Rose asked, wrapped in his silk dressing gown, her back against a mound of pillows at the headboard. Over her lap, a tray held an assortment of dishes and delicacies.

A small army of servants had delivered an abundance of food, setting it all on a long table against a wall. He and Rose could stay in this room for a week and not go hungry. She was torn between expressing amazement at the lavishness and anger for all the times she'd gone hungry while those with wealth let so much go to waste.

Stretched across the foot of the bed, wearing nothing except trousers and a loose shirt, he finished chewing the tiniest pie she'd ever seen. “If you like.”

“Does it have a name?” The posh always named their residences.

“Buckland Palace, after my family name.”

“So you're Benjamin Palace?”

“Buckland, you little witch, as you well know.”

She loved teasing him, loved the twinkle in his eyes. He didn't smile enough for her tastes—­not a true, genuine smile. He had his devilish smiles, his wicked ones, his caustic ones. But the ones that originated in the center of his soul were rare.

“I've never been in a palace before,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

“I'm not sure this truly qualifies as such. ­People call their residences whatever they like.”

To her it
was
without doubt a palace, she mused as they walked through it after they'd finished breakfast. She was still wearing his dressing gown. She suspected they'd have another romp in the bed before she left for the afternoon. He'd taken her through all the bedchambers in the section where his was. There was another section on the far side of the house where guests stayed. He'd shown her the formal dining room that she thought could accommodate the House of Lords, a smaller dining room, a breakfast one, a smaller one still where intimate dinners were held. She was familiar with his library. He'd walked her through the duchess's library, even though presently there was no duchess. All the books. So many. Even the rooms that weren't designated as libraries contained shelves housing books. Harry would love it here.

Now they were strolling through a portrait gallery. A house with a room designed specifically to display portraits. It seemed at once opulent and again, wasteful. Small sitting areas dotted here and there, but the paintings dominated. She could see shadows of him in each of the males.

Throughout the entire tour he often caressed her lightly—­the small of her back, her shoulder, her hip—­as though he could not stand the thought of going too long without some contact with her. She relished it, knowing that this time next week she would never know his touch again.

She came to a stop beside a gigantic portrait hanging over the fireplace. “Your father. I take it.”

“Yes.” His hand came to rest just above her backside.

“I can see you in his features, but he contains a hardness that you lack.”

“If you believe that then you don't know me well at all.”

Jerking her head around, she moved beyond his reach. “I think you're angry about something, something more than my deceptions. I noticed it that first night, seething beneath the surface. It gave me pause. But I found you too handsome to resist.”

He barked out his laughter. “Did you? I think you thought,
Here is a man with heavy pockets I would like to lighten.
”

“That came later, after I made some inquiries.”

He sobered. “Should probably send word to Beckwith to cease his efforts on your behalf.”

She sighed. “Yes, I'll see to it on my way to my residence this afternoon.”

“I'll take care of it. He's likely to be more forgiving if it comes from me.” He arched a dark brow. “Besides, I have to pay him for his ser­vices rendered anyway.”

With a smile, she strolled over to the next portrait. The woman had soulful brown eyes and mahogany hair. “Your mother?”

“Yes.”

“She appears unhappy.”

“I believe she was.”

She looked over her shoulder. “And now?”

“Disappointed in me, but other than that I believe she is quite delirious regarding the other aspects of her life.”

“Because you're a scoundrel?”

He gave a brisk nod. “She doesn't approve of my life.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Not really, no.”

He was lying, but she wasn't certain he realized it. She refrained from pressing the point. Theirs was a surface relationship, one that involved flesh, sensations, and pleasure. It was best not to delve too deeply.

His steps matched hers. “What of your mother?” he asked.

“She passed when I was rather young.”

“Your father?”

“I'm not really sure. I left him when I was seventeen. Never looked back.”

“How did you manage at first? It had to be difficult.”

She trailed a finger over the edge of a gilded frame. Not a speck of dust. “How many servants do you have?”

“Here in London? Thirty or so. You're avoiding the question.”

She leaned against the back of a tall-­backed plush chair. “My father had stashed away some money. I stole it before I left. It was enough to see me through for a ­couple of years.”

