The Duke and the Lady in Red (31 page)

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight, sweeting?” she asked.

“Very much indeed.” He nodded toward Avendale. “I like them all, your friends. Especially Aphrodite. Even though I know you paid her to keep me company.”

“I offered. She refused. Seems she's never met anyone she likes more than she likes you. Perhaps she can keep you company some afternoon.”

“I would like that.”

“I'll send word to her tomorrow.”

Rose wasn't going to worry that Harry might be disappointed, that tonight's attentions had been merely a result of the occasion. He possessed an innocence, a charm that would appeal to the most hardened woman.

“When you do, address the missive to Annie,” Harry said.

“Who the deuce is Annie?” Avendale asked.

“That's her true name.”

Grinning, Avendale bowed his head slightly and lifted his glass, a warrior saluting an opponent who had bested him. “She never shared that with me. I'd say she liked you a great deal.”

Harry blushed, but looked remarkably pleased with himself. He was also extremely tired. Rose could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the listing of his head to one side.

“We should let you get some sleep.” As she rose to her feet, so did he. “We shall all sleep late in the morning. It's what one does after a night such as this.”

“It was a wonderful gift, Rose. A wonderful gift. For one night, I was normal.”

She hugged him hard. “To me, you're always normal. I love you, Harry.”

She felt the squeeze of his arms. “I love you, Rose.”

Leaning back, she smiled up at him. “Sleep well, my dearest.”

“I will.” Then he shook Avendale's hand. “Good night, my friend.”

“Good night, Harry. I'll have Gerald sent in.”

“Not yet. I'm going to write for a bit. I'll ring for him when I need him.”

“As you wish. We'll see you tomorrow.”

Reaching out, Rose squeezed Harry's hand. She didn't know why she was so reluctant to leave him. She might not have if Avendale's arm hadn't come around her, propelling her forward.

“The evening tired him out,” she said as they headed for the foyer and the stairs leading to his bedchamber.

“I believe it tired us all out.”

“Not completely,” she said, as she nestled against him. “I have enough energy left for you to tell me about your visit with your mother. I rather liked her.”

“The next time she invites me to dinner, we'll go.”

She released a weary laugh. “I can't go into your mother's home, sit at her table. I'm a criminal.”

“As were a good many of the ­people you met tonight—­at one time or another. One can change, Rose.”

“Not our past, not what is already done.”

“I wish you would tell me everything you've done.”

“Not now.” Never, if she had her way. “I don't want to ruin what has been a lovely night.”

“But for us it is not quite over.” He lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

A
fter dipping the pen into the inkwell, Harry scrawled out the final words, the ones that belonged at the front of the story but that he had waited until last to write. He was finished, in more ways than one. Glad to be done. Glad to have the story written. Sad about it as well, for now he had no purpose.

As he did every night, he wrote a letter to Rose and set it on top of the pages—­

Just in case.

 

Chapter 21

A
vendale had slept only a ­couple of hours when he awoke with Rose snuggled against him. He didn't want to disturb her, but he couldn't resist the temptation to skim his hand lightly up and down the bared skin of her arm. She didn't stir. She'd been so worried about Harry being exhausted that she'd overlooked the fact that she was as well.

With a lamp on the bedside table still burning, he was able to look down on her profile. How was it that she considered her features unremarkable? How was it that he had the first time he'd spied her?

If he were honest, he had to acknowledge that an armada of ships would never sail to reclaim her for her beauty, but they might damned well sail to reclaim her for her courage, her grit, her determination, her unwillingness to be cowed. She always stood her ground with him. He wasn't certain he'd ever met a woman more his equal.

And dammit all to bloody hell, he'd fallen in love with her.

Probably that first night when she had turned to refuse the champagne he was offering. He'd recognized the refusal in her eyes before she'd assessed him, the acceptance afterward. Or perhaps it had been when she'd told him that she held all the cards. Such cocky confidence.

He loved that aspect to her. No mewling miss.

