The Duke and the Lady in Red (26 page)

He wasn't half tempted, only he wanted her at his side, but one didn't bring his paramour, especially one who skirted the law, to his mother's dining table. Although it wasn't as though his mother's friends hadn't done a bit of skirting themselves. Still, the dinner party wasn't where he should begin reconciliation. “There will be time to make amends later.”

Weary of revisiting the past, wanting to be ensconced in the present where passion loomed, he covered her mouth with his. An image of the future flitted through his mind, and he saw her there, strolling over his land, his children tugging at her skirts. All the responsibilities and duties that she didn't want.

She had agreed to stay with him for as long as he wanted, but already he regretted the bargain, because he was discovering that he didn't want her with him unless it was where she wished to be. And she had already told him that it wasn't. The carefree life she craved would not be found at his side. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be unselfish enough to let her go.

S
tanding in the gallery, Rose studied the former Duke of Avendale's portrait.

After they'd returned from their outing, Avendale had taken his leave to attend to some business in town. It amazed her to discover that he was not quite the man of leisure she'd thought. It seemed there was always some detail that required his attention.

Hearing the familiar shuffling, she turned to her brother and smiled. “You should have sent for me, sweeting. No need for you to traverse stairs.”

“I wanted to.” He gave her an almost bashful grin. “Besides, I wasn't looking for you. I just like to explore.”

“It is an amazing place. I try to imagine all the care that went into arranging each room, and it's quite beyond me.”

“It speaks of permanence.”

“Yes, I suppose that's it. I'm not of a mind to view anything as permanent. It's all fleeting.”

Sadness touched his eyes. “You should have permanent, forever.”

She smiled, to soften her words, to ensure they brought no guilt his way. “I wouldn't know what to do with it.” Usually by now she was itching to move on with her nomadic life.

Harry looked past her shoulder, to the portrait that took up a great portion of the wall, more than any other painting, as though the man's ego demanded it. “Avendale's father?”

“Yes.”

“I don't like him,” he whispered.

“There is something sinister in his eyes, isn't there?”

“The artist didn't like him either. He didn't hide that Avendale's father wasn't nice.”

Briefly she wondered what sort of rendering an artist might do of Harry, if given the chance. It might be interesting. Her father had been gifted with handsome features but his hatred and self-­centeredness had twisted them until his demeanor made him unattractive. Harry might have been graced with the same pleasing lines beneath the misshapen masses, but even without them she found him quite beautiful.

“You should have a portrait done,” Harry said.

What a disaster that would be, to have a likeness created that would provide police with more clues to her identity. “Perhaps someday.”

Harry limped over to study the portrait of Avendale's mother.

“Harry, if you were to awaken one morning, and I weren't here—­”

He turned. “Why wouldn't you be here?”

“Something might happen and I would need to leave.”

“What?”

“Anything is possible. It's just a hypothetical, but I want you to know that even if I'm not with you, I still love you more than anything.”

“The duke won't like it. You leaving.”

“No, he won't.”

“Are you going to tell him you might leave?”

“No, but if it should happen—­”

“It won't.” He turned his attention back to the portrait.

“But if it should and Avendale wants you to leave, you're to return to Merrick. You're not to try to find me.”

“It won't happen,” he repeated. “But if it does”—­he gave her a shrewd look—­“I won't have to look for you because the duke will find you.”

A shiver went through her with the acknowledgment that Avendale would be ruthless in his search. “You give him far too much credit.”

“You don't give him enough.” He returned his attention to the portrait. It wasn't often that she wanted to smack her brother but at that precise moment she thought he could do with a good wallop.

“You can be most irritating when you want to be,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.

“But you love me anyway.”

She rubbed his shoulder, forgiving him far more easily than she should. “I do, yes.”

“And you love the duke.”

Her fingers jerked, and she quickly removed her hand before he could sense her tension. “That would be a silly thing to do.”

“Why?” He'd turned completely around, his gaze on her intense.

“He could never marry me.”

“Why?”

She sighed with exasperation. “Honestly, Harry, we need to work to expand your vocabulary.”

“Is it because of the things you've done, the way we live?”

Reluctantly she nodded, not surprised he'd figured things out. He was so astute, observant. “I'm not a very good person, not really. A duke requires a wife who is above reproach.”

“He needs a wife who loves him.”

“I should think he won't have any trouble finding that once he sets his mind to it.”

He wouldn't have any trouble at all. She did hope she'd be gone by then. A small voice in the back of her mind cautioned her to be careful of what she wished for.

 

Chapter 17

R
ose secured for us a small cottage by the sea. At night, the crashing waves would lull me to sleep. On nights when there was a full moon I would walk along the water's edge. I wanted to wade out into the surf, but I was afraid that I might topple over and not be able to get up, that I would drown. My left side had developed more protrusions, and I'd begun to have difficulty maintaining my balance.

