“If you’re implying he’s smitten tonight, I fear you have misjudged things.”
“How did you meet?” she asked.
“At the ball here, opening night.”
“Are you a member then?”
“Yes.” She wanted to deflect any further questions away from herself. “I was surprised that you and Mr. Darling seem to have the same parents.”
The duchess smiled warmly. “My parents took him in when he was a lad. I grew up knowing him as my brother.”
“Your parents are . . . ?” Inwardly she groaned at the habit that had her searching for details that would help her identify how best to take advantage.
“The Duke and Duchess of Greystone.”
“With so many dukes fluttering about, I’m not certain I’ve ever been in such esteemed company before.”
“We’re really rather common, in an uncommon way I suppose. My mother and Langdon’s father began life on the streets and managed to survive them. We’re quite aware that not everyone is as fortunate as we are.”
“Is that the reason you’re building the sanctuary?”
“It’s a bit more personal.” Her eyes widened slightly and she smiled. “Here are the gents returning to us.”
Lovingdon place his arm around his wife’s waist and drew her in against his side. Avendale placed his hand on the small of Rose’s back. She would not wish for more. It was foolish to want more.
“I’ve grown bored with the cards,” Avendale said. “Let’s be off to Cremorne.”
“Pleasure gardens?” Rose asked. She’d heard of them. They were decadent by all accounts. Some were advocating they be closed. “I’ve never been.”
“It’s where wickedness—and I—thrive.” He looked at Lovingdon. “Care to join us?”
Lovingdon shook his head. “No.”
Avendale turned to the duchess. “You have made him dreadfully dull.”
“She has made me dreadfully happy,” Lovingdon said.
“We’re off before I cast up my accounts.”
Something was amiss. Rose wasn’t quite certain exactly what it was. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
“We must get together for tea sometime,” the duchess said.
“That sounds lovely.”
Then Avendale was nudging her away from them.
“You’re forgetting your money,” she told him as he walked her away from the table.
“Darling will cash in my chips, have the money delivered to me.”
“You trust him?”
“He gains nothing by cheating me. I know precisely how much money is there. You’re up five hundred quid. I’ll give it to you later.”
“Give it to the duchess.”
He stared at her. “Which duchess? You mean Grace?”
She nodded, her stomach tightening. She could purchase Harry books with that money. What was she thinking to give it away? Perhaps she wanted to make amends, perhaps she was seeking to save her soul. As though her misdeeds were not worth a good deal more. “For her sanctuary.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he said, “when you’re able to think more clearly.”
“I’m thinking clearly now.”
He grinned. “You only believe you are. I’m surprised you’re still able to walk.”
“I didn’t drink much. My glass is nearly full.”
“The footmen are paid to be discreet—and they are paid to keep the glasses nearly full. Trust me, you’ve had far more than you realize. And we shall have a good deal more before the night is done.”
As the coach traveled through the midnight-enshrouded streets, Avendale had to admit that he had enjoyed watching Rose play cards much more than he had ever enjoyed playing them. He took pleasure from the way her face lit up whenever she won a hand, was impressed by the way she hid her disappointment when she lost. He thought she could make a living upon the stage.
“Are you certain we should go?” she asked. She sat opposite him. If he were beside her, he would have her before they reached their destination. He should take her straightaway to his residence. He didn’t know why he wanted to spend time with her at Cremorne, when it would be more rewarding to have her in his bed. “I have it on good authority that it’s going to rain before the night is done.”
Scoffing, he looked quickly out the window. The fog had yet to roll in. “It’s not going to rain.”
“I’ll wager the five hundred quid I won tonight. If it doesn’t rain before the sun peers over the horizon, it’s yours. If it does rain, I keep the five hundred and you give the same amount out of your pocket to the duchess and tell her it’s from me.”
“She would appreciate the cunning behind that wager,” he told her. “But I’ve no need of the money. If it doesn’t rain, I get an additional night of you in my bed.”
“Done.”
He was surprised she capitulated so easily. Was it because she welcomed another night in his bed or was she arrogant enough to believe she couldn’t lose now that she’d had a taste of winning? It didn’t matter. He owned the wager. The scent of rain wasn’t even on the air.
“I like your friends, but I have the impression your friendship doesn’t run deeply.”
She was far too astute. He should have known she’d pay attention to more than the cards. “I am closest to Lovingdon. He was the one with whom I sought out trouble before Grace got her clutches into him.”
“You don’t approve of the duchess?”
“I don’t approve of any woman leading a man on a merry chase to the altar.”
“Eventually you’ll marry.”
“I doubt it.”
“But you’re a duke. You require an heir. Your bastards can’t inherit.”
“I don’t have any—” He stopped, grinned. “Clever girl. If you wanted to know if I had any children, why didn’t you just ask?”
“You’re not very forthcoming with answers when I pose questions.”
