The Duke and the Lady in Red (4 page)

“I won't give up.”

She'd barely turned when his words froze her on the spot.

“I will have you,” he said, his voice a whispered promise that caused a shiver of foreboding, a quiver of pleasure to ripple through her. “Because you want it as much as I do.”

She nearly denied the words, but she feared if she delayed, she'd find herself back in his arms, this time without the wherewithal to deny him, to deny them both what she thought might be a glorious night. She wanted to flee, to run, but she kept her pace slow and measured as she left the balcony, surprised her trembling legs managed to carry her down the stairs. Twisting the knob, she opened the door and strode into the main salon. She had planned to continue with the rounds, to be seen, perhaps to make a few other acquaintances, but he had unsettled her. She was not accustomed to being unsettled.

As calmly as possible, she walked to the entrance, acutely aware of his gaze following her the entire way. She'd made a mistake tonight, misjudged. She would have to be more careful in the future. The Duke of Avendale had the power to destroy her.

 

Chapter 2

B
y the time Rose strode in through the front door of her residence, she was back in control, her heart no longer pounding ferociously and threatening to crack a rib. A part of her was grateful she'd managed to escape. Another part, one she seldom allowed to come to the fore, wished she were still in the shadows of the balcony captivated by a kiss.

Merrick shuffled out of the parlor, his brow deeply furrowed. “Wasn't expecting you home so soon.”

Removing her wrap, she handed it down to him. “See what you can uncover regarding the Duke of Avendale.” She'd given the man too much power. To avoid that happening again, she needed to learn everything she could about him.

“Duke? That's a bit bold, even for you. He could be influential enough to see you hanged once he realizes what you're about.”

“The trick there, then, is to ensure he doesn't realize what I'm about. Any problems this evening?”

“No.” Merrick scrunched a face weathered by a harsh life. “He seems happy enough here. He's sleeping now. Maybe we could stay this time.”

“You know that's not possible.” She headed for the stairs, aware that Merrick traipsed along behind her.

“Maybe we could find another way.”

She spun around. She'd misjudged his nearness and he rammed into her. Grabbing his shoulders, she prevented him from tumbling over. When he was once again steady, he peered up at her and repeated, “Maybe we could.”

“What would you suggest? What could I possibly do that would provide us with the means to live in the luxury that we do?”

“Mayhap we don't need as much luxury.”

“But Harry should have it. I owe him that.”

“Ain't your fault the way your father treated him.”

Merrick had not witnessed all that she had. He could not possibly fathom all the ramifications of her father's cruel actions. “Remember, Merrick, you are here by my good graces, not to question me. Now, let Sally know I've returned so she can assist me in preparing for bed.” She carried on up the stairs, refusing to feel guilty over the life she led or consider the consequences it might heap upon her. Life was filled with choices. She'd made hers. It was too late for regrets, and they served no purpose except to distract.

In her bedchamber, she peeled off her gloves and tossed them onto the dressing table before walking to the window and gazing out on the fog-­shrouded gardens. She'd not accomplished all she'd meant to tonight. She had hoped to make associations with women who would invite her to their balls and dinners. The more she was seen within high Society, the more she would be trusted, the more ­people would wish to assist her. But the duke had distracted her from her purpose.

After the blistering kisses he'd leveled on her, she could hardly stay at the affair. It had not been until she was halfway home that she'd been able to think properly again. How could she scheme when her mind had turned to rubbish? Oh, she'd been given kisses before, but none that spoke of possession, none that consumed. She was quite surprised they'd not erupted into a conflagration on that balcony.

As she heard the door opening, she swung around and smiled. “Sally.”

“Did you enjoy your evening?” Merrick's wife asked.

“Tonight's purpose was work, not enjoyment.” She walked to the center of the room where a short stool rested and turned around. Sally stepped up and began loosening buttons and ribbons.

“Seems like you could mix the two.”

“I might end up concentrating too much on one and losing sight of the other.”

“Wouldn't be so bad if it was the work you lost sight of. When was the last time you had a bit of fun?”

With the gown loosened, Rose worked her way out of it. “I read an entire book just last night before I went to bed.”

Scowling, coming around to take the gown, Sally said, “I'm talking about fun with others.”

