The Duke and the Lady in Red (22 page)

Reaching up, she trailed her fingers along his bristled jaw. “Every time I think I know you, I discover that I don't. Why are you not staying with me now?”

“Because I have some matters to which I must attend. While it may appear that I live a life of leisure, I am only allowed to do so because I attend to my business when I should.”

“Are you going out then?”

“No, I'll be in the library, studying reports, making decisions. It's boring and tedious, but it must be done. When I'm finished I'll join you here.”

“I know I said it earlier, but I can't believe how kind you're being to Harry.”

“You say that as though you are on the verge of recommending me for sainthood. I'm far from being a saint. I'm merely keeping to my end of our bargain.”

He brushed his lips over hers, before leaving the room. Her heart would remain safer if she believed him.

The problem was—­she didn't.

But even if he professed undying love, what would come of it? He was a duke. She was a criminal, with a past that shadowed her and would one day blot out all the light. Until then, she could serve as his mistress for as long as he wanted her—­or until he took a wife. Her transgressions were many, but taking a married man to her bed was not going to be one of them.

 

Chapter 15

I
t always hurt to know that she was hurting, to see the sorrow and tears welling in her eyes. Sometimes I imagined that I could actually hear her heart cracking, tiny fault lines spreading out.

For her, I fought hard to stand with pride as ­people gathered around, pointed, whispered, gaped. Once a woman became ill, brought up her breakfast. After that my father decided it best to have hay spread around me, as though I were an animal with no control over my bodily functions. When it was the gawkers for whom the straw was necessary.

I never spoke, never let on that I was mortified by my nearly naked form being displayed as an oddity. Because I ceased to speak, my father thought I'd become mute. But Rose knew the truth of it. In the darkest hours of the night, she would creep over and kneel beside my bed.

“One day, we'll run away,”
she promised with such earnestness that even the boulders after which I was named would have wept. “As soon as I have determined how we can survive.”

Then she would tell me a story of a beautiful place with beautiful ­people where I was loved, and I would drift off to sleep feeling not quite so ugly.

“Your Grace?”

Avendale jerked his head up from the words he'd been reading, surprised to discover that nearly an hour had passed. He'd meant merely to read a page. He'd read dozens. It was disconcerting to have been caught so absorbed by the tale that he'd not heard his butler enter his library. “Yes, Thatcher?”

“Mr. Watkins is here, sir.”

“Excellent. Send him in.” Avendale stood, walked to a side table and poured a splash of scotch into two glasses. He turned to the doorway just as a man of medium height and width, his clothing impeccable, strode in.

“Watkins.” Avendale extended a glass toward him.

The man staggered to a halt. “It's not yet noon, Your Grace.”

“Trust me, Watkins, you're going to need it.”

His tailor took the offered glass and sipped cautiously, while Avendale leaned his hips against the edge of his desk. He downed his own scotch, sighed. “A gentleman is staying with me. A Mr. Harry Longmore. He requires clothing. Something simple for moving about during the day as well as evening attire.”

“My specialty, Your Grace.”

“Which is why I sent for you. I require a man of your skills, but I fear the task will present a challenge. To put it bluntly the man is deformed, hideously so.”

Watkins finished off his drink, licked his lips. “I see.”

“I doubt you'll be able fit him to perfection, but a close proximity would be well rewarded. And haste doubly so. We need the items within the week.”

“I shall do my best. I can begin straightaway if you like.”

“Excellent. Come along then. I'll introduce you.”

H
arry was busily scribbling at his desk when the duke walked in with a man who had a thick thatch of black and white hair swirling over his head, bushy side whiskers, and a heavy mustache that hid much of his mouth. For a moment Harry knew a spark of despair. Had the duke brought him here to display as a curiosity to his friends as Merrick had thought? If he had, it was without Rose's knowledge; he was certain of that. She would be furious when she discovered the treachery. She would take Harry away, and he would have to leave all the marvelous books behind, unread.

But the man's eyes didn't even so much as widen when his gaze fell on Harry.

“Harry,” the duke began, “allow me to introduce Mr. Watkins, my tailor. He's one of the most accomplished London has to offer. I would like you to allow him to take your measurements for some new clothing.”