“I’ve always taken precautions to ensure no offspring come from my loins.” Only he hadn’t with her, he realized now. And she wouldn’t have the knowledge to prevent conception. Damnation. He’d been so obsessed with her, wanted her so badly that he hadn’t given any thought to protecting her. “If you find yourself with child, you’re to let me know.”
“Do I really strike you as the sort to come begging?”
The light from a streetlamp they passed caught the necklace at her throat, a gift she would leave behind. No, she wouldn’t come begging. After their time together, he’d never see her again. A fissure of anger sliced through him at the thought and he tamped it down. He didn’t need her, didn’t need anyone. It grated to acknowledge that he might actually miss her when she was gone. “Still, I should like to know.”
“As you wish. So do you visit Cremorne often?” she asked, and he was grateful she was taking the discussion away from the possibility of children. He didn’t want to analyze why it was that the thought of having children with her wasn’t abhorrent.
“Nearly every night,” he said. He didn’t understand this insane need he had for her to see how he lived.
“What shall we do there?”
“Drink, dance. Kiss in the shadows.”
“We could have done all that at the Twin Dragons.”
He chuckled low. “We could have, yes, but it all seems so proper there. Nothing at all is proper about Cremorne Gardens.”
He had the right of it there, Grace thought, as she walked along beside him, her hand nestled in the crook of his elbow. She wasn’t certain why it made her melancholy to imagine him here night after night, searching for something that she suspected would not be found within these gardens.
Music played. People danced—on the pavilion and off of it. Wine and drink flowed. Women—no doubt the charities to which he made
donations—strutted about, flitting from man to man, some boldly taking their pleasures out in the open. She didn’t want to contemplate that he might have found surcease with some of these women, that he had taken them against walls or trees.
No one acknowledged him, although surely there were people here who knew him. She supposed it was an unwritten rule: whatever happened within these confines was not discussed beyond them and identities were held secret.
Now and then Avendale would stop, cup her face, and lean in to kiss her. Here to kiss in public was acceptable. Although, so it seemed, was fornicating. She would not go that far. What she shared with him was for them only. It was personal, private.
But a man could bring his mistress here without experiencing censure. It fluttered through her mind to wonder how many nights a woman needed to be with a man to qualify as being his mistress. Avendale could share with her all the tawdry places because she wasn’t decent or respectable. He could have the sort of fun with her that he couldn’t have with a wife. That thought saddened her, made her want to leave.
Yet she wanted to stay, touched that he was sharing part of his life with her, even if it didn’t shed a particularly good light on him. She wondered why he strove so hard to convince her that he was naught but wickedness and vice. Unfortunately her mind was not clear enough to discern his reasoning. On the morrow perhaps.
They’d been drinking since they arrived, and the spirits were having their way with her. She staggered against him. His arm came around her, held her near. She laughed. “This isn’t you.”
He looked down on her, and she wondered when he had become blurred. Squinting, she was able to make out his puckered brow. “I believe I am me,” he said. “I haven’t morphed into someone else.”
She shook her head. The world spun. She flung out her hand. “No, this place. It’s not you.”
“You’re wrong there. It’s where I flourish.”
“No, it’s where you come when you want to be lost.” She rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his luscious lips. “Why do you want to be lost? What are you striving to escape?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But she did know.
“Here, finish this off,” he said.
Feeling a cool breeze, she welcomed the warmth that his scotch would bring. She downed it in one swallow. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattered. Avendale merely laughed and dragged her away.
Suddenly there was another glass in her hand. She didn’t remember how it came to be there.
“Drink up,” he ordered.
“I’m nearly foxed, I think.”
“I want you completely foxed.”
“Why?”
“Because this place calls for it.”
She drank deeply, thinking nothing had ever tasted so marvelous. Tossing the glass aside, she moved in front of Avendale and wound her arms around his neck. “I’m going to win the bet.”
“I don’t think—”
A crack of thunder prevented her from hearing the rest of his words. The skies opened, releasing a deluge. Stepping away from him, raising her arms in the air, she spun in a circle. “I win! I win! I told you it would rain!”
Snaking an arm around her waist, he drew her back to him. “I’ve never kissed a woman in the rain.”
“Then kiss me, so you’ll have the memory, so you’ll never forget me.” Quite suddenly, it seemed imperative that he never forget her, that something about her be different from the countless other women who warmed his bed.
“I shall never forget you.”
He took her mouth with a savagery that surprised her. Was it this place? The decadence of it, the madness of people seeking whatever pleasure they could find?
It didn’t matter. She was vaguely aware of shrieks, the patter of feet as people ran past them, seeking shelter, yet she and Avendale stayed as they were, not caring one fig that they were getting drenched. She thought how lovely it would be when they returned to his residence and he warmed her.
But for now, she wanted nothing more than this: his lips ravaging hers as though he could never have enough of her, as though nothing in the world were more important than holding her at this moment.