Rose smiled. “I have a jolly good time with you.”

“You're being difficult now.”

“Yes, I am, because I don't wish to discuss it.”

After removing the remainder of her underclothes and slipping into her nightdress, she sat on the bench in front of her dressing table. If she could, she would have a home absent of mirrors, but she needed to know how she appeared before she went out. Appearance was crucial to the game.

But here, within her bedchamber, not so much. When she looked at her reflection, she saw a woman nearing thirty, one who would never have a husband who loved her or children to adore. One who was so remarkably lonely that it was all she could do not to weep. She despised these moments of weakness when her lost dreams nudged her to be refound.

She had no right to complain, not when others suffered far more than she.

“You look sad,” Sally said, as she moved near and began brushing Rose's hair.

“Simply tired. It was a long night.”

“Merrick mentioned that you're inquiring about some duke.”

“We danced.” The reflection caught her smile. It appeared almost dreamy, as though she were a young girl filled with hope after her first waltz. “He was quite charming.”

Deliciously so. And tempting.

“Was he handsome?” Sally asked.

“Do you know of a duke who isn't?” Rose asked.

“Don't know any dukes.”

Rose laughed lightly. “Yes, he was handsome. Dark hair and darker eyes. Haunted eyes. He is not a joyful man.”

“You was always so skilled at reading ­people.”

She needed to be in order to do what she did. She'd learned the talent at her father's knee, not that learning anything from him was worthy of boast.

“Did you like him?” Sally asked.

Did she? “I don't know him well enough to know whether or not I like him.”

“Was he a pleasant fellow?”

“He was intense. Most intense. He didn't visit much with ­people, although it was obvious a good many knew him. I think he was there for one purpose: to indulge in whatever sort of misbehavior became most convenient.”

“And he thought to indulge with you.” Sally moved around, draping Rose's plaited hair over her shoulder. “But you held him at bay.”

The words were not a question but a declaration, and Rose knew Sally would be disappointed if anything untoward had happened—­such as a kiss in the shadows. “It would not suit my purpose to give in to temptation.”

“Were you tempted?”

Rose twisted on the bench, which put her on eye level with Sally. “No.”

The lie should not have come so easily. It was slightly disconcerting that it did. If she could lie so easily to her dear friend, could she lie as easily to herself?

“Thank you, Sally. I'll see you in the morning.” Rising, she walked to a corner table and poured herself a splash of brandy, as was her nightly ritual.

“You're troubled,” Sally said.

“Tired, as I stated earlier.” Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled. “I'm well. Good night.”

She waited until Sally left, then walked over to the sitting area and curled up on the corner of the sofa. She inhaled the intoxicating aroma first. Taking a slow sip, she savored the flavor more than she ever had before. It reminded her of him. She imagined again his lips on hers.

And she tried not to regret that she had not left with him.

A
vendale strode into his residence and staggered to a stop as a ­couple weaving toward the stairs nearly stumbled into him.

“Your Grace,” the young swell slurred with an awkward salute before tumbling into a heap on the floor, dragging the woman at his side with him.

Avendale thought there was little worse than a man who could not hold his liquor.

With a delighted laugh, Aphrodite untangled herself from the drunkard and pushed herself to her feet. She swayed toward him. “Avendale, I seem to have lost my partner. I'd prefer to have you anyway.”

Her gossamer gown revealed all her curvaceous attributes. Her blue eyes glinting with desire, she slowly ran a hand up his chest, over his shoulder. “I'm yours,” she said with a sultry voice.

Yes, because he paid her—­not in coin, but in excess. Clothes, jewelry, baubles, perfumes.

“Not tonight, Aphrodite.” What he desired tonight, he'd been unable to obtain, which only served to make him want Rosalind Sharpe all the more. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been denied anything, the last time his thoughts had been so occupied with one woman.

Without guilt or remorse, he edged politely past Aphrodite—­she'd find a new partner easily enough—­and strode down the hallway to his library. A footman—­not only standing at attention, but also standing guard as no one except servants was allowed in this room—­opened the door. Avendale stepped inside. As the door was pulled closed behind him, he walked to a glass case that housed his spirits. A marble table rested beside it with glasses and decanters. After filling a tumbler with scotch, he took a chair near the fireplace and downed half the glass's contents, before sighing and dropping his head back.

