The Duke and the Lady in Red (10 page)

As much as she appreciated that Avendale had taken her, it saddened her that he took so much for granted. Had Harry been there, he would have been enthralled. It would have made attending the theater just a little bit sweeter.

It was an hour later before she bid Harry good night and retired to her bedchamber. Sally helped her prepare for bed. When all was done and Rose was again alone, she sat at the window and gazed out. She ran every moment of the night through her mind. Every subtle touch, every hungry look, every determined caress, every whisper. Her panting and gasping, his groans and encouragement. His holding her tenderly afterward as though he'd known how effectively he'd shattered her and how hard she was fighting to pull herself back together.

When she'd been struggling to regain control, to not beg him to take her away from everything, to do with her as he would. Her entire life had been lived for others, and he made her feel as though for once she came first, even as she recognized that it was his own selfish needs spurring him on. He wanted her. He would play any game to have her, just as she would embrace any tactic to best him.

She could not risk his gaining the upper hand again. Yet even as she sat there she knew how desperately she wanted him to have it. She cursed him long and hard for what he'd given her tonight. What woman could resist it? But she must, she would.

They would leave London sooner than she had planned, because she knew with certainty that he had the power to easily capture her, and once he did, all else would be lost.

 

Chapter 7

A
vendale had never been a man obsessed. He didn't care about anything enough to become obsessed with it. But he was obsessed with Rose.

She flittered into his thoughts, his dreams, his fantasies. His mind wandered to her at the oddest moments: while he was reading the newspaper over breakfast, sipping scotch, shaving, glancing out the window of his coach at the bustling city. He would see her in red, always in red. Sometimes in satin or silk, sometimes in a gossamer veil that swirled around her and taunted him with glimpses of what might lie beneath the cloth.

He had not called on her this afternoon, was debating whether to go to the club this evening, because he didn't want her to know she had this power over him. But sitting at the desk in his library, when he closed his eyes, he could still feel her trembling in his arms. He wanted to be buried deep within her during that climactic moment, wanted to be flung off the same peak at the same—­

“Avendale?”

His eyes flying open, he found himself staring at the Duke of Lovingdon, a man who had once shared his penchant for wickedness, but who had recently married and become as docile and uninteresting as a sheep.

Lovingdon arched a dark brow. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No, I was merely resting my eyes.” He waved his hand over the papers scattered across his desk. “I've spent the afternoon going over the tedious reports sent by my various estates' managers.” He realized the afternoon was waning, dusk was settling in beyond the windows. He shot up out of his chair. “Scotch?”

“I wouldn't mind.”

Avendale went to the marbled table, lifted a decanter, and poured its contents into two glasses. “What brings you here? Already bored with your wife?”

“Grace shall never bore me.”

Avendale heard the absolute conviction in the words. He couldn't envision having such faith in one person, to know her so well. He had once had the same belief in his mother, but it had been a childish thing. He suspected Lovingdon would one day find his belief in Grace tested. He hoped not, but in his experience ­people were created to disappoint. Turning, he handed Lovingdon his glass, clinked his against it. “Cheers.” He savored a deep swallow before asking, “Then what brings you here?”

“Curiosity. I saw you at the theater last night.”

With a groan, grateful for the muted light of evening, Avendale dropped into a chair near the window. Lovingdon joined him. Both men stretched out their legs, lounged in comfort. They had been friends too long to pretend manners mattered between them.

“She was quite lovely. I can't recall ever seeing you with a woman who appeared respectable at first blush,” Lovingdon said.

“She is a widow,” he felt obligated to explain. “I intend to teach her that respectability is overrated.”

“Who was her husband?”

“Some chap named Sharpe. She's a commoner. I doubt we knew him.”

“A commoner, a widow, and a woman who is for the moment respectable. Not your usual fare.”

“She makes me feel as though I have spent my life sampling pudding. She is something far richer, far more tasty.”

“Where does she hail from?”

“I'm not really sure. Her husband died in India. A tiger apparently fancied him for a meal.”

“Recently?”

“Two years ago. Not to worry. She's properly out of mourning.”

