The Duke and the Lady in Red

by Lorraine Heath

  They were each getting what they wanted. Strange to realize that she needed something else entirely.

  “Will you give me a tour of your residence?” Rose asked, wrapped in his silk dressing gown, her back against a mound of pillows at the headboard. Over her lap, a tray held an assortment of dishes and delicacies.

  A small army of servants had delivered an abundance of food, setting it all on a long table against a wall. He and Rose could stay in this room for a week and not go hungry. She was torn between expressing amazement at the lavishness and anger for all the times she’d gone hungry while those with wealth let so much go to waste.

  Stretched across the foot of the bed, wearing nothing except trousers and a loose shirt, he finished chewing the tiniest pie she’d ever seen. “If you like.”

  “Does it have a name?” The posh always named their residences.

  “Buckland Palace, after my family name.”

  “So you’re Benjamin Palace?”

  “Buckland, you little witch, as you well know.”

  She loved teasing him, loved the twinkle in his eyes. He didn’t smile enough for her tastes—­not a true, genuine smile. He had his devilish smiles, his wicked ones, his caustic ones. But the ones that originated in the center of his soul were rare.

  “I’ve never been in a palace before,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

  “I’m not sure this truly qualifies as such. ­People call their residences whatever they like.”

  To her it was without doubt a palace, she mused as they walked through it after they’d finished breakfast. She was still wearing his dressing gown. She suspected they’d have another romp in the bed before she left for the afternoon. He’d taken her through all the bedchambers in the section where his was. There was another section on the far side of the house where guests stayed. He’d shown her the formal dining room that she thought could accommodate the House of Lords, a smaller dining room, a breakfast one, a smaller one still where intimate dinners were held. She was familiar with his library. He’d walked her through the duchess’s library, even though presently there was no duchess. All the books. So many. Even the rooms that weren’t designated as libraries contained shelves housing books. Harry would love it here.

  Now they were strolling through a portrait gallery. A house with a room designed specifically to display portraits. It seemed at once opulent and again, wasteful. Small sitting areas dotted here and there, but the paintings dominated. She could see shadows of him in each of the males.

  Throughout the entire tour he often caressed her lightly—­the small of her back, her shoulder, her hip—­as though he could not stand the thought of going too long without some contact with her. She relished it, knowing that this time next week she would never know his touch again.

  She came to a stop beside a gigantic portrait hanging over the fireplace. “Your father. I take it.”

  “Yes.” His hand came to rest just above her backside.

  “I can see you in his features, but he contains a hardness that you lack.”

  “If you believe that then you don’t know me well at all.”

  Jerking her head around, she moved beyond his reach. “I think you’re angry about something, something more than my deceptions. I noticed it that first night, seething beneath the surface. It gave me pause. But I found you too handsome to resist.”

  He barked out his laughter. “Did you? I think you thought, Here is a man with heavy pockets I would like to lighten.”

  “That came later, after I made some inquiries.”

  He sobered. “Should probably send word to Beckwith to cease his efforts on your behalf.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I’ll see to it on my way to my residence this afternoon.”

  “I’ll take care of it. He’s likely to be more forgiving if it comes from me.” He arched a dark brow. “Besides, I have to pay him for his ser­vices rendered anyway.”

  With a smile, she strolled over to the next portrait. The woman had soulful brown eyes and mahogany hair. “Your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “She appears unhappy.”

  “I believe she was.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “And now?”

  “Disappointed in me, but other than that I believe she is quite delirious regarding the other aspects of her life.”

  “Because you’re a scoundrel?”

  He gave a brisk nod. “She doesn’t approve of my life.”

  “And that bothers you.”

  “Not really, no.”

  He was lying, but she wasn’t certain he realized it. She refrained from pressing the point. Theirs was a surface relationship, one that involved flesh, sensations, and pleasure. It was best not to delve too deeply.

  His steps matched hers. “What of your mother?” he asked.

  “She passed when I was rather young.”

  “Your father?”

  “I’m not really sure. I left him when I was seventeen. Never looked back.”

  “How did you manage at first? It had to be difficult.”

  She trailed a finger over the edge of a gilded frame. Not a speck of dust. “How many servants do you have?”

  “Here in London? Thirty or so. You’re avoiding the question.”

  She leaned against the back of a tall-­backed plush chair. “My father had stashed away some money. I stole it before I left. It was enough to see me through for a ­couple of years.”

  “Then you began to survive by deceit.”

  “I prefer to call it cunning. The world is full of fools.” Shoving herself away from the chair, she brushed up against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Some have very heavy pockets indeed. Although you turned out to be not quite the fool I thought you were.”

  He lifted her into his arms and began carrying her from the room. “Oh, I suspect I’m fool enough.”

  Nibbling on his ear, she relished his groan. He was not the only fool, it seemed. Because her heart sped up, her body thrummed with anticipation, and already she was wishing for more than a week.

