Page 74 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
It always hurt to know that she was hurting, to see the sorrow and tears welling in her eyes. Sometimes I imagined that I could actually hear her heart cracking, tiny fault lines spreading out.
For her, I fought hard to stand with pride as people gathered around, pointed, whispered, gaped. Once a woman became ill, brought up her breakfast. After that my father decided it best to have hay spread around me, as though I were an animal with no control over my bodily functions. When it was the gawkers for whom the straw was necessary.
I never spoke, never let on that I was mortified by my nearly naked form being displayed as an oddity. Because I ceased to speak, my father thought I’d become mute. But Rose knew the truth of it. In the darkest hours of the night, she would creep over and kneel beside my bed.
“One day, we’ll run away,”she promised with such earnestness that even the boulders after which I was named would have wept. “As soon as I have determined how we can survive.”
Then she would tell me a story of a beautiful place with beautiful people where I was loved, and I would drift off to sleep feeling not quite so ugly.
“Your Grace?”
Avendale jerked his head up from the words he’d been reading, surprised to discover that nearly an hour had passed. He’d meant merely to read a page. He’d read dozens. It was disconcerting to have been caught so absorbed by the tale that he’d not heard his butler enter his library. “Yes, Thatcher?”
“Mr. Watkins is here, sir.”
“Excellent. Send him in.” Avendale stood, walked to a side table and poured a splash of scotch into two glasses. He turned to the doorway just as a man of medium height and width, his clothing impeccable, strode in.
“Watkins.” Avendale extended a glass toward him.
The man staggered to a halt. “It’s not yet noon, Your Grace.”
“Trust me, Watkins, you’re going to need it.”
His tailor took the offered glass and sipped cautiously, while Avendale leaned his hips against the edge of his desk. He downed his own scotch, sighed. “A gentleman is staying with me. A Mr. Harry Longmore. He requires clothing. Something simple for moving about during the day as well as evening attire.”
“My specialty, Your Grace.”
“Which is why I sent for you. I require a man of your skills, but I fear the task will present a challenge. To put it bluntly the man is deformed, hideously so.”
Watkins finished off his drink, licked his lips. “I see.”
“I doubt you’ll be able fit him to perfection, but a close proximity would be well rewarded. And haste doubly so. We need the items within the week.”
“I shall do my best. I can begin straightaway if you like.”
“Excellent. Come along then. I’ll introduce you.”
Harry was busily scribbling at his desk when the duke walked in with a man who had a thick thatch of black and white hair swirling over his head, bushy side whiskers, and a heavy mustache that hid much of his mouth. For a moment Harry knew a spark of despair. Had the duke brought him here to display as a curiosity to his friends as Merrick had thought? If he had, it was without Rose’s knowledge; he was certain of that. She would be furious when she discovered the treachery. She would take Harry away, and he would have to leave all the marvelous books behind, unread.
But the man’s eyes didn’t even so much as widen when his gaze fell on Harry.
“Harry,” the duke began, “allow me to introduce Mr. Watkins, my tailor. He’s one of the most accomplished London has to offer. I would like you to allow him to take your measurements for some new clothing.”
Harry’s face grew hot with shame because he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion regarding the duke’s intentions. He was no different than those who looked upon him and judged what he was. He should have known the duke was only trying to make him feel more comfortable in these elegant surroundings. He knew he walked about in clothes that hung loosely, more like a potato sack, over his odd frame. Sally was a fine seamstress but not one of London’s most accomplished. He nodded with eagerness at the prospect of proper clothes.
“Splendid,” the duke said. He raised a finger. “But we’re to keep this a secret, just between us gents. I have a surprise planned for your sister, and I don’t want her to know about it just yet.”
Harry liked giving Rose surprises. When he was a boy he would pick flowers for her, find pretty rocks. But he hadn’t been able to give her anything since he’d begun spending so much time indoors. His writing was for her, would be a gift to her when the time came. He was filling the pages with all the love he held for her so it would remain with her when he was gone.
But to be able to share a surprise with her now—he was fairly certain it would be a surprise she would like because the duke’s eyes were warm with mischief laced with anticipation. He was looking forward to surprising Rose. Harry put his finger to his lips. “Shh.”
“Precisely. I’ll leave you two to it.”
As the duke strolled from the room, Harry wondered if the duke was even aware that he loved Rose.
After a marvelous sleep, Rose wanted to stroll leisurely through the gardens with Harry, but they got only as far as the fountain where a nude couple carved in stone embraced in such a way that very little was left to the imagination.
“It’s really quite scandalous,” she felt obligated to point out. “The detail”—the taut buttocks of the man; the firm, uplifted breasts of the woman—“is designed to shock those with proper sensibilities.”