He had begun to fall in love with her long before he knew the truth about her, but when he had uncovered her secrets, his feelings for her had merely cemented. Would she honor the bargain to its full extent? If he wanted her with him forever, would she be willing to stay that long?

Or had she made the bargain expecting their time together to be short?

A soft rap on the door stopped him from driving himself mad with the questions and speculations. Easing out of bed, he snatched up his silk robe and drew it on as he padded to the door. Opening it, he found Gerald standing there. The man's face said it all.

“Your Grace—­”

“It's all right. I'll be down shortly.” Closing the door, he pressed his forehead to the wood. Why did it hurt so much? If only he could spare Rose—­

“Is it Harry?” she asked softly.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her sitting up in bed, the covers clutched to her chest. “I'm so sorry, Rose.”

Pressing her lips into a straight line, she nodded. “Right. There are things that will need to be done.”

She tossed back the covers. He crossed over, sat on the edge of the bed, gently folded his hands over her shoulders to still her actions. “You've kept an upper lip for years, I suspect ever since you were accused of dropping your brother. You don't have to keep an upper lip for me.”

She shook her head. “Avendale . . .”

He held her gaze. “You don't have to put on a show of being strong for me.”

“If I don't,” she rasped, “I shall fall apart.”

“I'll catch you and help you put yourself back together.”

Tears began welling in her eyes. A loud, harsh sob that sounded as though it came from the pit of her soul broke free. Then another. Another. Holding her tightly as her shoulders shook with the force of her grief, he rocked her and cooed her name.

While his own heart broke at her anguish.

H
arry looked at peace. That was what Rose thought as she sat on a footstool beside the chair where her brother had begun the journey for his final rest. She'd been holding his hand for nearly half an hour now. For at least twice that, she had wept within Avendale's embrace.

She would have to send word to Merrick and the others, but she was not yet prepared to pen the missive. No, she wouldn't write them. She would tell them in person. They had loved Harry nearly as much as she had. He had loved them.

“Rose, the coroner is here,” Avendale said quietly, yet firmly.

Nodding, she got to her feet, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead. “No more boulders, my love. No more pain. But oh how you shall be missed.”

She looked at Avendale. “I should go see Merrick now.”

“I need to show you something first.” With his arm around her shoulders, he led her from her brother's bedchamber to the small library where Harry had written, read, and indulged in spirits.

“I do hope he finished his story,” she said.

“I believe he did.”

He escorted her to the desk. On top of the neat stack of papers was a folded piece of parchment with her name on it. Very carefully she opened it.

My dearest Rose,

For some time now I have written a letter to you every night. In the morning, if it was not needed, I would burn it. I suppose that if you are reading this one that it was needed.

The life I shared with you has come to a close. I will not be so selfish as to ask you not to weep, but I do hope that you will also smile. For I have gone to that beautiful place with the beautiful ­people you used to tell me about.

I know you believe that life was not kind to me, but it was, you see, because it gave me you.

I finished my story, Rose. Last night in the wee hours. Although it is really our story, perhaps even more your story, which is why I wanted the duke to read it. I think you love him. I also think he loves you, although I am not sure he is a man who would voice the words. You wouldn
't believe them if he did. I do not know why you always thought yourself unlovable, while I—­as hideous as I was—­never considered myself so. But then I always had your love and was able to view myself through your eyes. I wish I could have done the same for you.

Please thank the duke for the grand time I had in his company. He gave me so many gifts but best of all, he gave me his friendship. That above all else, I treasured and took with me. That and your love. Hopefully mine stayed with you.

Read the book now, Rose.

Always,

Harry

Without glancing at Avendale, Rose folded up the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. Harry was wrong about Avendale loving her. He hadn't known about the bargain she had struck with the duke. “He treasured your friendship.”

“As I did his.”

She really hadn't expected them to get along so famously. Looking down at the stack of papers, she touched her fingers to it. “He said he finished.”

“I thought he was close to the end. He asked me to return to him what he'd given me. I assumed he wanted to put it all together. Are you going to read it?”

She looked at the title written in his perfect penmanship. He'd always been so proud of it. “He said I should read it now.”