Harry's face grew hot with shame because he'd jumped to the wrong conclusion regarding the duke's intentions. He was no different than those who looked upon him and judged what he was. He should have known the duke was only trying to make him feel more comfortable in these elegant surroundings. He knew he walked about in clothes that hung loosely, more like a potato sack, over his odd frame. Sally was a fine seamstress but not one of London's most accomplished. He nodded with eagerness at the prospect of proper clothes.

“Splendid,” the duke said. He raised a finger. “But we're to keep this a secret, just between us gents. I have a surprise planned for your sister, and I don't want her to know about it just yet.”

Harry liked giving Rose surprises. When he was a boy he would pick flowers for her, find pretty rocks. But he hadn't been able to give her anything since he'd begun spending so much time indoors. His writing was for her, would be a gift to her when the time came. He was filling the pages with all the love he held for her so it would remain with her when he was gone.

But to be able to share a surprise with her now—­he was fairly certain it would be a surprise she would like because the duke's eyes were warm with mischief laced with anticipation. He was looking forward to surprising Rose. Harry put his finger to his lips. “Shh.”

“Precisely. I'll leave you two to it.”

As the duke strolled from the room, Harry wondered if the duke was even aware that he loved Rose.

A
fter a marvelous sleep, Rose wanted to stroll leisurely through the gardens with Harry, but they got only as far as the fountain where a nude ­couple carved in stone embraced in such a way that very little was left to the imagination.

“It's really quite scandalous,” she felt obligated to point out. “The detail”—­the taut buttocks of the man; the firm, uplifted breasts of the woman—­“is designed to shock those with proper sensibilities.”

“I think they're beautiful.”

“I quite agree,” a voice boomed behind her, and she nearly leaped into the fountain.

Avendale came to stand on the other side of her, and she had to fight not to reach out to him, not to step nearer and curl against his side. Her resistance where he was concerned was nonexistent. She just didn't know if she could be content to be a mistress for the remainder of her life. Considering her past, marriage was not feasible. “There is beauty, truth, honesty in the naked form,” Avendale said. “I find it a crime that society is so bothered by it that it must be covered with an abundance of clothing.” With a grin, he shook her skirt as though to demonstrate what clothing entailed, in case she wasn't aware.

“Would the sight of it not lose its appeal if it were always visible?” she asked, even knowing that she would never tire of seeing him without clothing. “Perhaps we would begin to take it for granted.”

“I continue to find this ­couple arousing and they've been here for years.”

“But then you're debauched. I'm sure your wife will have them taken away.”

“No doubt, so I must enjoy them while I may. What do you think, Harry? Should I have chosen a fountain that displayed fish cavorting about?”

“Don't bring him into this,” she chastised.

“Why? He has an opinion, doesn't he? I'd like to hear it.”

Harry grinned, his face turned red, and he wouldn't quite meet Rose's gaze. “I like this one very much.”

“All men do. I think women do as well, but they have been trained to deny it. You like it, don't you, Rose?”

She could not believe she was standing here discussing the naked form in front of her young brother. “I'll admit it's provocative, but decadent.”

“Do you know, Harry, I've had gatherings where women have danced naked in that fountain?”

Harry's jaw dropped only slightly more than Rose's did.

“I suspected you were a libertine,” she said.

“I've never denied it.” He touched her cheek. “Do you want the fountain gone? I'll have it taken away if it makes you uncomfortable.”

It only made her uncomfortable when she was standing here discussing it with her brother. Otherwise she thought it the most beautiful piece of artwork she'd ever seen. It was a ridiculous offer he made when she wasn't going to be in his life all that long. “I rather like it, but I enjoy the roses more. Shall we explore the flowers, Harry?”

“Yes, before it rains.”

“Is it going to rain again, then?”

“Yes.”

“Wait a moment,” Avendale said, his dark brown eyes narrowed. “Is he the reason you knew it was going to rain the other night?”

She couldn't help but feel a bit smug. “He has an uncanny ability to predict the weather. That does not negate our bet as I admitted to having the information on good authority.”

He chuckled low. “So you did. I'll leave you to enjoy the gardens then, while you may.”

