Page 105 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“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.
After 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
Avendale 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 ...”