She moved the first page away, and tears filled her eyes as she read the words.

This story is dedicated to my sister, my perfect Rose.

She shook her head. “I was not perfect.”

“To him you were.”

Stepping into Avendale's embrace, she welcomed his arms closing around her and wondered if a time would ever come when her heart would not ache.

 

Chapter 22

O
ver the next few days the ache did lessen as Avendale's staff took the time to offer her their condolences. Merrick, Sally, and Joseph wept almost as much as she did. They were with her in the parlor when those who had been part of their night at the Twin Dragons had stopped by. Those who had managed the games, played the music, served the food. Then all of Avendale's family, friends, and acquaintances who had been there that evening. They spoke fondly of their time with Harry, shared parts of the night that Rose hadn't realized had occurred—­card games and laughter. He had been in their lives but a short while and yet it seemed he'd left an indelible mark never to be forgotten.

Rose thought it a lovely legacy.

Harry was laid to rest in a garden cemetery surrounded by beauty. She was not surprised, as Avendale had seen to the arrangements. It seemed where her brother was concerned he was determined not to spare any expense.

When she wept, he comforted her. When she couldn't sleep, he held her. When she walked the gardens, he provided an arm upon which she could lean. One day rolled over into the next until a fortnight had passed, and she knew it was time that she forced away the melancholy. She had made a pact with Avendale to be with him however he wanted for as long as he wanted. Surely he didn't want this mourning woman.

She was standing in front of the fountain when she heard the footfalls over the cobblestones. Glancing at Avendale, she smiled. In spite of her sadness, she was always glad to see him, although for some strange reason he was carrying the silver bowl littered with invitations that usually remained in the foyer.

“Enjoying the fountain?” he asked.

“It is odd, but my favorite memories of Harry occurred while he was in your residence. Every aspect of it reminds me of him. You truly went above and beyond to make his final days grand. I'm not certain I'd ever seen him smile so much. I don't know how to thank you.”

“I don't want your gratitude,” he said gruffly.

“Yet still you have it.” She nodded toward the bowl. “What are you doing with that? I've never seen you give it a glance.”

“While I've seen you give it a hundred. Every time we go into the foyer, your gaze darts over to it. And I've wondered: Is it the beauty of the bowl that fascinates you or what it holds?”

The beauty of what it contained: to have so many who wanted him in their lives. Did he even grasp how precious that was? “You receive countless invitations, and yet you ignore them all.”

“Perhaps it's time I stopped.”

She thought she could hear each drop of water pinging into the fountain. Not that she blamed him for having enough of her. She wasn't keeping to their bargain by giving him what he wanted, because surely he didn't want the sad creature she'd become.

“You'll send mothers' hearts a-­fluttering with the hope that you're searching for a wife.” While her own might cease to beat.

“I'm not searching for a wife but rather something that might bring you some happiness. Have you ever been to a ball, other than the one at the Twin Dragons?”

The lie hung on her tongue but she couldn't spit it out. “I've attended country dances, but I suspect they pale in comparison to a ball hosted by someone in the aristocracy.”

He extended the bowl. “Pluck out an invitation and it's the one we'll accept.”

Scoffing, she rolled her eyes at him. “You can't take me to a ball.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing I'm in mourning.”

“Which Harry would heartily disapprove of. You would know that if you read his book. Have you even started it?”

“I can't. It's too soon.”

“Trust me, then. He would be sorely disappointed.” He shook the bowl.

“Avendale, this is wrong on so many levels. I'm your mistress.”

“I don't think of you as such.”

“Lovers?” she asked pointedly.

“I can't deny that.”

“Semantics, then, because they are one in the same.”

­“People take their lovers all the time.”

“With a past as wretchedly filled with deceit as mine?”

“Why do you keep flaying yourself with the past?”

“I know what it is, I know what I've done.” Taking a deep breath, she held his gaze. “I know who I am.”