Rose snuggled beneath the blankets until she was flush against Avendale, absorbing his warmth. He began slowly stroking her back, which she should have found soothing, but her head felt as though it had exploded sometime during the night and was only now starting to come back together, each piece locking into place with a snap that caused a pain behind her eyes. She couldn’t recall ever indulging to such an extent. Why would Avendale do this to himself night after night? While she had to admit that the majority of the evening had seemed like jolly good fun, she wasn’t certain it was worth this agony. She could have had as much fun with fewer spirits. She might have even remembered the night. At that precise moment it was little more than snippets, flashes. Arriving here. Avendale disrobing her. A deliciously warm bath. Snuggling against him. The world spinning when she closed her eyes, pulling her down into a vortex where her past circled around her, a thousand ravens pricking her conscience until she was bleeding. Avendale cooing to her, promising all would be well.
She’d wanted to tell him everything, but an instinct for survival stronger than the allure of a clean conscience overrode the taunting of the spirits. Now she was suffering from the indulgence.
She couldn’t even enjoy the rain as she usually did because it was as though each droplet was pinging off her brain instead of the windowpane. A constant barrage of irritating noises. But at least she’d won her bet with Avendale. It had rained, was raining still.
Avendale cupped her backside, pressed her against him. He was hot and hard. Suddenly all the discomforts lessened.
“I thought you’d never awaken,” he said in a voice roughened from sleep.
“You don’t sound as though you’ve been up all that long,” she answered, nipping his collarbone.
He laughed, a rich, deep sound that chased away the lingering cobwebs in her mind. “Oh, I’ve been up long enough and aching for you.”
Rolling them over, he tucked her beneath him and began trailing his mouth along her throat, her bare shoulders. They hadn’t bothered with clothes when they came to bed.
She heard the distant bonging of a clock. Four times. The one in the foyer, she thought dreamily. She briefly wondered why the servants hadn’t stopped the chimes for the night.
“I thought it was later,” she murmured as Avendale slid down and began to give attention to her breasts.
“Mmm?”
“It seemed we’d slept longer.”
“I’m not sure how much longer we could have slept. It’s afternoon.”
She furrowed her brow. The curtains were drawn, the room dark, but surely it was morning beyond the windows. Not afternoon. Not four in the afternoon. “It can’t be.”
He eased down farther and circled his tongue around her navel. “I’m fairly certain it is, sweetheart. We’ve slept the day away.”
Bolting upright, ignoring the jarring pain to her head, she shoved on his shoulders and scrambled out from beneath him. “Why didn’t you let me know?”
Lying on his side, he grabbed her arm, preventing her from leaving the bed. “What the devil, Rose? We’re having a pleasant lie in.”
“I was supposed to be at the residence at two.”
“What difference does a couple of hours make?”
“It matters. I promised.” Jerking free of his hold, she clambered off the bed and hurried to the wardrobe. She selected a simple dress that would require no assistance to don. No corset, a single petticoat. “Can you please shout down for them to have a carriage readied?”
Leisurely he left the bed as though she had all the time in the world. “Why this obsession with seeing your servants every afternoon?”
“I’ve told you before: They’re not my servants. They’re my friends.” After securing the last of the buttons, she reached for a brush and began working the tangles out of her hair. She caught his disgruntled gaze in the mirror. “Please, Avendale.”
He snatched his dressing gown from the floor at the foot of the bed. “I don’t like this part of our arrangement.”
Grabbing a ribbon, she pulled back her hair, secured it, and faced him. “Regardless, it is part of the arrangement. If you want me to return willingly this evening, you will hold to it.”
She saw the familiar fury, wondered that it failed to frighten her.
“God help me,” he snarled, “I should have had enough of you by now but I haven’t.”
With that he left to see about a carriage. After she fetched a pelisse to protect her from the rain, and her reticule, she followed him out.
She arrived at her residence to discover her worst fears realized: Harry was gone.
Chapter 12
Avendale sat sprawled in his library, slowly savoring his scotch, watching the clock on the mantel, listening to the chimes of the one in the hallway as the minutes dragged by. One hundred and twenty of them. Double what he had allotted her for the afternoon. The only reason that he was still here was because he was allowing for the rain and the likelihood that the carriage would be forced to travel more slowly.
It irritated the devil out of him that she was not with him for every hour of every day while she was supposed to be in his company. He had told her that she had to be with him for a week. He would deduct these hours when she was away from the total hours found in a week and insist she not leave until he’d had that many hours in her company. Perhaps he would deduct the time she was sleeping as well.
With a growl, he shot out of the chair, crossed over to the fireplace, pressed his forearm to the mantel, and stared into the fire. What was wrong with him? Why was he so bothered by her leaving for a spell? She would return and they would carry on. They’d dine, then tumble onto the sheets—after he’d stroked every inch of her body. He had some oils from the Orient. Perhaps he’d use them. Drive her mad first.
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