Page 34 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“Sneaking off somewhere, Mrs. Sharpe?” a deep voice, one she knew far too intimately, asked from behind her.
Spinning around, she found herself squarely facing Avendale. God help her. She was surprised the fury burning in his dark eyes didn’t ignite her on the spot.
Avendale was livid.
It had nagged at him—that he’d never been able to read her accurately until tonight. Suddenly it had been as though she’d opened the book of her soul to him for a private viewing.
He’d been vain enough to think that he possessed amazing powers of observation, that he had come to know her, understand her. He’d even dared to consider that there might be something more between them than the physical, that she stirred something to life that had been dead for far too long.
He’d been playing a private game with several lords, Lovingdon, and his wife, Grace. Grace, who was so damned skilled at cheating, who could make you believe she was bluffing until you had wagered everything of value knowing—knowing—it would all be yours, only to watch with a muttered curse as she turned over her cards, smiled victoriously, and swept everything into her little pile of ill-gotten gains.
Suspicion had reared its ugly head and he’d begun to suspect that he might have been playing another game entirely from the moment he’d spied the lady in red walking into the club. If a lady wanted to swindle someone, she would be wise to select a fellow who wouldn’t ask too many questions because all his interest rested in lifting her skirts, a known womanizer, a scapegrace with a reputation for having a singular purpose in life: pleasure.
That treacherous wench now angled her chin. “I returned home to a missive from my husband’s mother. She’s taken ill—”
“Don’t,” he commanded, his voice low, feral. “Don’t further insult me with more lies.”
“I didn’t lie. I am in debt. It’s only that five thousand isn’t nearly enough.”
The giant—the man had to be at least seven feet tall—who had been hoisting trunks, bags, and boxes onto the top of the carriage, blinked in wonder. Obviously he’d not been privy to the amount.
“What would be?” Avendale asked.
He could see the shrewdness in her eyes as she calculated. The bitch. He’d bet all he owned that she wasn’t calculating her debt but how much he would willingly part with and the odds that she could convince him that she was a frightened woman instead of a conniving one.
She licked her lips, opened her mouth—
A small man stepped out from behind her skirts. A dwarf and a giant. Avendale was the fool she’d added to her odd mix of curiosities.
“Give him back the money, Rose,” the little man said.
“Merrick—” she began.
“The money is yours for a week,” Avendale interrupted, determined to regain and retain the upper hand in this situation.
Giving her attention back to him, she laughed. “What good is it to me if I have it for only a week?”
“I was referring to your spending a week with me.”
“In your bed, I presume.”
“Goes without saying.”
“You want me to be your whore for a week?”
“Better than a thief. I’ll call in Scotland Yard for a thief.” It seemed he was intent on proving the full extent of his idiocy. If she gave back the money she was still going to leave and he would lose his leverage. He had a feeling this Merrick fellow could convince her to give back every ha’penny. Something in the small fellow’s voice when he spoke to Rose alerted Avendale they had been friends for a good many years. He didn’t want to consider that they might be more than that.
Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter how many men she’d had. He’d enjoyed his fair share of women. He wasn’t hypocrite enough to hold it against her if she welcomed other men into her bed. Besides, when it came to pleasuring her, he’d already won that contest, and he had shared only the beginning. Her reaction in the coach had contained too much surprise for it to have been part of her ruse. No other fellow had made her feel what he did. He hated that he nearly busted the buttons on his waistcoat with the thought.
Her chin came up again and she leveled her gaze on him. “Three conditions.”
“As long as they don’t interfere with our trade, name them.”
“Don’t do it, Rose,” the little man urged again. “Just give him the money. We’ll find another way.”
She rubbed his shoulder as though to ease the hurt that was going to come because she wasn’t going to accept his counsel. Avendale knew she wasn’t. He saw the determination in her eyes, a warrior’s gaze, one that came from knowing the battle was lost but not yet giving up on the final outcome of the war. He could have told her the truth: she was going to lose it as well. But he was too angry, so he kept that little tidbit to himself. Let her learn the hard way.
She’d taken him for a fool, and he intended to ensure she regretted that folly—every second that she was in his company.