“I'm not sure anyone really comes out of mourning. They simply learn to live without the ones they loved and lost.” Lovingdon would know. He'd lost his wife and daughter. But then he'd found Grace and seemed to be embracing life again. He learned forward, planted his elbows on his thighs, and turned his glass between his hands. “It's not my place to say—­”

“Then don't say,” Avendale suggested.

Lovingdon lifted his gaze. “I know it would not be intentional, but you could do irreparable harm if she is not ready.”

He wondered if he'd already done so, last night in the coach. No, he didn't believe he had. She had been taken aback by what had happened, but only because she hadn't experienced it before. She hadn't wept or slapped him or called him a blackguard. “She strikes me as being quite strong. I won't harm her.”

“As I said, it wouldn't be intentional.”

Avendale swirled his scotch, downed it. “Why do you care?”

“For as long as I have known you, last night was the first time that you looked as though you were precisely where you wanted to be.”

“Theater? I abhor theater.”

“But not the woman you were with.”

Avendale came out of the chair, returned to the marble table, and refilled his glass. “Because I want her, Lovingdon. I want her in my bed as I've never wanted anyone else.” Turning he met his friend's gaze. “And I intend to have her.”

T
hanks to Lovingdon's visit, Avendale was in a foul mood when he entered through the doors of the Twin Dragons. He wanted a private card game where the stakes were high and the men at the table ruthless. He didn't care if his finances took a beating, preferred it in fact. He'd almost gone to Whitechapel in search of a brawl. He felt like taking a pounding. He felt like—­

Pounding into her.

His Rose was here. Somehow he'd known she would be. She wasn't innocent as Lovingdon insinuated, she wasn't going to get hurt. She was a widow who had obviously not experienced life to the fullest, and so she came here, just as he did, searching for something that would fill the emptiness inside.

He would very much like to fill her. He could avail himself of one of the secluded rooms. Drake wouldn't object. But Avendale wanted her in
his
bed. He wanted her scent lingering there after she left.

He began striding toward her. She was standing near the roulette wheel. Close enough to observe, but not near enough to have placed a wager. He'd never understood the pleasure to be found in simply watching. If nothing was at risk, where was the excitement, the thrill? Even losing was better than not having participated at all.

As he approached, she glanced over, smiled, but there was an oddness to the upturn of her lips that he couldn't quite place. He might have attributed it to an uncomfortableness with him after last night, but he thought if that were the case, she'd have not come here at all, knowing in all likelihood he'd be present. But then he also thought her pride wouldn't allow her to cower in her residence. No, she would face him, but she would do it with a challenge in her blue eyes and a lifting of her chin.

Something else was amiss. He'd bet his life on it.

He realized that his gloved hand rested on the small of her back, that it had gone there of its own accord as soon as he'd reached her. He resisted the urge to snatch it away, but allowed it to settle into place, to claim her. She didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at his forwardness. He wondered if she'd object if he leaned down and captured those lips as he desperately wished to do.

Probably.

Although he'd welcome the reaction. From the beginning her vibrancy had appealed to him. She seemed to have misplaced it tonight. And that bothered him. Not so much that it was absent, but the reason behind its disappearance. He didn't like knowing that something—­or someone—­had caused her to wilt. Not that he was considering taking up the role of being her champion. That had never been his way. Truth be told, he was usually the one who caused the wilting.

Not that he was particularly proud of that realization at the moment. But he did know that her present state was not because of his actions the night before—­unless she'd spent the day battling the demons of propriety and piety. “What's wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head slightly. “Nothing.”

A lie. He prided himself on his ability to read women, not that he'd ever found her particularly easy to read—­which meant that she wanted him to read her. It was not in his nature to prod and dig until he uncovered the reason behind a woman's strange mood. They came, usually with no reasonable explanation. A woman's moodiness never appealed to him. He generally walked away and found someone more fun, more obliging, less complicated.

But he couldn't walk away from her.

Not yet at least, not until he'd had her in his bed. It was that unfulfilled need that kept him anchored to her side. “Why aren't you gambling?”

She lifted a bare shoulder. “I don't believe I shall tonight. I simply needed to be surrounded by those having a jolly good time.”

“What's wrong, Rose?” he repeated, prodded against his better instincts.

Something that seemed to resemble remorse flickered in her eyes before she averted her face as though she feared he could read the answer there. “It's nothing really.”

