Page 20 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“Sounds as though it’syourpride that’s being puffed up here.”
Did Merrick have the right of it? She couldn’t deny that Avendale’s pursuit was a balm to her wounded soul, but it wasn’t affecting her decisions. They were as they’d always been: calculating and made without emotion. “My pride has nothing to do with it. As I said, he won’t give me up, but when the time comes we need to be able to move with urgency and to a location quite far away. I’m thinking Scotland, especially if I’m able to gain enough so we can live comfortably for a while without worrying about creditors or obtaining more funds. If you don’t like the way I keep food in your belly, clothes on your back, and a roof over your head, you’re welcome to leave.”
He scowled. “You know I won’t find anything better than this. Least you give me respect.”
“I ask only that you do the same of me.”
An hour later she was sitting astride Lily—the name she’d decided on for the horse—as the mare trotted along Rotten Row. It was a gorgeous afternoon. A slight breeze in the air, the sun warming her face. So many people were about. She recognized a few from her sojourns to the Twin Dragons. Three gentlemen tipped their hats to her. A couple of ladies smiled.
But she needed more.
Patience, she cautioned herself. The key was patience.
Then she saw him. He was here, trotting toward her on a large black horse. Magnificent. Avendale, not the horse. Although the beast was a beauty.
The thrill of his presence, the excitement of his nearing nearly toppled her from her saddle. Here was the more she wanted, the more she could never possess.
She wished circumstances were different, wished she were different. But if she were, she wouldn’t be here now, would have never met him. He was a duke and she was completely undeserving of his time and attention. But it didn’t stop her from craving it.
Slowing Lily to a walk, she gave no pretense that she was doing anything other than what she was: waiting for him to catch up to her. As he came closer, she pulled back on the reins, stopped.
Bringing his horse to a halt, he swept his hat from his head. “Rose.”
She loved the shortened version of her name on his lips. One syllable, but he said it in a way that was both provocative and sensual. Whatever was wrong with her, to be so affected, when others had called her that for most of her life? But no one else made her want to sway toward him. No one else made her heart patter against her ribs. No one else made her seriously consider adding fornication without benefit of marriage to her lengthy list of sins.
“Benjamin.”
He growled. “I knew I shouldn’t have shared that with you.”
“If you’re going to be familiar with me, it seems I should be equally familiar with you.”
“If you can’t call me Avendale, call me Whit.”
“Your mother calls you that. The last thing I want is for you to think of me as your mother.”
“The things I want to do with you ... trust me, my mother will be the farthest thing from my mind regardless of what you call me.”
The blatant sexual yearning in his eyes nearly had her sliding to the ground in a pool of heated desire. How was it possible that he affected her so with little more than a gaze? Never before had she wanted to run her hands up a man’s arms, over his shoulders, along his chest and back. Never had she wanted to see exactly what lay beneath his clothing, how it might be sculpted and shaped, how the lines might fan out and meet.
With a little nudge she urged her horse forward. Avendale—she could not think of him as Whit or even Benjamin as his title suited him much better—brought his horse round so it could plod along beside hers.
“How long will you be in London?” he asked.
She looked at him askance. “I intend to make it my home. I have found much here that ... appeals to me.” With any other man, the last sentence would have been a lie, spoken merely to give him reason to preen. But Avendale was not one for preening, and speaking honestly about her attraction to him served her purpose.
“I prefer you not stroke me with words, but with your hands.” He leaned over so far that she was surprised he didn’t topple from the saddle. “Or your mouth.”
She was quite certain she turned as red as her favorite evening gown. “You do take liberties with your innuendoes.” She wondered why she sounded so breathless, as though she were galloping over the green.
“You’re not untouched. I see no reason to mince words or to pretend that I want anything other than what I do.”
“Just because I’m no longer virginal does not mean that I don’t deserve to be wooed. I require affection.”
“I assure you that you won’t find yourself noticing any lack of affection.”
Those heated eyes again, the promise of passion that she feared would leave her scalded for life.
“Let’s stroll, shall we?” he asked.
