Page 25 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“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.”