“If it's nothing, then why are you bothered by it?”

She paled just a bit, glanced around as though she were expecting great hulking beasts to suddenly descend on her. “This isn't the place to discuss it.”

“Then let's be away. My coach is here.”

Relief washed over her face. He was certain she was going to acquiesce. Instead she said, “It's nothing with which to concern yourself. You should go play cards.”

He was aware of the speculative looks being cast their way. At any moment they were going to be interrupted by the curious and prying. “I'm afraid I must insist.”

Pressing his palm against the small of her back, he managed to communicate his willingness to make a scene if she insisted. She didn't. She moved with him, small, slow steps. “Avendale, I really don't want to bother you.”

“It's no bother,” he assured her.

He escorted her out of the building and ordered the young man standing outside the door to fetch his coach. While he and she waited, they spoke not a word. As he had yet to remove his hand from her back, he felt the shiver go through her. It was a cool night, but not overly so. He slipped his arm around her shoulders to offer her more protection from the slight breeze.

“This is inappropriate,” she said.

“We've just exited a gaming hell. Seems a bit late to worry overmuch about what is appropriate.”

“I suppose you have a point,” she said, and moved in closer to his side.

He was not renowned for his ability to give comfort, but at that precise moment he wished he'd devoted more of his energies to mastering the skill. Whatever was bothering her needed to be set to rights.

His coach arrived, and he helped her inside. While he was tempted to sit beside her, he knew that choice could lead to a distraction that neither could afford at the moment. Not until he got the truth from her. So he wisely took the bench opposite her, stretched out his legs on either side of hers.

The coach jarred forward, the horses moving at a slow, steady pace.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Around the city, hither and yon, until such time as we decide on a destination.” Until she was ready to come to his residence, his bed. He couldn't recall ever leashing his need so tightly. He wanted her, but he wanted her without furrows in her brow and something resembling defeat in her eyes. “I can wait all night.”

She lifted her gaze to his. “Why are you interested in my troubles?”

“It's hardly a tempting seduction if your mind is elsewhere.”

“You surprise me, Your Grace. I assumed you only cared about the physical aspects of a woman.”

Normally he did. She was different. He didn't know why. It irritated him, confounded him, but the truth was he wanted every aspect of her involved. Every hair on her head, every thought in her mind. “Pleasure can be much more intense when it is the sole focus of one's efforts, when there are no distractions to plague us. So while it may seem I am being kind, it is pure selfishness on my part. I believe that bedding you will be a truly remarkable experience, but not if all of you isn't in my bed.”

Her lips twitched, eased into a smile. “I believe what I like best about you is your forthrightness.”

“I like that aspect about you as well. So be forthright.”

She clasped her gloved hands together, knitted her fingers tightly together. “Will you extinguish the flame in the lamp? It is better said in the dark.”

Most confessions were, or so he'd heard. He was not one for giving them or listening to them. She was turning his world topsy-­turvy. Perhaps he would have two nights with her. He blew out the flame, settled back, and waited.

“This is so difficult, so foolish,” she said quietly, her voice lyrical in the near-­dark.

He could hear every subtle nuance, and wondered why he'd never noticed that she spoke in what seemed to be a mosaic of accents. Perhaps she was more traveled than he thought, her journeys not limited to India as she'd implied. Perhaps he would inquire again when this was done, but then what difference did it make?

“I can't see you being foolish,” he said, truth in his words. She might be a lot of things, but he didn't think foolish was one of them.

“Naive is perhaps a better word.” He heard her swallow, but he could see little more than the shadows dancing around her silhouette as light from the streetlamps flowed in and retreated. “I misjudged how long it would take for my husband's estate to be settled, for all that he left me to come into my hands. I've spent quite liberally on credit, expecting to cover my debt with my inheritance. But it has yet to arrive and the creditors are losing patience.”

“Have they threatened?”

He thought he saw a nod.

“Yes, I fear so,” she said.

“What does Beckwith say?”

“That it shouldn't be much longer, and he has helped where he can, has even lent me a tidy sum, but it's not enough. I don't want to run, I don't want to be cowardly. I know I must face the consequences, but the thought of prison—­”

“One can no longer be imprisoned for debt.”