He skimmed his fingers over her cheek. “I know you as well, know how stubborn you are. I won't push you on this, but I've decided you should have a new gown anyway. Don't bother to protest that you're in mourning. You promised to do anything I wanted, so the black must go. I want to see you in red again. Something new and vibrant. We'll leave for the seamstress in half an hour.”

With that, he turned on his heel and marched off, leaving her to stare after him. Stubborn man. Blast him for using the bargain against her. Still, a thread of excitement thrummed through her, a sense of being alive again. She looked back at the fountain, at the ­couple lost in a heated embrace.

Perhaps tonight she would dance in the cascading water.

W
hile the coach traveled through the streets, Avendale sat across from Rose, which gave him a clear and enticing view of her. He was glad to see that some color had returned to her cheeks. She wasn't one to care about acquiring things for herself—­otherwise she would have snapped up the jewelry he gave her—­but he did think it was doing her some good to get out of the residence.

She would always miss her brother. There was no hope for otherwise. Damnation, but he missed Harry, so he knew it was far worse for her. He was always listening for the echo of a walking stick meeting the parquet flooring, the shuffling of large feet. He waited for the welcome interruption that would never come again.

Strange, the influence that one person could make in such a short time.

Although he didn't know why he was surprised. It hadn't taken Rose long to have absolute sway over him. He loved her. It was an emotion he'd never thought to experience, and sometimes he wished he didn't because it brought with it as much pain as it did joy. He hurt when she hurt. When sorrow visited her, it visited him. But when she smiled, it was as though that smile encompassed his entire body, his entire being. He would do whatever was required to return the smiles to her—­even if it meant taking her to a boring ball.

It had pleased him to discover that he'd accurately read the longing in her gaze whenever she looked at the silver bowl. He could give her an incredible life, filled with balls, dinners, and elegance. Yet he suspected that for her one ball would be enough. Then she would again yearn for freedom.

“I needed this outing, I think,” she finally said. “I feel as though I can breathe again, as though the oppressive weight of grief is lifting.”

“You do seem a bit perkier.”

“What woman doesn't perk up at the thought of a new gown?”

“You don't.”

She blushed. “You read me too well, even better than Harry did.”

“I've had considerable practice. I suspect you lied to me more than you did to him.”

“Only when necessary. But you're right. I've always viewed clothing as a tool, going for something that would serve as a distraction. Now I want something that pleases you. It'll be a new experience.”

“I've never watched a woman be fitted for a gown.”

“And you won't today. I want to surprise you.” She arched a brow. “It will be red, but other than that you'll have to wait until I'm ready to wear it. So you'll need to entertain yourself elsewhere this afternoon.”

He would do so by purchasing something for her. Not that he was going to tell her that. She wasn't the only one wanting to provide a surprise.

“I suspect Merrick and the others will need to seek employment,” he said casually.

She tilted up the corners of her lips, and in her smile he saw understanding and assurance. “Yes. I need to speak with them, explain that I won't be providing for them anymore. It's time for them to make their own way again, although I suspect they know it. It was Harry that kept us together. While they saw to his care, I was more than happy to see after their needs. But he doesn't need their care anymore.”

“The lease on the residence is paid for two more months.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “When did you do that?”

He lifted a shoulder. “In the beginning. I didn't want you to feel as though you had to run off immediately after our original bargain was met.”

Her smile grew. “They'll appreciate it. You might win Merrick over yet.”

“Not my goal.” Keeping her happy was.

W
hen the coach came to a halt, Rose was surprised by the anticipation humming through her. As Avendale handed her down, she took a moment to glance around—­

Trepidation sliced through her as she saw a man emerge from a hansom cab, but she kept her expression neutral, her smile soft. Not too big, not too small. Just right.

Give nothing away. Not to Avendale, not to the man, not to anyone passing by.

“There's a bookshop nearby,” Avendale said. “I'll browse through there for a while, be back in an hour for you. Will that be enough time?”

“It should be plenty.”

He turned for the coach.

“Avendale?”

He looked back at her.

