Page 72 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“You’re to let Gerald fetch the ones that are too high for you to reach,” Avendale told him.
“I shall never get through them all.”
“You’ll find a smaller library in your wing,” Avendale said, “but I fear most of the books there are love stories and might not be to your liking.”
Turning slightly, Harry bestowed upon him his rendition of a smile. “I enjoy romantic stories. They never leave me feeling sad at the end.”
“My mother preferred the same sort of tale. You should find an abundance of them there.”
Rose had not expected the camaraderie she saw developing between Avendale and Harry. All her doubts about bringing him here were easing away as she realized Avendale was truly welcoming Harry into his home.
When they arrived at the breakfast dining room, Harry’s eyes grew wide at the assortment of food spread out along the sideboard.
“It’s quite lavish, isn’t it, Harry?” Rose asked.
He shook his head, looked at Avendale, looked at her. “I could never eat all that.”
“You don’t have to,” Avendale said. “Whatever remains is distributed to those in need.”
Rose stared at him. He lifted a brow. “Did you think we simply tossed out whatever remained?”
“Why would I think anything else? You live with such excess.”
“A good many people make a rather nice living off my excesses,” he said.
She’d never considered that. So much about him, she’d never considered. She’d told him that their relationship was naught but the surface because he refused to provide her with the details of his life. Perhaps it was merely that she was not as observant as she’d always thought.
Holding a plate, Gerald stepped forward, and Rose wondered when he’d arrived. “What would you fancy, sir?” he asked Harry.
“Everything.”
“As you wish.” He made his way along the sideboard, placing an assortment of food on the plate while Harry followed.
Avendale moved in closer to her. “He seems to have taken to the place. I hope you’re feeling more at ease about his being here.”
Nodding, she touched his arm. “I’ll never be able to repay you for all this.” No matter how long she stayed with him, no matter what he asked of her.
“Don’t worry about that now.”
Unsaid was that she should enjoy whatever time she had left with Harry. The sentiment was in Avendale’s dark, somber gaze. When they were all settled at the table, she watched as Harry took his first bite of deviled egg. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. She thought he was going to be even more delighted with dinner.
Gerald discreetly sliced the ham on Harry’s plate, prepared his tea, was quick to replenish his glass of water. She did hope Avendale was paying the man well. She gazed across the table at Avendale. His attention was focused on pushing food onto his fork with his knife. Harry’s features often dimmed others’ appetite. Even Merrick, Sally, and Joseph seldom joined him for meals. Avendale seemed not the least bit bothered.
Her chest tightened. He would pay his servants well. He was a man of wealth, but he wasn’t stingy with it. He’d opened his home, his books to Harry. He was expanding her brother’s world. Perhaps they would play a game of chess. Perhaps they would talk.
He was not a man who judged. Even knowing she survived by swindling others, he’d never brought her to task for it, had never made her feel like the criminal she knew herself to be. She could even forgive him for the deliberate night of debauchery that had resulted in her missing her appointment with Harry. Left to her own devices, she never would have told Avendale about her brother, not because she was ashamed of Harry—because she wasn’t—but she had judged the duke to be a man without compassion. She wondered what else she might have misjudged.
When Harry pronounced that he was on the cusp of bursting his buttons, they took him to the guest wing, and once more he was as a child surrounded by wonders. They walked into a study and there, resting on the desk, were the pages of his manuscript.
He approached it slowly, as though it were somehow different within these walls, not quite recognizable. Head bowed, he pressed his good hand to the neatly arranged stack of papers.
“You’ll be able to work on your story here,” Rose told him. “Perhaps get it finished.”
Nodding, he lifted his head, zeroed his gaze in on Avendale. “Would you like to read it?”
Rose stepped forward. “You finished it? How marvelous.”
He shook his head. “No, but I thought the duke might find it ... interesting. But you can’t let her read it. Not until it’s finished.”
