The Duke and the Lady in Red (8 page)

“Aren't you accustomed to ladies asking you about yourself?”

“No, not really. The ladies whose company I keep generally want but one thing and it requires little conversation.”

“You never explore a lady's mind?”

“I find a lady's mind tedious. I prefer exploring other aspects of her.”

“I fear I'm rather insulted. I don't find my thoughts tedious at all.”

“Perhaps you shall prove an exception.”

They had reached a copse of trees. As he led her into them, she glanced over her shoulder. ­People were too far away for her to tell if they were paying attention to Avendale's destination. But what did it matter? Being alone with him was damaging enough. Although in the end, nothing would deter her from gaining what she wanted.

The boughs were thick with leaves, the sunlight dappled the ground. Avendale wrapped the reins around a low bush, before taking her into his arms and lowering his mouth to hers. She'd known the kiss was coming. Still the impact of it was a shock, because he did not go gently, but rather he ravished as though he were a man who'd been too long without sustenance.

Immediately her knees went weak even as she wound her arms around his neck. She backed up a step, another until her spine was pressed to bark and Avendale was flattening her breasts with his broad chest. His tongue conquered, possessed, luxuriated.

The velvety silkiness of it lured her, had her knocking off that blasted hat that kept far too much of him in shadows, had her running her fingers up into his hair, tugging on the coarse thick strands, holding him near, encouraging him to stay.

His hands skimmed her sides, her bottom, her hips. Down and around, up and over until at last one cupped her breast. In some far distant place she heard a moan, a whimper—­was that she?—­followed by a resounding growl of triumph. He flicked his thumb over her turgid nipple, causing it to ache for something more, causing every aspect of her body to ache for something more.

He dragged his mouth over her chin, down her neck until it met her collar and the hollow at her throat. “Why the devil do riding habits have to cover you up as though you're a blasted nun?” he ground out.

Thank God hers did, thank God, thank God. If she felt his heated mouth against more skin she thought her resolve might vanish and she would find herself giving him everything before she had the opportunity to weigh all the consequences.

Damn him for having the ability to kiss her senseless. Damn him for making her welcome him.

He nibbled on her lobe and there was that damned whimper again. Heat pooled between her thighs. Her fingers tightened on his hair.

“Come with me to my residence now,” he rasped.

Her voice seemed to have deserted her. She almost nodded in acquiescence. She would give him anything, anything, if he would but make the glorious ache go away, would return sanity to her senses. She knew, without doubt, that he held the power to bank the embers he was flaming to life.

“No,” she said, her voice rough and raw. “I told you. I require affection.”

“I'll give you more than you've ever known.”

Shaking her head, she somehow found the strength to shove on his shoulders. “No.”

The fire in his eyes frightened her—­not because it heralded anger, but because it was naught but smoldering passion. She saw the desperation with which he wanted her. She knew a moment of triumph, before she was swamped by a sadness she didn't understand. This man had everything: wealth, power, prestige, influence. He owned the world. He had handed her coins to gamble away.
It's only money.

All he had he took for granted. All he possessed meant so little to him.

And he wanted to possess her. In the possessing, she would cease to matter, would lose her value. She would become like the coins he gave away without compunction, without even bothering to count them.

“No,” she repeated, and watched the fire dim to smoldering acceptance.

“Attend the theater with me,” he said. “Tonight.”

She blinked. She'd expected him to curse her, to state his displeasure over her refusal. She'd not expected him to offer an invitation.

“I'm not available tonight,” she told him, uncertain where she found the wherewithal not to immediately jump to his bidding. She'd never been to the theater. The thought of going excited her. The thought of going with him excited her even more.

“Tomorrow,” he stated bluntly in a manner that sounded like an order.

She'd let him have that small victory. “Yes, I'd like that.”

“Give me the address of your residence. I'll pick you up in my coach at half past seven.”

