Page 15 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
She had the irritating notion that he was ashamed to be seen with her. “Would it be better to not isolate ourselves?” she asked, not bothering to hide her pique at being hidden away.
“I want to get to know you better,” he said. “Being away from the others suits my purpose.”
“They may think we’re up to no good.”
“They all know me well enough to know that I’m always up to no good.”
“You say that with such pride.”
“One must excel at something and I excel at being fodder for gossip.”
Had he no shame? How wonderful it must be to be in a position not to care what others thought. He nodded toward the footman or whatever the man was, and the servant quickly pulled out her chair.
Hesitating, she considered the other couples. Surely they were not all married, surely sitting with Avendale in a darkened corner would not cause damage to her reputation, to her goal. On the other hand, sitting in the shadows with him might make everything else moot, might allow her to gain what she wanted that much more quickly.
She sank onto the seat and proceeded to peel off a glove. Before she could blink, Avendale was kneeling beside her, taking her hand. “Allow me.”
She fought not to appear stunned. “Get up. People are likely to think you’re proposing marriage.”
“As I said, they know me well enough here, and so they know I’m not engaged in any such nonsense. Although before the night is done I intend to propose something quite wicked.”
His eyes smoldered as they met hers. With that devilish smile of his, how could she take offense? She couldn’t blame him for his forthrightness when she’d accepted his kisses the other night. In fact, she preferred it. The game he was playing was more honest than hers. “I believe, Your Grace, that you have mistaken me for a woman of questionable moral character. I assure you I am no light-skirt.”
“I’m counting on it.”
What the devil did he mean by that? Then all thoughts fled her mind as he slowly stroked a blunt-tipped finger along the inside of her upper arm, above the glove. Down. Up once more. Pleasure skidded along her skin, warmed her to the core.
When he reached the glove again, he began slowly rolling it down, the edge of his fingers caressing her skin, a hint of a touch, more a promise, until the supple kidskin was gathered at her wrist. She wondered if he could feel the throbbing of her pulse there.
Gently he tugged on each finger, until he finally peeled away the glove. He held her fingers, strength and assurance in his hold. He wasn’t cocky. She didn’t even think he could be classified as arrogant, but he was a man who understood his place in the world was at its peak, and he could not be toppled from it. She imagined his ancestors on a battlefield. They would have led the charge; even if they had been the last ones standing, they’d have not gone down in defeat. She had an insane realization that she should have stayed at the roulette wheel. The odds might have been with the house, but she thought she stood a better chance at beating them than beating him. Then again, she did so love a challenge, and outfoxing him would bring such satisfaction.
He took her other hand, gave the exact same ministrations to the skin above her elbow, caressing with soft deliberation before removing her glove. Only this time when he took her fingers, he turned her palm up and pressed a kiss to its heart. Her lungs froze. Everything within her told her to run, but she had run only twice in her life. The first time had resulted in failure and a beating. But she had learned the hard lesson. The second time, no one had been able to catch her.
In the years since, wisdom had taught her the value in standing her ground. He could only win if she let him. “You’re taking liberties you shouldn’t.”
He lifted his gaze to hers. She saw the amusement there, and a hint of victory. It appeared he was one to stand his ground as well. “This is a place of vice and sin. Ladies should comprehend the significance of that if they want entry.”
“You’re using me to set an example. That could be most dangerous, Your Grace.” Leaning over, she bussed a kiss against his cheek, before sliding her mouth to his ear and whispering in a low, sultry voice, “Know that two can play this game.”
Her kiss nearly unmanned him. Her words did the deed.
It took Avendale a moment to regain his bearings so he could stand to take his chair. He knew women who were coy. He knew women who didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were. But none of them were as straightforward as she. She would challenge him at every turn, but he welcomed it, was excited by the prospects. It had been a good long while since anything had excited him.
The footman came over and handed them each a card upon which the night’s delicacies were printed. “Will you want wine this evening?” he asked.
With an arched brow, Avendale met Rosalind’s gaze.
“Wine,” she said. “Red. I prefer heavier ones that linger on the tongue.”
Avendale thought of her tongue lingering on him, lapping at his throat, his chest, lower. Inwardly, he cursed the hoarseness in his voice when he ordered the most expensive bottle on hand.
When the wine was poured, he lifted his goblet to hers. “To making the most of the night.”
Her lips curled up slightly. “Well worth drinking to.” She tapped her glass against his, took a sip of wine, closed her eyes. “That’s marvelous.”
She opened her eyes, and he regretted that they were in shadows, that he couldn’t see the sapphire depths as clearly. When he made love to her, he would do so with lights blazing. He wanted to see the fire in her eyes, the passion, and ultimately the apex of pleasure.
He ordered the finest fare on the menu. For her, he wanted only the best. She was not some cheap bawd. She was like no woman he’d ever experienced.
