Page 65 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“Yes, all right.”
Sir William got to his feet. She and Avendale did the same.
“Thank you for coming,” Avendale said.
“I appreciate your sending for me. It meant a lot to your mother.”
“Be sure to send me a billing for your services.”
“Now you’ve insulted me.” Sir William turned his attention to Rose. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.”
“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”
He jerked his head toward Avendale. “Keeping him out of trouble is a good start.”
With Avendale at her side, Rose accompanied Sir William to the door, watched as he strolled down the path, and climbed into a small, simple one-horse carriage that he could drive himself.
“What would it matter to your mother that you sent for him?” Rose asked, closing the door and turning back to Avendale.
“Because he is her husband.”
Angling her head, she studied him. She’d sensed some tension between the two. “Has that anything to do with your secret?”
“Has everything to do with it, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter. I assume you want to stay the night.”
“I do, yes.” She wanted to be angry with him for coming here uninvited, for forcing himself into her life, into Harry’s but she had nothing within her with which to fuel her anger. Stepping into him, she wound her arms around his waist, drew immense comfort from his enfolding her in his embrace.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not the caring sort so I’m at a loss here, Rose. Tell me what I can do to make it better.”
She merely squeezed him all the harder, because his presence at the moment was enough.
If Avendale had any doubts that Harry was indeed a man, they were put to rest when Rose and he entered the library to find Harry sitting in a chair near the fire. He shoved himself to his feet. He had to have known Rose would come in to see him before she left, that Avendale might be with her. Pride had hoisted him out of the bed. His clothes were similar to the almost sacklike apparel he’d been wearing before only they weren’t wet, torn, and bloody. They hung rather loosely, but then how would one go about fitting clothes to that misshapen form? Leaning on a cane, he mumbled something. Avendale couldn’t quite distinguish the words.
“Harry wondered if you’d join him in drinking some whiskey,” Rose offered as though she understood his inability to decipher the words.
“I’m a scoundrel,” Avendale said. “I never turn down drink.” He thought the man’s lips twitched, and Avendale realized Rose’s brother was hindered from forming a proper smile because of the shape of his mouth, but his eyes twinkled with amusement.
“I’ll pour,” Rose said. “Avendale, will you fetch the chair from behind the desk so I have a place to sit?”
He did as she asked, but he had no plans to let her sit in it while the other chair appeared more plush and comfortable. She brought over the glasses on a small tray. Avendale took one, then watched as Harry did the same with a hand that was beautiful and elegant, and he wondered if it might have been kinder if there was nothing about him that was shaped to perfection.
Rose lifted her glass. “To London’s finest physician.”
They clinked their glasses, each took a sip. Avendale indicated where Rose should sit, and once she did, he and Harry settled into their chairs.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here this afternoon as promised,” Rose said. “The duke and I went to Cremorne Gardens last night, and I drank a bit more than I should have. I slept in I’m afraid.” She eased to the edge of the chair. “It doesn’t look at all like our garden. It’s a place for enjoying all sorts of pleasures. Shall I describe it for you?”
He gave an exaggerated nod, and Avendale realized his head was far too large for subtle movements. He listened as Rose described Cremorne in such minute detail that he could see it in his mind almost as clearly as he had last night. No, more clearly. He saw all the things he’d overlooked, taken for granted. The colors, the sounds, the smells, the tastes—even the things she’d touched. Banisters, benches, the pavilion.
He thought about how absorbed she’d been at the theater. He understood the reason behind it now. She was striving to bring the world to her brother, a world he couldn’t visit without consequences.
Harry would ask questions that were almost inarticulate, yet she would provide answers that seemed to satisfy. Avendale concentrated on the sounds, focusing until he was able to decipher the words, to know by her response to Harry that Avendale had indeed managed to master the guttural murmuring. But mostly he watched her: the light that shone in her eyes as she shared the places she’d visited, the excitement in her voice. The joy on her face as though she truly adored her time with her brother, adored him.
Avendale felt small and petty because he’d resented her time away from him in the afternoon, had wanted to deny her this. If only she’d told him...
But of course she hadn’t and why would she? From the moment they’d met, by word and deed, he’d led her to believe that he wanted nothing more from her than a romp in his bed. Because bastard that he was, that had been all he wanted.
He’d wanted to be lost in her heat, her fire, her passion. He’d acquired it, only to discover it wasn’t enough. Never in his life, had he been so unsure as to exactly what it was he did want. He’d been focused on absolute pleasure at any cost. Now he wondered if the price had been too high. For who would care if he were suddenly unattractive, without means, without power?