She hesitated, but where was the harm in his knowing? While it might have seemed otherwise to him, she was as private as he was. After she gave him the address, he very slowly peeled away from her. She was surprised the imprint of his body didn't remain in the red wool of her attire.

Reaching down, he retrieved his hat and settled it on his head. Then he gave her a slow smile that made her think she might have misjudged his goal, that he had in fact gained precisely what he wanted.

“Tomorrow night then,” he said. “We shall make it one never to be forgotten.”

 

Chapter 6

W
ith affection.

Rose read the note again, then stared at two dozen of her namesakes that had been delivered in an exquisite crystal vase that Avendale must have purchased separately. Surely flowers were not normally delivered in something so fine.

She had told him she required affection, yet she could not help but believe that he was mocking her, although why would he risk upsetting her when he was striving to entice her into his bed? Reaching out, she feathered her fingers over one of the red petals.

“I don't trust a man what sends flowers,” Sally said.

“Only because Merrick has never sent you any.”

“Why would I?” he asked. “She knows I love her.”

“Sometimes a lady just likes to be reminded,” Rose said.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “There's better ways to remind her.”

“This duke is trying to win you over,” Sally said.

“Mayhap, although I suspect it's more habit than anything, something a gent does when he wishes to gain a woman's favor.”

“What does the note say?” Merrick asked. He was often into Rose's business far more than Sally ever was.

Rose tucked the folded parchment into the pocket of her skirt. “He merely provided his name so I would know who they were from.” He hadn't provided his name at all, yet still she'd known who had sent them. It wasn't because no other gentleman was vying for her attention. It was simply that she
knew
.

“We're going to the theater tonight,” she announced.

“Oh crimey, I've always wanted to go to the theater,” Sally said. “How did you manage to get us all admission?”

Rose felt a thud in the center of her chest. She hated to disappoint. “Sorry, love. I meant Avendale and I.”

Sally's face fell. “Of course. I was silly to think otherwise. What will you be wearing?”

“The red one without the flounces. I want to look sleek and elegant tonight.”

“Will you be telling Harry where you're going?” Merrick asked.

“Naturally. I don't keep secrets from him.”

He would be crestfallen as well that he wasn't going with her. He would love attending the theater. She would have to memorize every aspect of it.

If only Avendale wouldn't distract her.

A
s his well-­sprung coach traveled through the streets, Avendale found it odd that he was anticipating an evening at the theater. Even when he'd been spending time with the actress he hadn't looked forward to a night in his box with such expectation.

It was Rose. The challenge of her.

Most of the ladies he knew would be accommodating his every whim in hopes of becoming his duchess, while she challenged him at every turn. Because she was a commoner, because she knew he would never ask for her hand in marriage? She flirted with him, gave as good as she got. Because she wasn't a simpering miss. She was a woman with experience. She'd been married, survived the loss of a husband, was on her own now.

Hearing the driver call to the horses to stop, he glanced out at the residence to which they'd just pulled up. It was probably a fourth the size of his, but still large enough to accommodate several rooms. It appeared recently built.

His footman opened the door. Avendale stepped out just as Rose emerged elegantly from the residence. She was dressed in red again. Truly she should wear no other shade. Smiling, she hurried down the steps, along the short path, and through the gate.

“Normally a lady waits until the gentleman fetches her from inside,” he admonished lightly.

The bow of her mouth curved up as she squeezed his arm. “I was too excited to wait.”

“I would have been less than a minute.”

She rubbed where she had squeezed as though she feared she'd hurt him and now needed to offer comfort. “Don't chastise. I've never been to the theater. I don't want to dally a second longer. Shall we be off?”

Looking over her head at the residence, he was disappointed he'd not been allowed inside. He wanted to see the furniture, the paintings, the little touches that he was certain she would have added. He wanted more of a flavoring of her, and he'd thought he might discover additional information when he saw how she lived.

