Page 49 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
Rose took a sip of tea, set aside her cup. “No, sweeting, he didn’t. I wanted to go. God help me, but I like him, Harry.”
“Why?”
She scoffed. “Why?You would ask, wouldn’t you?” Harry had an insatiable curiosity, wanted to know everything. She picked up her teacup, set it back down. How could she possibly explain to him what she didn’t understand herself? “I like the way he looks as me—as though there were no women before me. Even though I know there were probably hundreds.”
“What does he look like? I couldn’t see him clearly the other night.”
Pleasure tripped through her as she brought up an image of him. “He’s tall, not as tall as you. He has broad shoulders. He likes to carry me around, which makes me feel protected. His hair is a deep, deep brown. Like sable, like Sally’s winter coat. Sometimes when the light hits it just so, I can see the barest hint of red. His eyes are almost the exact shade of his hair. Although no red there. He’s solemn. He spends a good deal of his time engaged in the pursuit of pleasure, but I’m not certain he truly enjoys it. He seems to be a little bit lost. Lonely I think. It’s the oddest thing, when we are in a room crowded with people. They will acknowledge him with a nod or quick smile, but they don’t talk to him or ask after his welfare. Not that he makes any inquiries either. It’s as though he can’t be bothered with anything other than his own needs, but I think that’s just a façade. I think he’s been hurt. He’s awfully cautious.” She was amazed she had spouted so much.
“You love him,” Harry stated.
Rose nearly fell off the sofa with the proclamation. She laughed. “No, absolutely not.”
Harry studied her as though he didn’t quite believe her.
“That way lies disaster,” she assured him.
“Knowing the dangers doesn’t always stop things from happening.”
“True enough.” Leaning over, she squeezed his hand. “You should see his residence, Harry. So many books. In every room at least one book. Well, not the dining rooms. But you would be in heaven. I shall see if I can borrow some for you to read. You could read quite a bit in a week.” She did wish she’d thought of that sooner.
“What does it look like, his residence?”
“It’s called Buckland Palace. He says it’s not truly a palace but it is. He’s just accustomed to the opulence so he doesn’t see it. But it’s ever so grand. Paintings on the ceilings, gold edges along the wainscoting. Monstrously huge rooms. His bedchamber alone ...” She hesitated, wishing she hadn’t gone there, hoping she hadn’t given him cause to conjure up images of her in the duke’s bed. He was fairly innocent in the ways of men and women so her words probably gave him no naughty ideas. “ ... is almost as large as all our bedchambers put together. He took me on a tour. It was fascinating.”
They talked then about how much longer they might stay in London. No reason to leave straightaway, with their debts paid. Although she suspected she would not want to linger overly long once she left the duke. She told Harry what she knew of Scotland, why she thought they would be happy there.
As she was leaving, she hugged him hard, promised to see him at two the following afternoon. She would not feel guilty about leaving him here. He had his story to write. He’d welcome the quiet.
Even as she welcomed a bit of it to settle her thoughts as the carriage rumbled through the streets. She didn’t like how much she was anticipating returning to Buckland Palace, how much she longed to be with Avendale again. It was more than the fact that he knew so well how to make her body sing and fly to the heavens. She liked being in his company, liked the way he held her afterward. She liked the timbre of his voice, even if they didn’t discuss anything of consequence. She even liked that he was a little jealous. Not that she wanted to spend a single moment of their time together with them at odds.
She was most disappointed when she returned to his residence to find that he wasn’t about and that his butler, Thatcher, had no idea when His Grace would return. Not knowing if their evening would include more than romps in the bed, she wasn’t certain how to prepare herself.
Shaking her head while standing in the foyer, she nearly laughed aloud. She was here for one reason and one reason only—because he wanted her in his bed. That was most certainly where they would spend the evening. She supposed she could bathe, make herself as alluring as possible. But first, while she was alone, she wanted to scour the shelves in the various rooms and see if she could determine which books Harry might best enjoy. Once Avendale returned, he would occupy all her time and thoughts—the rogue.
Not that she minded, not really.
She did hope that he didn’t tarry too long, only long enough for her to locate some reading material for Harry, something obscure that Avendale wouldn’t notice was missing. Sneaking it out was going to be the challenge, but she would find a way. She’d always been resourceful if nothing else.
She paused at a narrow table that held a silver bowl containing a myriad of vellum envelopes. They were not her concern, and yet knowing that they were probably invitations to balls, she couldn’t stop herself from plucking one out and opening it. After pulling out the gilded invitation, she trailed her finger over the formal words. When she had first stepped into the Twin Dragons, her plan had been to make the acquaintance of those who would send her invitations such as these. She had the lovely one Drake Darling had sent her, but she had wanted to attend balls within residences, to be accepted, to take her time at selecting her quarry.
She had enjoyed dances held by country squires, merchants, bankers, and bakers. The towns she’d visited had offerings, but nothing as grand as what she had envisioned she would find in London. Over the years, she had honed her skills in out-of-the-way villages, among those who didn’t rub elbows with the aristocracy. She’d had such exquisite goals for London: to linger, to enjoy, to move about in circles far above her humble roots. To attend every sort of ball imaginable: costume, masked, Cinderella.
But she would experience no aristocratic balls now because she’d allowed Avendale to get the better of her. Yet she couldn’t seem to regret it.
She was in the smaller library—the duchess’s library—searching through the books there when she became aware of the sensation of being watched. It was as it had been that first night at the Twin Dragons. Slowly she turned to find Avendale leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. “I returned promptly as promised only to find you not here,” she said.
“You sound disappointed.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Had I known you wouldn’t be waiting for me, I might have lingered.”
“I had to settle things with Beckwith.”
Her stomach lurched. “Did he give you any problems?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
His confidence, his arrogance. Neither should have appealed to her and yet they both did.