He walked off, and she'd rather hoped that he would join them. She appreciated that he wasn't constantly hovering, that he was giving her a little bit of time alone with Harry. It was silly that she should miss him. She needed to shore up her heart or she was going to leave here a broken woman.

She slipped her hand within the crook of Harry's arm. “Shall we go exploring?”

Using his cane for support, he shuffled along slowly, admiring every flower. She thought every sort imaginable had to be in these gardens. Harry stopped to feel the petals, to inhale the fragrances, to admire the colors. The other residences in the area were far enough away that no one would be able to see him clearly. And if they did, she suspected Avendale would handle the matter admirably.

Harry was examining a pink rose when he asked quietly, “Will you dance in the fountain for him?”

“What? No! Most assuredly not.”

He gave her a shrewd look, her brother who had never been shrewd in his life to her knowledge. “Do you dance for him out of it?”

She'd always considered her brother an innocent, had assumed he didn't know what happened between a man and a woman, but of course he knew. After all he was a man. It saddened her to think he would never experience the closeness of a woman or the sort of love that could exist between two ­people who weren't related through blood. What was she doing mooning about? She wasn't going to experience that sort of love either.

“Avendale and I have an understanding,” she said, quite certain her cheeks were the same shade as the rose.

“What do you understand?”

“That we're only together for a little while.”

“Because of me.”

Yes.
“No. We enjoy each other's company but neither of us wants anything permanent.”

“He's doing a lot for us, Rose.”

“Yes, well, he can certainly afford it.”

“I don't think that's why.”

She didn't want to consider that her brother was right, that perhaps she meant something to Avendale. “We shouldn't examine our time here too closely. We should simply enjoy it.”

B
efore winter would settle in, we'd return to the farm. Rose was happiest then. I think part of it was because I would not be displayed as much, but more she was able to see Phillip. His family had a farm next to ours and he would often come to visit Rose.

One evening as I was looking for her, I heard voices behind a shed.

“I'm going to Manchester to work in a factory. I want you to marry me. To come with me. It'
ll be a good life, Rose,” Phillip said.

I heard her squeal, imagined her hugging him about the neck as I'd seen her do before. Perhaps she was even kissing him.

“Yes! Yes! I love you, Phillip. I think Harry will love Manchester.”

“Why would it matter to him?”

“Because he's coming with us.
”

“No.”

“Phillip, I can't leave him.”

“He's not your child, not your responsibility.”

“He
's my brother. My father treats him horribly. It's getting worse. I promised to take him with me when I left.”

“He's not coming with us. He turns my stomach. I can't eat for a day after looking at him.”

“I thought you loved me.”

“I do, but I don
't love him.”

Rose didn't leave with him. I often think of the life she might have had if she'd gone. It would have been much easier. Sometimes I feel guilty for being a burden, but I am selfish enough to be glad that she didn't leave me. If our roles were reversed, I don't know if I would have had the strength to stay behind.

A little over six months later we ran off.

“Your Grace?”

When his butler's voice intruded, it took Avendale a moment to pull himself from the words, from the images. No wonder Rose hadn't told him of her brother. He would like to find this Phillip fellow and pound his fist into the man's face for the pain he'd caused her, the pain he'd no doubt caused Harry by his unkind words.

“What is it, Thatcher?” Was he going to have to lock his door just so he could read in peace?

“A small fellow who insists he be allowed to see Mr. Longmore is in the foyer. Quite formidable for a gent his size. As you instructed the staff to protect Mr. Longmore from any who might wish him ill, I wasn't quite certain what to do with the chap as he doesn't seem to fall into that category, and yet he doesn't appear to be the pleasant sort either.”

With a sigh, Avendale shoved back his chair and stood. Dismissing his coachman the night before had meant relying on Rose's driver for transportation and thus giving his address to the giant. So now Merrick had known where to find him. “I'll see to the matter.”

Thatcher had neglected to mention that a woman was also in the foyer. No doubt, the other half of the World's Tiniest Bride and Groom. She was only a little shorter than the man fuming at her side, her hair black, her eyes brown. Her hopeful expression was quite the opposite of her husband's belligerent one.