The Duke and the Lady in Red (15 page)

Sitting in a chair in front of the solicitor's desk, Avendale confessed, “If it's any consolation, I fell for her ploy as well.”

Beckwith lifted his dark head, his blue eyes magnified by his spectacles. “My brothers are going to have a jolly good laugh at my naiveté.”

“No reason for them to know. I'm here to make restitution for any expenses you've incurred and any fees you are owed.”

Beckwith furrowed his young brow. “I should report her to Scotland Yard.”

“I'd rather you didn't. You may add to your fees if needed in order to make you feel less a fool.”

Beckwith's pride had an inflated sense of self, but Avendale paid the amount without quibbling. It seemed there was a bit of a swindler in everyone when given the opportunity.

Avendale then saw to the matter of Rose's residence. For reasons which he didn't examine too closely, he paid what was owed and an additional three months. He knew in all likelihood that she would leave London at the end of the week, but if she wished to stay a bit longer, he wanted to make the opportunity available. She was with him now because of the bargain, because she
had
to be if she wished to avoid dire consequences.

That knowledge grated. He wanted her with him because she
wanted
to be there. What passed between them was incredible, nearly earth-­shattering if he were honest. But it clawed at his conscience that he had forced her into his bed. If he were any sort of gentleman, he would relieve her of her debt to him.

But he'd been a scoundrel too long to give up anything he wanted so badly.

And he wanted her.

He was damned anyway. Might as well ensure he took memories of the very best adventures into hell with him. So far she was proving to be the best of all.

“D
id he hurt you?” Merrick demanded as Rose stepped out of the carriage with the footman's assistance. He'd rushed out of the door as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Her words to him the night before—­
Tell Harry there has been a change in plans and we'll be staying in London a bit longer. I'll see him at two tomorrow.
—­had ensured he'd be waiting for her.

“Don't be absurd,” she answered as she walked past him into the house.

“I don't like him.”

Reaching down, she rubbed his shoulder. “You don't have to, although I think if you removed me from the equation you'd like him very much.”

“He took advantage.”

She arched a brow. “I daresay he's not the only one. We'll be leaving with five thousand quid and anything else that we want as it's all paid for now.”

“But at what cost?”

“One I was more than willing to pay. Now cease your harping. I want to spend some time with Harry. I can't be gone more than an hour or Avendale will seek me out. I've no doubt of that, as he doesn't trust me. Not that I blame him. I assume Harry's in the library.”

“Yes. He's in a mood, though. I had to explain a bit more than you wanted as he threatened to go after you.”

That would have been disastrous.

“I trust your judgment, Merrick. Have Sally bring us some tea and biscuits.” With a fast clip to her stride and her heels echoing through the hallway, she quickly made her way to the library. The door was open. Always a good sign. He wasn't in as troubled a mood as Merrick had indicated, although perhaps he was, but knowing her time would be short, he had decided not to waste it by having her trying to beat down the door.

She was reminded of the closed library door last night. It seemed all men had something in common when their pride was wounded: a need to lick their wounds. She was still amazed that Avendale had been upset to discover she was a virgin. She'd judged him a man whose pride would cause him to burn with anger, but not remorse or guilt. She'd thought he'd consider himself above those sorts of emotions. She'd never so erroneously misjudged a person.

Unfortunately she had also misjudged what this week in his presence was going to cost her. At the end of it, she was going to be irrevocably changed. But that was for dealing with next week. For now, there was Harry.

Striding into the library, she found him at his desk, pen in hand. “Hello, dearest. How is the story coming along?” she asked.

He leaned back, studied her with crystalline blue eyes that held a wealth of pain. “You simply left . . . without a word.”

“I didn't have a choice, but I'm here now. Although I have less than an hour. Let's not spend it squabbling.” Tugging off her gloves, she tucked them into her reticule. “Come sit with me by the window. It's a lovely day.”

“It's going to rain.”

She looked out at the cloudless sky. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. Tonight. Late.”

He was remarkably skilled at predicting the weather. She thought about how lovely it would be to be snuggled in bed with Avendale while the rain pattered the roof and windows. She shook her head. She could not be thinking of Avendale right now.

Sitting on one end of a long sofa, she was grateful when Harry joined her at the other. Sally brought in tea and biscuits on a tray and set it on the table in front of them. She stared hard at Rose as though that were enough for her to decipher everything that had transpired since Rose had left. Rose blanked her expression, tried to make it as innocent as possible. With a narrowing of her eyes, Sally huffed before leaving.

Rose prepared the tea, set a cup in front of Harry, even knowing that he probably wouldn't touch it. Sometimes they both just needed a sense of being civilized.

“It was that duke, wasn't it?” Harry finally asked. “He forced you to go.”

Rose took a sip of tea, set aside her cup. “No, sweeting, he didn't. I wanted to go. God help me, but I like him, Harry.”

“Why?”

She scoffed. “
Why?
You would ask, wouldn't you?” Harry had an insatiable curiosity, wanted to know everything. She picked up her teacup, set it back down. How could she possibly explain to him what she didn't understand herself? “I like the way he looks as me—­as though there were no women before me. Even though I know there were probably hundreds.”

“What does he look like? I couldn't see him clearly the other night.”

Pleasure tripped through her as she brought up an image of him. “He's tall, not as tall as you. He has broad shoulders. He likes to carry me around, which makes me feel protected. His hair is a deep, deep brown. Like sable, like Sally's winter coat. Sometimes when the light hits it just so, I can see the barest hint of red. His eyes are almost the exact shade of his hair. Although no red there. He's solemn. He spends a good deal of his time engaged in the pursuit of pleasure, but I'm not certain he truly enjoys it. He seems to be a little bit lost. Lonely I think. It's the oddest thing, when we are in a room crowded with ­people. They will acknowledge him with a nod or quick smile, but they don't talk to him or ask after his welfare. Not that he makes any inquiries either. It's as though he can't be bothered with anything other than his own needs, but I think that's just a façade. I think he's been hurt. He's awfully cautious.” She was amazed she had spouted so much.