“All you've done for me, for Harry, means everything to me.”
You mean everything to me.
But she couldn't leave those words with him. He'd think they were a lie, and she didn't want him thinking their final words of parting were a lie.

“Rose—­”

“I know you don't want my gratitude, but you have it all the same.” Rising up on her toes, she brushed a kiss over his lips. He couldn't have looked more taken aback if she'd disrobed on the crowded street. She gave him a saucy smile. “I couldn't resist. I'll see you in a bit.”

Wishing she could have given him a more heartfelt and proper good-­bye, she strolled into the shop and stood at the window until the coach disappeared from view. Knowing she would never see him again caused a harsh ache in the center of her chest. She turned to the proprietor. “Is there a back way out?”

The dark-­haired woman arched a brow. “Trouble with your lover?”

So the woman had seen the kiss. Not that it mattered. Rose was never going to see her again. “A bit. Can you help me?”

“I shouldn't. Avendale is a powerful man.”

“You know him?”

“He asked me to make a ball gown for a very small woman. He seems to have quite diverse tastes in women.”

Rose didn't have time for this, for denying or confirming such an accusation. Glancing back out the window, she saw the man leaning against a lamppost studying his nails. Straightening her spine, she delivered her most formidable look. “I'm powerful as well. I'll find my way.”

As she went through to the back, she ignored the women stitching away, the one woman being measured. The door came into sight. Without hesitation Rose went through it and into the alley. She hurried down it until she reached a street, turned—­

And slammed into a brick wall. Arms banded around her and she dropped her head back to stare at a mouth curled up into an insidious smile.

“Well, if it ain't Mrs. Pointer.”

“Mr. Tinsdale. I don't suppose you'd unhand me?”

He unwound his beefy arms but his large hand immediately wrapped painfully around her wrist, not that she was about to give him satisfaction by crying out, but with the tiniest pressure he could snap her bone in two. “How did you know where to find me?”

“With your brother's death, the others weren't so careful with their comings and goings as they sought to comfort you and themselves. I even followed you all to the cemetery. Once I figured out where you were, I just had to bide my time until the big bloke weren't around. You were living quite swell. But now you're mine.”

A
s Avendale browsed the books, he realized that he didn't know what sort of story Rose preferred. He would have liked to purchase her a book, but suspected most of her selections were based on her brother's preferences. Better to go with jewelry. Something simple this time. A cameo. A brooch. A choker. A ring.

The possibilities tumbled through his mind as he left the shop and climbed into his coach. It hadn't been quite an hour since he left Rose, but arriving early might provide the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what she wanted in a gown. He imagined it would be less revealing, a little more demure. She had no reason to distract him now.

Not that she could if she tried. He was on to her, knew her moods, her movements, her expressions. In the days following Harry's death, an honesty had developed between them, a bond had strengthened. He'd never known anything like it. She could rely on him wholeheartedly. He wanted to be there for her—­during the good times and the bad.

The coach drew to a halt and he leaped out as soon as the door was opened. He strode into the shop, surprised not to see Rose looking over fabric samples.

“Your Grace,” the proprietor said, with a small curtsy.

“Mrs. Ranier, I've come for Miss Longmore.”

“She is not here, Your Grace.”

“Did you finish up quickly then?”

“We did not even begin. She came in through the front door, departed through the back one, with hardly two minutes in between.”

Surely he'd not heard properly; the woman wasn't communicating well. “She left through the back?”

“Yes. She implied she was having trouble with her lover. I assumed she meant you as I saw the kiss just beyond my windows. Quite scandalous.”

He took a step toward her, not certain what his expression conveyed, but she hopped back. “Are you telling me that she came in here and immediately left, using the alleyway?”

“I am, Your Grace.”

He almost asked her why, but the woman wouldn't know. Although he did.
Help me make whatever time my brother has left as pleasant as possible. Afterward, you can ask anything of me and I
'll comply. I'll stay with you as long as you want
. She'd even offered to sign her name in blood. She'd turned to him in her hour of need and he'd been fool enough to fall for her lies. It was inconceivable, unconscionable that she would swindle him again—­