The Duke and the Lady in Red

by Lorraine Heath

  “Sneaking off somewhere, Mrs. Sharpe?” a deep voice, one she knew far too intimately, asked from behind her.

  Spinning around, she found herself squarely facing Avendale. God help her. She was surprised the fury burning in his dark eyes didn’t ignite her on the spot.

  Avendale was livid.

  It had nagged at him—­that he’d never been able to read her accurately until tonight. Suddenly it had been as though she’d opened the book of her soul to him for a private viewing.

  He’d been vain enough to think that he possessed amazing powers of observation, that he had come to know her, understand her. He’d even dared to consider that there might be something more between them than the physical, that she stirred something to life that had been dead for far too long.

  He’d been playing a private game with several lords, Lovingdon, and his wife, Grace. Grace, who was so damned skilled at cheating, who could make you believe she was bluffing until you had wagered everything of value knowing—­knowing—­it would all be yours, only to watch with a muttered curse as she turned over her cards, smiled victoriously, and swept everything into her little pile of ill-­gotten gains.

  Suspicion had reared its ugly head and he’d begun to suspect that he might have been playing another game entirely from the moment he’d spied the lady in red walking into the club. If a lady wanted to swindle someone, she would be wise to select a fellow who wouldn’t ask too many questions because all his interest rested in lifting her skirts, a known womanizer, a scapegrace with a reputation for having a singular purpose in life: pleasure.

  That treacherous wench now angled her chin. “I returned home to a missive from my husband’s mother. She’s taken ill—­”

  “Don’t,” he commanded, his voice low, feral. “Don’t further insult me with more lies.”

  “I didn’t lie. I am in debt. It’s only that five thousand isn’t nearly enough.”

  The giant—­the man had to be at least seven feet tall—­who had been hoisting trunks, bags, and boxes onto the top of the carriage, blinked in wonder. Obviously he’d not been privy to the amount.

  “What would be?” Avendale asked.

  He could see the shrewdness in her eyes as she calculated. The bitch. He’d bet all he owned that she wasn’t calculating her debt but how much he would willingly part with and the odds that she could convince him that she was a frightened woman instead of a conniving one.

  She licked her lips, opened her mouth—­

  A small man stepped out from behind her skirts. A dwarf and a giant. Avendale was the fool she’d added to her odd mix of curiosities.

  “Give him back the money, Rose,” the little man said.

  “Merrick—­” she began.

  “The money is yours for a week,” Avendale interrupted, determined to regain and retain the upper hand in this situation.

  Giving her attention back to him, she laughed. “What good is it to me if I have it for only a week?”

  “I was referring to your spending a week with me.”

  “In your bed, I presume.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “You want me to be your whore for a week?”

  “Better than a thief. I’ll call in Scotland Yard for a thief.” It seemed he was intent on proving the full extent of his idiocy. If she gave back the money she was still going to leave and he would lose his leverage. He had a feeling this Merrick fellow could convince her to give back every ha’penny. Something in the small fellow’s voice when he spoke to Rose alerted Avendale they had been friends for a good many years. He didn’t want to consider that they might be more than that.

  Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter how many men she’d had. He’d enjoyed his fair share of women. He wasn’t hypocrite enough to hold it against her if she welcomed other men into her bed. Besides, when it came to pleasuring her, he’d already won that contest, and he had shared only the beginning. Her reaction in the coach had contained too much surprise for it to have been part of her ruse. No other fellow had made her feel what he did. He hated that he nearly busted the buttons on his waistcoat with the thought.

  Her chin came up again and she leveled her gaze on him. “Three conditions.”

  “As long as they don’t interfere with our trade, name them.”

  “Don’t do it, Rose,” the little man urged again. “Just give him the money. We’ll find another way.”

  She rubbed his shoulder as though to ease the hurt that was going to come because she wasn’t going to accept his counsel. Avendale knew she wasn’t. He saw the determination in her eyes, a warrior’s gaze, one that came from knowing the battle was lost but not yet giving up on the final outcome of the war. He could have told her the truth: she was going to lose it as well. But he was too angry, so he kept that little tidbit to himself. Let her learn the hard way.

  She’d taken him for a fool, and he intended to ensure she regretted that folly—­every second that she was in his company.

  Clasping her hands in front of her, she said, “First, as we’ve been living here on only the promise of payment, you’ll pay what I owe on the lease of this residence through the end of the month so my companions have a place in which to live without fear of being cast out. Then we do, in fact, have a few other creditors who need to be appeased. Pay them all that is owed to them. And last, each afternoon, for one hour, I may return here unaccompanied.”

  “You could pay off your creditors with the five thousand pounds.”

  “No. I walk away with the five thousand quid intact. Any expenses that occur during the next week, you will cover without questioning or quibbling over the cost.”

  “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”

  “If I have accurately judged how badly you want what you want, I believe I am. I won’t give it cheaply.”

  Had he truly told her only this evening that he wasn’t desperate enough for any woman that he had to pay to have her? She was going to take his last farthing, the little witch. If he possessed an ounce of intelligence, he’d tell her to go to the devil and to return his money. If he possessed any intelligence at all—­

  Apparently he didn’t possess so much as a drop.