“You love him,” Harry stated.

Rose nearly fell off the sofa with the proclamation. She laughed. “No, absolutely not.”

Harry studied her as though he didn't quite believe her.

“That way lies disaster,” she assured him.

“Knowing the dangers doesn't always stop things from happening.”

“True enough.” Leaning over, she squeezed his hand. “You should see his residence, Harry. So many books. In every room at least one book. Well, not the dining rooms. But you would be in heaven. I shall see if I can borrow some for you to read. You could read quite a bit in a week.” She did wish she'd thought of that sooner.

“What does it look like, his residence?”

“It's called Buckland Palace. He says it's not truly a palace but it is. He's just accustomed to the opulence so he doesn't see it. But it's ever so grand. Paintings on the ceilings, gold edges along the wainscoting. Monstrously huge rooms. His bedchamber alone . . .” She hesitated, wishing she hadn't gone there, hoping she hadn't given him cause to conjure up images of her in the duke's bed. He was fairly innocent in the ways of men and women so her words probably gave him no naughty ideas. “ . . . is almost as large as all our bedchambers put together. He took me on a tour. It was fascinating.”

They talked then about how much longer they might stay in London. No reason to leave straightaway, with their debts paid. Although she suspected she would not want to linger overly long once she left the duke. She told Harry what she knew of Scotland, why she thought they would be happy there.

As she was leaving, she hugged him hard, promised to see him at two the following afternoon. She would not feel guilty about leaving him here. He had his story to write. He'd welcome the quiet.

Even as she welcomed a bit of it to settle her thoughts as the carriage rumbled through the streets. She didn't like how much she was anticipating returning to Buckland Palace, how much she longed to be with Avendale again. It was more than the fact that he knew so well how to make her body sing and fly to the heavens. She liked being in his company, liked the way he held her afterward. She liked the timbre of his voice, even if they didn't discuss anything of consequence. She even liked that he was a little jealous. Not that she wanted to spend a single moment of their time together with them at odds.

She was most disappointed when she returned to his residence to find that he wasn't about and that his butler, Thatcher, had no idea when His Grace would return. Not knowing if their evening would include more than romps in the bed, she wasn't certain how to prepare herself.

Shaking her head while standing in the foyer, she nearly laughed aloud. She was here for one reason and one reason only—­because he wanted her in his bed. That was most certainly where they would spend the evening. She supposed she could bathe, make herself as alluring as possible. But first, while she was alone, she wanted to scour the shelves in the various rooms and see if she could determine which books Harry might best enjoy. Once Avendale returned, he would occupy all her time and thoughts—­the rogue.

Not that she minded, not really.

She did hope that he didn't tarry too long, only long enough for her to locate some reading material for Harry, something obscure that Avendale wouldn't notice was missing. Sneaking it out was going to be the challenge, but she would find a way. She'd always been resourceful if nothing else.

She paused at a narrow table that held a silver bowl containing a myriad of vellum envelopes. They were not her concern, and yet knowing that they were probably invitations to balls, she couldn't stop herself from plucking one out and opening it. After pulling out the gilded invitation, she trailed her finger over the formal words. When she had first stepped into the Twin Dragons, her plan had been to make the acquaintance of those who would send her invitations such as these. She had the lovely one Drake Darling had sent her, but she had wanted to attend balls within residences, to be accepted, to take her time at selecting her quarry.

She had enjoyed dances held by country squires, merchants, bankers, and bakers. The towns she'd visited had offerings, but nothing as grand as what she had envisioned she would find in London. Over the years, she had honed her skills in out-­of-­the-­way villages, among those who didn't rub elbows with the aristocracy. She'd had such exquisite goals for London: to linger, to enjoy, to move about in circles far above her humble roots. To attend every sort of ball imaginable: costume, masked, Cinderella.

But she would experience no aristocratic balls now because she'd allowed Avendale to get the better of her. Yet she couldn't seem to regret it.

She was in the smaller library—­the duchess's library—­searching through the books there when she became aware of the sensation of being watched. It was as it had been that first night at the Twin Dragons. Slowly she turned to find Avendale leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. “I returned promptly as promised only to find you not here,” she said.

“You sound disappointed.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Had I known you wouldn't be waiting for me, I might have lingered.”

“I had to settle things with Beckwith.”

Her stomach lurched. “Did he give you any problems?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle.”

His confidence, his arrogance. Neither should have appealed to her and yet they both did.

“I also saw to the lease on your residence,” he continued.

Relief swamped her, a weight lifted that until that moment she hadn't realized had been so incredibly heavy. They had lodgings that no one could take away from them, at least for a time. “Seems you were quite busy.”

“I even found time for something more pleasant.”

With long even strides he crossed over to her. Indulging, she inhaled his magnificent masculine scent, almost took things a step further and leaned into him. She wanted her head on that broad chest, his strong arms around her. Ridiculous to want so badly what she would only hold for a little while. Perhaps that was what made it so appealing. If she knew she would have him for the remainder of her days, surely she would grow as bored with him as he would with her. It was the circumstance, the finite hours that were ticking by far too quickly. Why were they still down here anyway? Why hadn't he carried her up to bed already? Why were they still clothed when she longed for silken flesh over slick skin?

Leisurely, as though he had the power to stop the clocks, and minutes weren't passing that could never be regained, he slipped his hand inside his jacket and like a magician she'd once seen, he pulled forth a black velvet box that appeared too large to have been hidden so effectively inside a coat pocket. He held it toward her. “For you.”