Page 29 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“Would I frighten him, do you think?”
It was difficult but she held his gaze, because she didn’t want him to suspect that Avendale might hurt him. “He’s a duke. I doubt he’s afraid of anything.”
Harry looked into the fire. “Will I ever meet him?”
“No, I don’t think so. We won’t be here much longer.” After experiencing a taste of Avendale’s talents, she couldn’t risk losing control again.
His gaze came back to fall heavily on her. “Do you love him?”
Even though her heart clutched at the question, even though she feared the next word she spoke would be a bit of a lie, she laughed lightly. “No.”
Not completely. But she could see the danger of it happening. A man as powerful as he, once he learned the truth, he’d take everything she held dear away from her.
“Because of me?” Harry asked.
“No, sweeting, because of him. His interest is purely—” God, the room was suddenly far too warm as she remembered where his interest had been earlier, where his hands, fingers, mouth had journeyed. “He’s a man who only enjoys the chase. It’s like that time when you and I went fishing and you insisted we toss the fish back after we caught them. The fun was in catching them, not keeping them.”
His brow furrowed. “He could have put his arms around you tonight and caught you.”
“It’s not quite that easy between men and women.” She needed them to tumble off this path before it became more awkward. “Shall I describe the theater to you?”
His eyes glittered with anticipation. “Yes, please.”
The towns they’d lived in before hadn’t had theaters, not that she would have taken Harry if they had. London offered so much more than any place else they’d visited. She was going to miss it when they left.
“Our seats were in the balcony and I could see everything. I memorized every detail.” As she began to elaborate, she couldn’t help but remember how difficult it had been to focus on them when she’d been acutely aware of Avendale studying her. She had been so cognizant of his presence filling the box, the nearness of his body. She was fairly certain he’d been bored with the play. Still she’d been unable to refrain from taking his hand during the climactic moment.
As much as she appreciated that Avendale had taken her, it saddened her that he took so much for granted. Had Harry been there, he would have been enthralled. It would have made attending the theater just a little bit sweeter.
It was an hour later before she bid Harry good night and retired to her bedchamber. Sally helped her prepare for bed. When all was done and Rose was again alone, she sat at the window and gazed out. She ran every moment of the night through her mind. Every subtle touch, every hungry look, every determined caress, every whisper. Her panting and gasping, his groans and encouragement. His holding her tenderly afterward as though he’d known how effectively he’d shattered her and how hard she was fighting to pull herself back together.
When she’d been struggling to regain control, to not beg him to take her away from everything, to do with her as he would. Her entire life had been lived for others, and he made her feel as though for once she came first, even as she recognized that it was his own selfish needs spurring him on. He wanted her. He would play any game to have her, just as she would embrace any tactic to best him.
She could not risk his gaining the upper hand again. Yet even as she sat there she knew how desperately she wanted him to have it. She cursed him long and hard for what he’d given her tonight. What woman could resist it? But she must, she would.
They would leave London sooner than she had planned, because she knew with certainty that he had the power to easily capture her, and once he did, all else would be lost.
Chapter 7
Avendale had never been a man obsessed. He didn’t care about anything enough to become obsessed with it. But he was obsessed with Rose.
She flittered into his thoughts, his dreams, his fantasies. His mind wandered to her at the oddest moments: while he was reading the newspaper over breakfast, sipping scotch, shaving, glancing out the window of his coach at the bustling city. He would see her in red, always in red. Sometimes in satin or silk, sometimes in a gossamer veil that swirled around her and taunted him with glimpses of what might lie beneath the cloth.
He had not called on her this afternoon, was debating whether to go to the club this evening, because he didn’t want her to know she had this power over him. But sitting at the desk in his library, when he closed his eyes, he could still feel her trembling in his arms. He wanted to be buried deep within her during that climactic moment, wanted to be flung off the same peak at the same—
“Avendale?”
His eyes flying open, he found himself staring at the Duke of Lovingdon, a man who had once shared his penchant for wickedness, but who had recently married and become as docile and uninteresting as a sheep.
Lovingdon arched a dark brow. “Am I disturbing you?”
“No, I was merely resting my eyes.” He waved his hand over the papers scattered across his desk. “I’ve spent the afternoon going over the tedious reports sent by my various estates’ managers.” He realized the afternoon was waning, dusk was settling in beyond the windows. He shot up out of his chair. “Scotch?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Avendale went to the marbled table, lifted a decanter, and poured its contents into two glasses. “What brings you here? Already bored with your wife?”
“Grace shall never bore me.”