  “Why must you return to your residence?” Avendale asked, lounging in the bed, naked beneath the covers, sated and partially content. He would be completely content if she were still abed with him, but shortly after he’d taken her, she’d rung the bell for Edith. It irritated him that she could dispense with him so easily and quickly. Irritated even more that he could not seem to do the same with her. He should desire her less now that he’d had a taste of her, but he discovered he only wanted her all the more.

  Watching as Edith dressed her, he’d cursed every bit of clothing that had begun to hide her flesh from his view. Now the servant was putting up Rose’s hair and all he wanted to do was remove the pins and watch it tumble back down.

  “I want to ensure that everyone is well after my abrupt departure last night,” Rose finally said.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” she snapped, at long last shifting her gaze from her reflection in the mirror to look at him. She softened her expression, her tone. “The condition was that I go alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s what I prefer.” She turned her attention back to the mirror.

  “What are those men to you?” He despised that he sounded jealous. He wasn’t, but she was his at that precise moment. He wasn’t about to share her.

  “Friends.”

  “Why must you go alone?” he asked again.

  With a deep sigh, she twisted around on the bench at the dressing table that he’d had temporarily moved in from another bedchamber, and glared at him. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed Edith. Once the girl was gone, Rose said, “I’m not going to have a tryst if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  He didn’t know what to think. “I simply find it odd.”

  “
That I should like a little bit of time to myself? Besides, I’m certain you’ll welcome a respite from my presence.”

  He wouldn’t. Not that he was going to confess that and give her absolute power over him. He also realized there was the matter of trust. She had given of herself so freely, so easily. He didn’t trust it, didn’t quite trust her. He’d known some truly diabolical women in his life. She didn’t fit the mold and yet the others seemed more trustworthy.

  “If you don’t return here as promised, I shall hunt you down.”

  She pressed both hands in a cross over her heart. “Oh my word. Such romantic prose. Careful lest you cause me to swoon.”

  “I’m serious, Rose.”

  She got to her feet and walked to the foot of the bed. “We’ve made a bargain, you and I. I will keep to my end of it.”

  “Why should I believe those words when so many others were lies?”

  She didn’t appear the least bit offended or hurt. “There was a purpose behind the lies. Nothing is to be gained with my not being truthful now.”

  Why couldn’t he have faith in those words, and why did it matter that he couldn’t?

  With a duck of her head, she gave him a small smile. “I shall miss you while I’m away.”

  “I’m not quite certain I believe that.”

  “I shall seek to convince you when I return. I haven’t time now.” She crossed the room, picking up her reticule along the way.

  “Why are you so secretive?” he asked.

  Stopping at the door, she glanced back at him. “Why are you?”

  His gut clenched. “I’m not.”

  “Of course you are. Our conversations involve only the surface of our lives. I find no fault with that since we are only interested in exploring each other’s surface.” She gave him a knowing smile. She had the right of it. He knew it. She knew he knew it.

  “Bring me a list of all your creditors that I can send to my man of business. He’ll see that they are all paid.”

  “I know you have doubts regarding my honesty, but consider this. I gave you what you wanted before the accounts were paid. Because I do trust you, implicitly.”

  “Have I ever done anything to make you think you couldn’t?”

  “There is that, I suppose. I know I’ve given you ample reasons not to trust me, yet here we are engaging in something that I believe requires absolute trust. At least for me. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  She left then, closing the door quietly in her wake. Tossing back the covers, he leaped out of the bed and rang for his valet. While she was away, he had matters to which he needed to attend. Setting things right with Beckwith topped the list.

  Beckwith buried his face in his hands. “A swindling female. How could I be such a fool?”

  Sitting in a chair in front of the solicitor’s desk, Avendale confessed, “If it’s any consolation, I fell for her ploy as well.”

  Beckwith lifted his dark head, his blue eyes magnified by his spectacles. “My brothers are going to have a jolly good laugh at my naiveté.”

  “No reason for them to know. I’m here to make restitution for any expenses you’ve incurred and any fees you are owed.”

  Beckwith furrowed his young brow. “I should report her to Scotland Yard.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. You may add to your fees if needed in order to make you feel less a fool.”

  Beckwith’s pride had an inflated sense of self, but Avendale paid the amount without quibbling. It seemed there was a bit of a swindler in everyone when given the opportunity.

  Avendale then saw to the matter of Rose’s residence. For reasons which he didn’t examine too closely, he paid what was owed and an additional three months. He knew in all likelihood that she would leave London at the end of the week, but if she wished to stay a bit longer, he wanted to make the opportunity available. She was with him now because of the bargain, because she had to be if she wished to avoid dire consequences.

  That knowledge grated. He wanted her with him because she wanted to be there. What passed between them was incredible, nearly earth-­shattering if he were honest. But it clawed at his conscience that he had forced her into his bed. If he were any sort of gentleman, he would relieve her of her debt to him.