Although she never said anything, I think Rose knew about my midnight walks. One day, she gifted me with a walking stick of beautiful ebony with a dog's head carved at the end. The carving reminded me of the dog I'd once owned.

Rose began to go out in the evenings. I thought perhaps she had a swain. One night as I was walking, she appeared out of the darkness and I wondered how many nights she may have been there watching me.

“Would you like to step into the sea?” she asked.

“I might fall.”

“I'll catch you.” I was all of fifteen, still a lad but on the cusp of manhood, although not as large as I would become. She knelt down and removed my shoes. Then she took my hand, and we counted the steps as we waded into the sea.

Six. The water swirled around my ankles, and I imagined that the waves had touched distant shores, that the water was free to journey wherever it pleased. For a moment I was envious.

“We're leaving this place,” Rose said quietly, but still I heard her over the rush of sound that belongs to the sea.

We were gone by morning.

As the faint knock of ebony on parquet and shuffling feet disturbed Avendale's concentration, he looked up to see Harry slightly inside the library doorway. It seemed Avendale wasn't the only one unable to sleep tonight. His conversation with Rose earlier in the day weighed heavily on his mind. Had he been unfair to his mother all these years? Was he being unfair to Rose now?

Following dinner, he'd lost himself in her for a while, but after she'd drifted off to sleep he'd come here to become lost in
her
past because it was easier than dealing with his own. Or it should have been. He was discovering that hers troubled him far more than he was willing to admit. She had been strong for so long. But without meaning to, he'd taken choices away from her. He shoved himself to his feet. “Harry.”

“I'm sorry to disturb you. I didn't think anyone would be here this time of night.”

It was well past midnight, the shadows hovering in corners. “Where's Gerald?”

“Sleeping.”

“You shouldn't wander about without him.”

Although only a solitary lamp on the desk provided light, Avendale was still able to make out Harry's smile. “I won't get lost. I wanted to be in this room because it has the most books. Their fragrance is heavier here. I like the way they smell. But I'll come back later.”

“Stay. Take a seat by the fire. Join me in a drink.” His guest nodded, and Avendale strode over to the marble table and poured scotch into two glasses before joining Harry. After taking his seat, Avendale lifted his glass. “To a day of adventures and getting your sister into the balloon.”

Harry grinned, drank. Avendale did the same.

They sat in comfortable silence, as Harry gazed around the room and Avendale watched him. Finally he asked, “How did you learn to read? I can't imagine that you went to a schoolroom.”

“Rose.”

“Of course.”

“She attended school for a short time before Father decided to share me with the world.”

Share me with the world.
Phrasing that made what his father did sound less sinister, less unconscionable.

“I know numbers, too,” Harry said. “I don't like them as much. There's beauty and magic in letters and words and the way they come together.”

“There's beauty and magic in numbers as well, my friend. They have come together in ways that allow me to do quite a bit that I wouldn't be able to otherwise.”

“Am I?” Harry asked.

Avendale angled his head. “Pardon?”

“Am I your friend?”

It seemed there was also truth in words. Avendale had used the term without thought, without considering the weight of it. Without realizing how Harry, who wrote with such honesty, might interpret it. “Yes, I believe you are.”

Harry grinned, nodded. “You are my friend as well.”

Avendale lifted his glass. “I'm honored. To friendship.”

They both sipped, savored. With a blunt-­tipped finger, Avendale tapped his glass. “I'm enjoying reading your story very much.”

“It's all true.”

“I thought as much. Your sister is an extraordinary woman. You should know that I shall see to it she's well cared for.”

In spite of his limited facial expressions, Harry gave Avendale a grin that could only be described as cunning. “I know.”

Avendale realized very little got past Rose's brother. He could have accomplished anything he wanted were the world more accepting of those who were different.

Harry craned his head back slightly. “How do you get to the books up there?” He pointed at the balcony—­its walls composed of more shelves laden with literary treasures—­that circled the room. “The ladder isn't high enough.”

“No, it's only useful in getting to the books on the top shelves at this level. To get to the balcony—­come. I'll show you.” Setting his glass aside, he took Harry's and placed it beside his. Then he stood there, fighting not to reach over and help Harry to his feet. He had a too keen understanding of pride, and he could see it reflected in Harry's struggle. There would come a time when he would not be able to get up on his own, but the time was not yet.

Avendale never would have described himself as a patient man. Odd that he was being so now.

When Harry was finally as upright as possible, leaning on his cane, Avendale jerked his head in the direction behind him. “This way.”

He led Harry to a section of shelves not far from the fireplace. “Now watch.”