From windows on either side of the door, light spilled softly out into the night. Other than that, the windows were all shrouded in darkness, and yet he had the distinct impression that he was being observed. A nosy servant perhaps. Who else could it be?

“Avendale?” she chided, taking him from his thoughts.

“You are singular in purpose,” he said.

“Yes, quite. I've been looking forward to this evening all day.”

And preparing for it, he thought. Her red gown was a simple, sleek style that flattered her curves. The skirts were not so voluminous that he didn't have a good idea regarding the width of her hips. A velvet choker with a small cameo at its center circled her throat. She needed rubies, a host of them, spread across that bared décolletage. He thought about how much he would again enjoy removing the gloves that rode past her elbows. He wanted to free her blond tresses of the pearl combs that held them prisoner. Although he found no fault with the slender slope of her neck being exposed. His lips could find a home there.

After handing her up into the coach, he glanced back at the residence, thought he saw a drapery flutter in an upstairs window. Perhaps he would get a glimpse inside when he brought her home.

Leaping into the conveyance, he took the bench seat opposite hers. He'd had the lantern lit so he could enjoy her without the shadows intruding. It amazed him how much he enjoyed simply looking at her.

With a lurch, the horses took off. She sat there prim and proper, glancing out the window, watching the neighborhood go by as though she'd never seen it before.

“Your home seems hardly large enough to accommodate a ballroom,” he said.

With her eyes half lowered, she peered at him. “You shouldn't judge anything by its façade.”

“I suppose you have a point. But the neighborhood is nice. You seem to have managed quite well without the estate yet being settled.”

“That is all Beckwith's doing. He has vouched for me so businesses will extend me credit.”

“Two years seems a rather long time for matters not to be resolved.”

“I fear that is on me. I remained in India far too long striving to put my husband's affairs in order. Eventually I had to accept that it was beyond my skills, so I came to London. I spoke with Beckwith yesterday and he is most optimistic that he is very close to having all the little ducks lined up.”

“That's good.” Thinking of her husband's estate led him to thinking of her husband, which led him to—­“Do you have children?”

She smiled sadly. “No. We were not married all that long and sometimes it's just not meant to be.”

“How long were you married?”

“Nearly a year.”

He fought not to show his surprise. He was not impolite enough to ask her age, especially as the truth was that it mattered not one whit to him, but he reckoned her close in years to him, which meant she was on the shelf when she'd married.

“Married only once?” he asked.

“Only once. Probably only once for all eternity.”

“You're young. You don't see yourself marrying again?”

She shook her head. “My husband was a good man, a kind man, but he held all the power. I miss him terribly. I wish he hadn't died, but I have a bit more freedom now.” She gave him a dazzling smile. “To go to the theater, for example. He thought it would be a dreadful bore.”

“Most men do.”

“Do you?” she asked.

“Depends on the company. Tonight I do not think it shall be boring at all.”

He cursed the light for not being strong enough for him to see if she flushed. He suspected she did, that a pink hue would have risen up her chest, over her throat and cheeks like high tide. She glanced back out the window.

“Sometimes you frighten me,” she said softly.

He furrowed his brow. “Why? I'm not the sort who harms women.”

“But you go after what you want.” She turned back to him. “Relentlessly.”

“Not usually,” he admitted. “Not when it comes to women. I generally have them falling into my lap. Literally. Take it as a compliment that I am still in pursuit.”

“And if you knew for certain that you would not gain what you want?”

“There are no certainties in life except for death. So I shall simply have to work all the harder to change your mind.”

“You might be quite disappointed, Your Grace.”

“I rather doubt it, when it brings me such pleasure to be in your company, to be near enough to inhale your rose fragrance.”

“You might discover that I'm rather thorny.”

“I don't mind getting pricked when the rewards are watching such beauty unfurl.”