  “Is one of those trunks yours?” he asked.

  She nodded. “The red one.”

  “My coach is at the end of the street. We’ll take your trunk with us.”

  “You expect me to leave with you at this precise moment?”

  “If you want to keep the money.”

  “You agree to the conditions?”

  It grated. “I do.”

  “I require ten minutes inside.”

  “No. I’ve made all the concessions I intend to make.” He signaled for his coachman to bring the coach forward. “We leave now or you immediately hand over the money. And even then I’ll likely report you to Scotland Yard. You should know that an old family friend is an inspector there, and I’ll have him hunt you down like a dog. As many a criminal can attest, he has the skills to do it.”

  Bending down, she whispered something to the small gent. Avendale almost grabbed her arm and jerked her away. She’d held enough secrets from him.

  As his coach came to a stop, she straightened and walked forward until she stood by the door. She arched a brow. “Your Grace?”

  The dwarf stepped toward him. “If you hurt her, I’ll—­”

  “I won’t hurt her,” Avendale cut in. Sliding his gaze to her, he gave her his most devilish grin. “Causing her pain is the farthest thing from my mind.”

  Sitting in the well-­sprung coach, Rose wasn’t quite sure she trusted Avendale’s words or his smile. “I know you’re angry.”

  “Angry does not even begin to describe my fury at being duped. Although I can hardly complain. I initially lent you the money to keep you near. Now you shall be all the nearer.”

  He cros
sed over to her bench, crowding her, but she refused to be cowed. She met his gaze head-­on.

  “I ought to put you over my knee, hike up your skirts, and give your bare backside a sound thrashing,” he ground out.

  “I believe you’ll find our time together more pleasant if I’m willing, which I won’t be if you’re going to cast out threats of bodily harm. I know you won’t see them through and it will merely serve to irritate me that you would think I would be intimidated by such poppycock.”

  “I’m far more dangerous than you think.”

  Reaching up, she cradled his bristled jaw with the palm of her hand. “I know precisely how dangerous you are.” It had been part of the reasoning behind her decision to leave quickly, not so much for fear he’d uncover what she was about, but fear that she was very close to giving in to the allure of him. “I suspect by the end of the week that I shall be more scarred, scored, and branded than you can possibly imagine. Even as I dread how much I will ache at the end of it, I believe I shall relish every moment spent with you. You hold the power to destroy the very essence of me, and yet here I am. Do your worst.”

  “Damn you,” he growled. “Damn you.”

  His arms tightened around her like strong bands as his mouth descended to claim hers. By now, she thought that she shouldn’t be surprised by the power of him, the force of her attraction to him, and yet it always took her a bit off-­guard. Pleasure swept through her, hunger for him roared to the surface. Suddenly his bare hands were in her hair and she felt the weight of it as it began to tumble, down, down, down.

  He knotted a fist around the strands. “Glorious, glorious,” he murmured as he rained kisses over her face before returning his mouth to hers. Within her, he ignited flames that began at the tips of her toes and rose ever upward.

  Running her hands over his shoulders, his chest, she relished the feel of his muscles bunching with his movements. She wondered if she made him feel as hot, as tormented, as desperate for more. She was a fool not to return the money, to have bargained with this devil, but he’d given her a flavor of what he could deliver. She thought she might be more of a fool not to welcome the opportunity to share his bed. She was already ruined. She had nothing else to lose.

  Slipping her hands beneath his lapels, she ran them up and over, striving to remove his jacket. He reared back, quickly worked himself free of the offending garment, tossing it across to the other bench. With nimble fingers, she unknotted his cravat, unwound the neck cloth, and cast it aside. Without thought or permission, she buried her face against his neck, inhaled the rich aroma that was he. She kissed, nibbled, suckled the soft skin.

  He moaned, low and deep. His fingers tightened on her.

  “I have long wanted to do this,” she whispered, her voice raspy with her heightened awareness of him. “I’ve been rather envious of your neck cloth.”

  His dark chuckle echoed between them. “Do not dare deny yourself any aspect of me.”

  Once again he claimed her mouth, and the sensations swirled through her. She should be afraid by the storm of passion brewing between them, but she seemed capable only of standing in the midst of it and letting it have its way. It had been building between them from the moment she felt his gaze on her that first night, from the first word, the first assessing glance, the first touch. The accumulation of every encounter since had led to this journey within his conveyance, a journey over road, a journey into pleasure.

  The coach jolted to a stop. Avendale was out the door in a flash. She made to follow him, and suddenly found herself in his arms, his long legs carrying him toward his grand manor. She’d thought it magnificent before, but the purpose of her visit had her paying little attention to details. Now his mouth on hers served as the distraction.

  She was vaguely aware of them passing through the entryway door, the echo of his booted feet on marble before they were ascending stairs. He carried her with ease as though she weighed no more than a willow leaf. Clutching his shoulder with one hand, scraping the fingers of the other over his scalp, through his thick hair, she knew she had never felt so protected, so safe.