“Then you began to survive by deceit.”

“I prefer to call it cunning. The world is full of fools.” Shoving herself away from the chair, she brushed up against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Some have very heavy pockets indeed. Although you turned out to be not quite the fool I thought you were.”

He lifted her into his arms and began carrying her from the room. “Oh, I suspect I'm fool enough.”

Nibbling on his ear, she relished his groan. He was not the only fool, it seemed. Because her heart sped up, her body thrummed with anticipation, and already she was wishing for more than a week.

“W
hy must you return to your residence?” Avendale asked, lounging in the bed, naked beneath the covers, sated and partially content. He would be completely content if she were still abed with him, but shortly after he'd taken her, she'd rung the bell for Edith. It irritated him that she could dispense with him so easily and quickly. Irritated even more that he could not seem to do the same with her. He should desire her less now that he'd had a taste of her, but he discovered he only wanted her all the more.

Watching as Edith dressed her, he'd cursed every bit of clothing that had begun to hide her flesh from his view. Now the servant was putting up Rose's hair and all he wanted to do was remove the pins and watch it tumble back down.

“I want to ensure that everyone is well after my abrupt departure last night,” Rose finally said.

“I'll go with you.”

“No,” she snapped, at long last shifting her gaze from her reflection in the mirror to look at him. She softened her expression, her tone. “The condition was that I go alone.”

“Why?”

“Because it's what I prefer.” She turned her attention back to the mirror.

“What are those men to you?” He despised that he sounded jealous. He wasn't, but she was his at that precise moment. He wasn't about to share her.

“Friends.”

“Why must you go alone?” he asked again.

With a deep sigh, she twisted around on the bench at the dressing table that he'd had temporarily moved in from another bedchamber, and glared at him. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed Edith. Once the girl was gone, Rose said, “I'm not going to have a tryst if that's what you're thinking.”

He didn't know what to think. “I simply find it odd.”

“That I should like a little bit of time to myself? Besides, I'm certain you'll welcome a respite from my presence.”

He wouldn't. Not that he was going to confess that and give her absolute power over him. He also realized there was the matter of trust. She had given of herself so freely, so easily. He didn't trust it, didn't quite trust her. He'd known some truly diabolical women in his life. She didn't fit the mold and yet the others seemed more trustworthy.

“If you don't return here as promised, I shall hunt you down.”

She pressed both hands in a cross over her heart. “Oh my word. Such romantic prose. Careful lest you cause me to swoon.”

“I'm serious, Rose.”

She got to her feet and walked to the foot of the bed. “We've made a bargain, you and I. I will keep to my end of it.”

“Why should I believe those words when so many others were lies?”

She didn't appear the least bit offended or hurt. “There was a purpose behind the lies. Nothing is to be gained with my not being truthful now.”

Why couldn't he have faith in those words, and why did it matter that he couldn't?

With a duck of her head, she gave him a small smile. “I shall miss you while I'm away.”

“I'm not quite certain I believe that.”

“I shall seek to convince you when I return. I haven't time now.” She crossed the room, picking up her reticule along the way.

“Why are you so secretive?” he asked.

Stopping at the door, she glanced back at him. “Why are you?”

His gut clenched. “I'm not.”

“Of course you are. Our conversations involve only the surface of our lives. I find no fault with that since we are only interested in exploring each other's surface.” She gave him a knowing smile. She had the right of it. He knew it. She knew he knew it.

“Bring me a list of all your creditors that I can send to my man of business. He'll see that they are all paid.”

“I know you have doubts regarding my honesty, but consider this. I gave you what you wanted before the accounts were paid. Because I do trust you, implicitly.”

“Have I ever done anything to make you think you couldn't?”

“There is that, I suppose. I know I've given you ample reasons not to trust me, yet here we are engaging in something that I believe requires absolute trust. At least for me. I'll see you in a bit.”

She left then, closing the door quietly in her wake. Tossing back the covers, he leaped out of the bed and rang for his valet. While she was away, he had matters to which he needed to attend. Setting things right with Beckwith topped the list.

B
eckwith buried his face in his hands. “A swindling female. How could I be such a fool?”