Page 11 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
With a delighted laugh, Aphrodite untangled herself from the drunkard and pushed herself to her feet. She swayed toward him. “Avendale, I seem to have lost my partner. I’d prefer to have you anyway.”
Her gossamer gown revealed all her curvaceous attributes. Her blue eyes glinting with desire, she slowly ran a hand up his chest, over his shoulder. “I’m yours,” she said with a sultry voice.
Yes, because he paid her—not in coin, but in excess. Clothes, jewelry, baubles, perfumes.
“Not tonight, Aphrodite.” What he desired tonight, he’d been unable to obtain, which only served to make him want Rosalind Sharpe all the more. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been denied anything, the last time his thoughts had been so occupied with one woman.
Without guilt or remorse, he edged politely past Aphrodite—she’d find a new partner easily enough—and strode down the hallway to his library. A footman—not only standing at attention, but also standing guard as no one except servants was allowed in this room—opened the door. Avendale stepped inside. As the door was pulled closed behind him, he walked to a glass case that housed his spirits. A marble table rested beside it with glasses and decanters. After filling a tumbler with scotch, he took a chair near the fireplace and downed half the glass’s contents, before sighing and dropping his head back.
How had his life come to this debauched existence? Beauties of questionable character were always on hand. Young swells were continually dropping by for a taste of women, drink, or cards. He didn’t know the names of half of them, but they all knew orgies were carried on within the confines of his residence.
It had all begun when he was much younger, when he spent more time lost in women and wine. But of late, he’d begun to grow bored with it. He seldom accepted the ladies’ offers anymore. He could no longer differentiate one from the other. Perhaps he never could. They’d been a means to deliver surcease for his aching loins. They’d provided a few moments’ respite from dark thoughts—just as the drink did. It seemed of late he was relying more heavily on the drink.
He took another sip, forcing himself to savor it. He savored so little. He plowed into pleasures as though they were the answer.
When he didn’t even know the bloody question.
Another sip. A dark chuckle. Had he really thought to bring Rosalind Sharpe here? To witness his madness, to see how far he’d fallen into depravity?
He could have explained his guests by saying tonight was merely a party—
Why did he feel he needed to justify the way he lived? He didn’t. Not to her, not to anyone. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, as he wanted.
He got up, strode to his desk, and yanked the bellpull on the wall behind it. He walked to the window. Gaslights illuminated the gardens and the people cavorting about, some dancing naked in his fountain. There was a time when he would have joined them. Tonight he merely found them wearisome.
The door opened.
“I want them gone,” he announced before his butler had taken half a dozen steps into the room.
Silence. Finally, “Them?”
“All these people. The women, the gents. Have the women call upon my man of business if they need assistance settling elsewhere.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Will there be anything else?”
Avendale continued to stare at the gardens. “Have all the mattresses replaced. Pillows, cushions. Replace what can be replaced, get rid of what can’t. Any furniture that reeks of sordid activities I want gone. This residence is to appear as though no one has ever been here save myself and that I have lived as chastely as a monk.”
“I shall see to it posthaste.”
“And ensure there is a servant on hand who knows how to attend to a lady.”
“Yes, sir.”
Avendale could hear the question in Thatcher’s tone: Was the duke on the verge of taking a wife?
“That’ll be all.”
“As you wish, sir.”
After Thatcher left, Avendale leaned against the window casement. He planned to entertain Mrs. Rosalind Sharpe in his residence in the very near future. He wanted her to feel comfortable, for everything to be to her liking, so the preparations needed to begin in earnest now.
She would not be an easy conquest, but conquer her he would.
Lying in bed, Rose stared at the ceiling. She’d had a dreadfully fitful slumber, sleeping a mere two winks, if that.
It was blasted Avendale’s fault she had grown so warm that at one point she’d considered divesting herself of her nightdress. Even knowing it was nigh impossible, she could have sworn that she still felt his lips moving so determinedly over hers. He’d displayed no hesitation as he guided his hands along her side. He was a man who knew precisely what he wanted. And he wanted her.
Over the years, other men had as well. She’d grown skilled at enticing them near, yet holding them at bay. She wasn’t certain Avendale would be quite as easy to manipulate. He was dangerous, not likely to settle for the crumbs with which she was willing to part.