  Odd when she knew where they were headed, where this encounter would end. She thought she should be trembling with trepidation; instead she was quivering with anticipation.

  Marching into a bedchamber—­no doubt his bedchamber—­he kicked the door closed behind them. Dragging his mouth from hers, he tossed her onto the massive four-­poster bed. She landed across it with a soft bounce. Grabbing her bodice, he ripped it asunder, buttons popping off, some clattering to the floor. She tried to do the same with his waistcoat, but she hadn’t the strength and had to resort to attempting to unbutton it even as her hands wandered wildly over his chest, his taut stomach.

  With a dark bark of laughter, he tore off his waistcoat, flung it aside. His shirt went next and her hands were skimming over the marvelous warm expanse of his chest.

  He spread the parted material of her bodice wide, buried his face between her breasts. “You are so beautiful,” he rasped as he stroked and kneaded with fingers, with tongue. He left a trail of tiny bites up along her throat until he was once again in possession of her mouth.

  There was a wildness to their actions, a desperation. She could not get enough of touching him, thought she would never get enough of it.

  “We’ll go slower next time,” he growled, as his heated mouth trailed along her throat.

  Suddenly her skirt and petticoats were pooled at her waist, his fingers were slipping through the opening in her drawers.

  His breath was hot against her ear. “God, you’re wet, so damned wet. So remarkably hot.”

  Straightening a fraction, he hastily unfastened his breeches. She barely caught sight of what he’d set free, had less than a second to wonder if she should be afraid before he thrust inside her.

  She fought back the cry of pain, but a portion of it escaped in a whimper.

  “Goddamn you,” he ground out through clenched teeth as his head reared back, his body bucked, and he emitted a low groan that reverberated from deep within his chest. Then he went still, so profoundly still, only his harsh breathing echoing between them.

  She looked up into eyes filled with molten fury.

  “You said you were a widow,” he fairly snarled.

  “I lied.”

  Chapter 9

  Without another word, he left her. Sprawled on the bed in a heap of sticky, blood-­spotted skirts, the room echoing with the crash of the door slamming in his wake. She was surprised it remained hinged.

  The burn of tears hurt worse than the burning between her thighs. She’d never felt so alone, so abandoned, so hopeless.

  Struggling, she sat up and tried to secure her bodice with the few buttons remaining. Was he done with her? Was she supposed to stay now? Did her virginity alter the deal?

  Surely not. She wouldn’t stand for his reneging on their agreement. The money was hers, even if he never wanted to see her again. Why had he been so mad about it, like she’d done something awful? She’d thought he’d be pleased to know that no other man had ever come before him. Wasn’t that what men wanted? What they valued? Virtue?

  Noises echoed on the other side of a wall that contained a door. Was that another bedchamber? Was he in there, washing off her blood? Where was she to wash up?

  Sliding off the bed, she grimaced at the slight discomfort. With her shoes still on, she tiptoed to the washbasin, not certain why she didn’t want him to know that she was moving about.

  No water. God, she needed water. She felt so unclean. The tears threatened again, and she forced them back. She would not weep for the loss of what he had so callously taken, for what she had freely given.

  A soft rap sounded on a door leading to the other room. It slowly opened, and a young girl with a mobcap covering her brown hair smiled tentatively at Rose. “We’ve prepared you a bath, miss.”

&nbs
p; “Oh.” She needed to say more than that. “Thank you.”

  Cautiously she walked into the tiled bathing chamber. It had an immense copper tub in which she could practically go swimming.

  “I’m Edith,” the young maid said, obviously striving not to be disconcerted by the sight of Rose’s torn bodice or missing buttons. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. He didn’t force me if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Relief washed over Edith’s features. “I know it’s not his way, but he seemed rather upset. He was barking orders—­ Apologies. I’ve spoken what I shouldn’t.” She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders. “I shall begin anew. It will be my pleasure to assist you. A footman is bringing up your things now. I’ll put them away while you soak in the tub for a bit.”

  So it appeared she was staying. “Thank you,” she said again.

  With Edith’s help, she managed to get out of her clothing without incident and climbed into the tub, welcoming the warm water seeping in around her as she sank down. Edith put a small pillow beneath Rose’s head.

  “There now, you just rest for a bit,” Edith said quietly, as though Rose were on her deathbed. “I’ll be back to wash you once I’ve seen to your things.”

  Rose wondered what Avendale had told the maid to make her so solicitous. She took a deep breath, exhaled, sinking more deeply into the water. Taking a moment, she made note of the gold fixtures that were part of the tub and a nearby sink. He had plumbing up here. That must have cost him a pretty penny.

  Closing her eyes, she allowed the lapping water to soothe her. It was so quiet, almost unnaturally calm within the residence. She heard movement in her bedchamber, no doubt her trunk being delivered, Edith putting her things away.

  But where was Avendale?

  She wanted him. She wanted him to take her in his arms, hold her near, comfort her—­

  With a moan, she buried her face in her hands. That was stupid. From the moment she’d run away from home, she’d relied on no one except herself. Her cunning, her plotting, her determination. She was strong. She didn’t need Avendale.