  But he’d been a scoundrel too long to give up anything he wanted so badly.

  And he wanted her.

  He was damned anyway. Might as well ensure he took memories of the very best adventures into hell with him. So far she was proving to be the best of all.

  “Did he hurt you?” Merrick demanded as Rose stepped out of the carriage with the footman’s assistance. He’d rushed out of the door as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Her words to him the night before—­Tell Harry there has been a change in plans and we’ll be staying in London a bit longer. I’ll see him at two tomorrow.—­had ensured he’d be waiting for her.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she answered as she walked past him into the house.

  “I don’t like him.”

  Reaching down, she rubbed his shoulder. “You don’t have to, although I think if you removed me from the equation you’d like him very much.”

  “He took advantage.”

  She arched a brow. “I daresay he’s not the only one. We’ll be leaving with five thousand quid and anything else that we want as it’s all paid for now.”

  “But at what cost?”

  “One I was more than willing to pay. Now cease your harping. I want to spend some time with Harry. I can’t be gone more than an hour or Avendale will seek me out. I’ve no doubt of that, as he doesn’t trust me. Not that I blame him. I assume Harry’s in the library.”

  “Yes. He’s in a mood, though. I had to explain a bit more than you wanted as he threatened to go after you.”

  That would have been disastrous.

  “I trust your judgment, Merrick. Have Sally bring us some tea and biscuits.” With a fast clip to her stride and her heels echoing through the hallway, she quickly made her way to the library. The door was open. Always a good sign. He wasn’t in as troubled a mood as Merrick had indicated, although perhaps he was, but knowing her time would be short, he had decided not to waste it by having her trying to beat down the door.

  She was reminded of the closed library door last night. It seemed all men had something in common when their pride was wounded: a need to lick their wounds. She was still amazed that Avendale had been upset to discover she was a virgin. She’d judged him a man whose pride would cause him to burn with anger, but not remorse or guilt. She’d thought he’d consider himself above those sorts of emotions. She’d never so erroneously misjudged a person.

  Unfortunately she had also misjudged what this week in his presence was going to cost her. At the end of it, she was going to be irrevocably changed. But that was for dealing with next week. For now, there was Harry.

  Striding into the library, she found him at his desk, pen in hand. “Hello, dearest. How is the story coming along?” she asked.

  He leaned back, studied her with crystalline blue eyes that held a wealth of pain. “You simply left . . . without a word.”

  “I didn’t have a choice, but I’m here now. Although I have less than an hour. Let’s not spend it squabbling.” Tugging off her gloves, she tucked them into her reticule. “Come sit with me by the window. It’s a lovely day.”

  “It’s going to rain.”

  She looked out at the cloudless sky. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. Tonight. Late.”

  He was remarkably skilled at predicting the weather. She thought about how lovely it would be to be snuggled in bed with Avendale while the rain pattered the roof and windows. She shook her head. She could not be thinking of Avendale right now.

  Sitting on one end of a long sofa, she was grateful when Harry joined her at the other. Sally brought in tea and biscuit
s on a tray and set it on the table in front of them. She stared hard at Rose as though that were enough for her to decipher everything that had transpired since Rose had left. Rose blanked her expression, tried to make it as innocent as possible. With a narrowing of her eyes, Sally huffed before leaving.

  Rose prepared the tea, set a cup in front of Harry, even knowing that he probably wouldn’t touch it. Sometimes they both just needed a sense of being civilized.

  “It was that duke, wasn’t it?” Harry finally asked. “He forced you to go.”

  Rose took a sip of tea, set aside her cup. “No, sweeting, he didn’t. I wanted to go. God help me, but I like him, Harry.”

  “Why?”

  She scoffed. “Why? You would ask, wouldn’t you?” Harry had an insatiable curiosity, wanted to know everything. She picked up her teacup, set it back down. How could she possibly explain to him what she didn’t understand herself? “I like the way he looks as me—­as though there were no women before me. Even though I know there were probably hundreds.”

  “What does he look like? I couldn’t see him clearly the other night.”

  Pleasure tripped through her as she brought up an image of him. “He’s tall, not as tall as you. He has broad shoulders. He likes to carry me around, which makes me feel protected. His hair is a deep, deep brown. Like sable, like Sally’s winter coat. Sometimes when the light hits it just so, I can see the barest hint of red. His eyes are almost the exact shade of his hair. Although no red there. He’s solemn. He spends a good deal of his time engaged in the pursuit of pleasure, but I’m not certain he truly enjoys it. He seems to be a little bit lost. Lonely I think. It’s the oddest thing, when we are in a room crowded with ­people. They will acknowledge him with a nod or quick smile, but they don’t talk to him or ask after his welfare. Not that he makes any inquiries either. It’s as though he can’t be bothered with anything other than his own needs, but I think that’s just a façade. I think he’s been hurt. He’s awfully cautious.” She was amazed she had spouted so much.