Her sweet laughter filled the confines of his coach, circled round, and settled somewhere within the depths of his soul. Other women had laughed in his presence, but he could not remember the sound of any of them. He would never forget hers. On lonely nights he would bring it out and examine it, recall it with such specificity that he would fully appreciate every note of it as though she were present.

He had a fleeting thought that one night with her would not be enough, that every facet of her would need to be explored from different angles. That she was composed of uncharted depths, that a man could never know all of her. He knew a momentary pang of jealousy that Sharpe had known her, had probably known her far better than Avendale ever would.

“Did you love him?” he heard himself ask, and wished he had bitten off his tongue instead, because he had no desire to come across as a jealous lover.

Her eyes widened in surprise, her head jerked back ever so slightly. “My husband?”

“Yes.”

“I would not have married him otherwise.”

Hardly an adequate answer. He wanted to know the depths of her love. Had she wept uncontrollably at his death, had she thought her life over, had she slept with his nightshirt, run her fingers through the hair in his brush, sniffed his cologne late at night? Had she done all the things that no woman would ever do for him?

He had known many women during his life, but he knew with complete confidence that not a one—­other than his mother—­had truly loved him. Liked him, yes, enjoyed him certainly. At his passing, they might feel a touch of sadness, but they would not mourn or weep or carry on. He envied Sharpe that this woman had mourned him.

Where the hell had those morose thoughts come from? He shook them off. He didn't need her love or even her affection. He wanted only her willingness, her desire, her passion.

The heart need not be involved at all. Better if it wasn't as their association would be short-­lived. Like an explorer who charted an island before reboarding his ship and going in search of something new and different to explore, Avendale bored easily. Always had.

It was her unwillingness to give in to him so easily that kept him tethered. Once she granted him access to the treasures, the quest would end, and with it the thrill of the chase. Without the thrill, nothing would hold him.

He saw the excitement brimming in her eyes as they neared Drury Lane. Her delight was almost contradictory to the woman he'd come to know. For an insane moment he thought how rewarding it would be to travel the world with her, to show her a thousand discoveries. What was he thinking? She'd journeyed through India. Yet never attended the theater. Interesting. What else had she not experienced? He was looking forward to finding out—­and to ensuring that she experienced them with him.

The coach came to a halt; the footman quickly opened the door. Avendale stepped out, then reached back to hand her down. For a moment as the streetlights lit her face, he thought he might have misjudged her age. She reminded him of a child unwrapping a gift on Christmas morning and discovering the doll she'd coveted. His gaze dipped to the gentle swells of her breasts. No, nothing about her reminded him of a child, but still he wouldn't mind that look of delighted discovery crossing her face while she was in his bed.

With her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, they made their way into the theater, and he was acutely aware of her head swiveling about as she took in everything, as though there wasn't an inch of the place that she wanted to escape her notice.

“I find it inconceivable that you've never attended a play,” he said.

“I've seen traveling performances, but nothing in a place as grand as all this. It's quite remarkable.”

“I can take no credit for it.”

“But you brought me, so you get credit for that.”

His box was near the stage. As Rose peered over the balcony, Avendale was glad that he was able to offer her such a splendid view. Smiling, she looked back at him, her eyes wide. “This must cost you a fortune.”

He shrugged. “I can't recall. I've had it for years. My man of business simply ensures that it is paid for.”

Her smile dimmed just a bit and something he couldn't quite place crossed over her features. “It must be wonderful not to have worry about something as mundane as pennies spent.”

Was that disapproval in her voice? Envy? Jealousy? He couldn't accurately identify it, but he was rather sure she was not pleased at the ease with which he acquired things. Nor did he understand why he felt this overwhelming need to ensure she understood that he could have anything he wanted.

“You're welcome to make use of my box anytime you like.”

She angled her head thoughtfully. “Even after you move on to giving your attentions to someone else?”

He would move on, he knew he would. He always did. And yet he couldn't quite envision it. “We'll discuss it when the time comes. Meanwhile, let's enjoy tonight, shall we?”