How had his life come to this debauched existence? Beauties of questionable character were always on hand. Young swells were continually dropping by for a taste of women, drink, or cards. He didn't know the names of half of them, but they all knew orgies were carried on within the confines of his residence.

It had all begun when he was much younger, when he spent more time lost in women and wine. But of late, he'd begun to grow bored with it. He seldom accepted the ladies' offers anymore. He could no longer differentiate one from the other. Perhaps he never could. They'd been a means to deliver surcease for his aching loins. They'd provided a few moments' respite from dark thoughts—­just as the drink did. It seemed of late he was relying more heavily on the drink.

He took another sip, forcing himself to savor it. He savored so little. He plowed into pleasures as though they were the answer.

When he didn't even know the bloody question.

Another sip. A dark chuckle. Had he really thought to bring Rosalind Sharpe here? To witness his madness, to see how far he'd fallen into depravity?

He could have explained his guests by saying tonight was merely a party—­

Why did he feel he needed to justify the way he lived? He didn't. Not to her, not to anyone. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, as he wanted.

He got up, strode to his desk, and yanked the bellpull on the wall behind it. He walked to the window. Gaslights illuminated the gardens and the ­people cavorting about, some dancing naked in his fountain. There was a time when he would have joined them. Tonight he merely found them wearisome.

The door opened.

“I want them gone,” he announced before his butler had taken half a dozen steps into the room.

Silence. Finally, “
Them?
”

“All these ­people. The women, the gents. Have the women call upon my man of business if they need assistance settling elsewhere.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Will there be anything else?”

Avendale continued to stare at the gardens. “Have all the mattresses replaced. Pillows, cushions. Replace what can be replaced, get rid of what can't. Any furniture that reeks of sordid activities I want gone. This residence is to appear as though no one has ever been here save myself and that I have lived as chastely as a monk.”

“I shall see to it posthaste.”

“And ensure there is a servant on hand who knows how to attend to a lady.”

“Yes, sir.”

Avendale could hear the question in Thatcher's tone: Was the duke on the verge of taking a wife?

“That'll be all.”

“As you wish, sir.”

After Thatcher left, Avendale leaned against the window casement. He planned to entertain Mrs. Rosalind Sharpe in his residence in the very near future. He wanted her to feel comfortable, for everything to be to her liking, so the preparations needed to begin in earnest now.

She would not be an easy conquest, but conquer her he would.

L
ying in bed, Rose stared at the ceiling. She'd had a dreadfully fitful slumber, sleeping a mere two winks, if that.

It was blasted Avendale's fault she had grown so warm that at one point she'd considered divesting herself of her nightdress. Even knowing it was nigh impossible, she could have sworn that she still felt his lips moving so determinedly over hers. He'd displayed no hesitation as he guided his hands along her side. He was a man who knew precisely what he wanted. And he wanted her.

Over the years, other men had as well. She'd grown skilled at enticing them near, yet holding them at bay. She wasn't certain Avendale would be quite as easy to manipulate. He was dangerous, not likely to settle for the crumbs with which she was willing to part.

She would do well to seek out another benefactor, but Avendale fascinated her. “I will have you,” he'd said. As she wasn't likely to shake him off easily, she might as well embrace the challenge of besting him. Could be fun and include a few additional pleasantries. Kissing him was certainly no hardship. As long as she remained in control and held him to that, she thought she could gain everything she wanted.

A quick glance at the clock on the mantel revealed that it was midmorning. Tempted to pull the covers over her head to see if she could fall more easily into slumber, she resisted, knowing that Harry would be enjoying breakfast now. She should have checked in on him last night, but she'd had the insane notion that if he awoke he would be able to look at her and know the sort of mischief she'd been up to with Avendale, had even wondered if he might have caught the scent of the duke on her skin.

Guilt could certainly make her irrational.

She rolled out of bed and began to prepare for the day: washing up, brushing her hair and pulling it back, holding it in place with a ribbon, donning a simple blue dress that required no assistance. As soon as she was satisfied with her appearance she wandered down to the breakfast dining room.