Page 87 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
Standing in the gallery, Rose studied the former Duke of Avendale’s portrait.
After they’d returned from their outing, Avendale had taken his leave to attend to some business in town. It amazed her to discover that he was not quite the man of leisure she’d thought. It seemed there was always some detail that required his attention.
Hearing the familiar shuffling, she turned to her brother and smiled. “You should have sent for me, sweeting. No need for you to traverse stairs.”
“I wanted to.” He gave her an almost bashful grin. “Besides, I wasn’t looking for you. I just like to explore.”
“It is an amazing place. I try to imagine all the care that went into arranging each room, and it’s quite beyond me.”
“It speaks of permanence.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s it. I’m not of a mind to view anything as permanent. It’s all fleeting.”
Sadness touched his eyes. “You should have permanent, forever.”
She smiled, to soften her words, to ensure they brought no guilt his way. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” Usually by now she was itching to move on with her nomadic life.
Harry looked past her shoulder, to the portrait that took up a great portion of the wall, more than any other painting, as though the man’s ego demanded it. “Avendale’s father?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like him,” he whispered.
“There is something sinister in his eyes, isn’t there?”
“The artist didn’t like him either. He didn’t hide that Avendale’s father wasn’t nice.”
Briefly she wondered what sort of rendering an artist might do of Harry, if given the chance. It might be interesting. Her father had been gifted with handsome features but his hatred and self-centeredness had twisted them until his demeanor made him unattractive. Harry might have been graced with the same pleasing lines beneath the misshapen masses, but even without them she found him quite beautiful.
“You should have a portrait done,” Harry said.
What a disaster that would be, to have a likeness created that would provide police with more clues to her identity. “Perhaps someday.”
Harry limped over to study the portrait of Avendale’s mother.
“Harry, if you were to awaken one morning, and I weren’t here—”
He turned. “Why wouldn’t you be here?”
“Something might happen and I would need to leave.”
“What?”
“Anything is possible. It’s just a hypothetical, but I want you to know that even if I’m not with you, I still love you more than anything.”
“The duke won’t like it. You leaving.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Are you going to tell him you might leave?”
“No, but if it should happen—”
“It won’t.” He turned his attention back to the portrait.
“But if it should and Avendale wants you to leave, you’re to return to Merrick. You’re not to try to find me.”
“It won’t happen,” he repeated. “But if it does”—he gave her a shrewd look—“I won’t have to look for you because the duke will find you.”