He gave the shelves a quick shove at the seam that separated one section from the other. A click sounded as an inner latch was released, and the shelves sprang forward a tad. He slipped his hand behind the fissure and opened the door fully to reveal a spiral staircase nestled inside a small alcove.

With a gasp, Harry widened his eyes in astonishment as he whispered in awe, “A secret passage.”

“Indeed. It was my favorite place to sneak about when I was a lad. Go on in.”

With a deep breath, Harry stepped inside as though he thought the small room would transport him somewhere. In a way, perhaps it did. He touched the black metal railing with wonder, released what might have been a muted laugh. He peered over at Avendale. “May I go up?”

Damnation, he hadn't considered that Harry would make that request. He should have merely said the balcony was ornamental. “I was given to understand that you have difficulty traversing stairs.”

Disappointment dimmed the sparkle in Harry's eyes. “I'm awkward and slow.”

“Is that all?” Avendale asked. “I've no pressing appointments. Have you?”

R
ose stood in the library doorway, quiet as a dormouse, and watched as her brother explored the balcony while Avendale patiently answered his questions. From time to time their laughter rolled out through the room, causing tears to prick her eyes.

She'd awoken in a lethargic haze to discover Avendale absent from the bed, and so she'd gone in search of him, assuming he would be in his library. She'd not expected the sight that greeted her.

They were an odd pairing—­the handsome duke and her misshapen brother—­but to see them together, a friendship forming, caused a tightness in her chest that might prevent her from ever being able to inhale a deep breath again. It was so obvious that Harry adored Avendale, that Avendale was the older brother he'd never possessed.

Avendale's kindness . . . she'd not anticipated it. She'd expected him to be tolerant. She hadn't thought he would embrace Harry as he had. Although in spite of Harry's imperfections, he possessed the ability to charm when given the opportunity. The problem was that so few gave him the chance. Far too many judged him by his appearance and went no further.

Although the same could be said of her: men saw her bosom and assumed it comprised the whole of her. Except Avendale hadn't.

As he pulled down a large book, set it on a small table, and opened it, he was a danger to her heart. Pointing to something, he turned aside, spoke, and Harry moved in to look at whatever was displayed on the page. Even from this distance she could see the surprise cross his features before he laughed.

With a broad masculine smile that conveyed a secret shared between men, Avendale clapped him on the shoulder. Harry looked up—­

“Rose!” His delight at spying her was evident in his expression. She rather wished he hadn't spotted her. Standing there for days watching them would have pleased her more.

Harry limped to the railing and her breath caught with the possibility of him toppling over it. “Careful, sweeting!”

“There's a hidden staircase,” he called down, and pointed. “Come up it.”

She saw it then, the shelves that were a door slightly ajar. Harry would have loved discovering the hidden alcove, exploring it. She was grateful to Avendale for sharing it with her brother.

Traversing up the winding spiral stairs, experiencing a sense of vertigo and dizziness, she was amazed that Harry had handled them. At the top, Avendale was waiting for her.

“I fear your brother has decided this is his favorite part of the residence,” he said, wrapping his warm fingers around hers and leading her onto the balcony. Their footsteps echoed hollowly around them as the cavernous ceiling reflected the sounds.

“I daresay I can hardly blame him.”

“Look at it all, Rose,” Harry said as she joined him. “Some of these are extremely old books. Ancient. They smell different than the ones below.”

He would notice. He was aware of so many subtleties. “They do, don't they?”

She saw the table was now empty. “What of the book Avendale was sharing with you?”

Harry blushed; Avendale cleared his throat before leveling his hooded gaze on her. “Just a bit of naughtiness. I'll show you later if you like.”

“Are you corrupting my brother?”

“Absolutely.”

Unable to help herself, she laughed. There was no contrition whatsoever in his manner. She'd tried so hard to shelter Harry. Had she done him a disser­vice? He was a young man, with a young man's curiosities. In that regard, Avendale would no doubt serve as the perfect tutor.

“Perhaps I should leave you to it,” she said.

Harry's eyes widened with surprise, while Avendale merely gave her a devilish grin. “I believe we're finished for tonight. Harry tells me you often read to him. Perhaps you would do so now.”

They settled into a very cozy corner of the balcony, near the windows. The chairs were large and plush, perfect for curling in, although Rose was the only one to take advantage of that aspect. Harry leaned forward, ever alert, while Avendale lounged back.

After peering over at Avendale, Harry struck the same pose as much as he was able, and Rose's heart twisted. She was remarkably glad that Avendale had suggested they bring Harry here.

He handed her
Arabian Nights
and she began to read “Aladdin's Wonderful Lamp.” She found herself wishing they might have a thousand and one nights such as this.