“Why do you care?”
He trailed his blunt-tipped finger along the back of her hand, and she was astounded as always that his faint touch in such a small area could lure her in, could make her want to kiss him. “If you’re not comfortable with thoughts of Harry being gone, what will you do when you’re free of me?”
Weep uncontrollably for days, nights, weeks. No, she was too pragmatic for such nonsense. She would cry for a few hours, then straighten her spine and carry on. Rolling onto her back, she stared at the blue sky, still finding it difficult to believe that she’d journeyed through it. She would never forget this day. He was creating as many memories for her as for Harry. How could she ever in a thousand years repay that debt? “I shall awaken each morning and go wherever I want. Perhaps even to India. I’ll have no responsibilities, no duties, no obligations. I’ll wander, with nothing to tie me down. I’ll have no plans, no strategies, no compelling need to do anything except breathe.”
“How will you survive?”
She shrugged. “The occasional swindle.”
As he moved nearer, she could no longer see the brilliant blue. Only his face as he gazed down on her. “I thought you did that out of necessity.”
“I still must eat.” Had she claimed she was always honest with herself? “I don’t know if I can give it up. I thrive on the challenge of it.” Reaching up, she brushed the hair back from his brow. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Life has other challenges you could embrace.”
“But none would give me the freedom to live on my own terms, worrying only about my own whims and fancies.” She swallowed hard, forcing the words past her tightening throat. “I’ve spent a little over a quarter of a century caring for Harry.” She licked her lips, swallowed again, pushed back the tears. “I don’t resent it.”
Abruptly she sat up, barely aware of knocking her shoulder against his chin. “I don’t,” she insisted again. “But sometimes I yearn to be beholden to no one, to only have to think about me. My wants, my needs, my dreams. I’ll part ways with Merrick and the others. I’m selfish, terribly, terribly selfish. I want no children, no husband, no one claiming me. I want to answer only to myself.”
Avendale pushed himself up and, with his thumb, he wiped from her cheek a tear she didn’t realize had escaped. “Yet you agreed to answer to me.”
She traced her fingers over his face, noting the deep lines that a man of his age should not yet possess. “So I did.”
“And you’ll keep to it, because of Harry.”
More so because of Avendale, but she could not give him that power over her. Self-preservation forced her to let him believe his words were true. “I’ll keep to it.”
“Even though you’re not in the habit of paying your debts?”
“This one I’ll keep.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“You must believe me or we wouldn’t be here now.”
“I’m sure you’ll stay with me as long as Harry breathes. After that, I think you’ll take off the moment my back is turned.”
“Then why are you doing all this?”
“Because I enjoy watching you smile.”
The words devastated her. Why did he have to be so good when she was so rotten? “I will not break my promise to you.” She meant the words, intended to keep them—if she could. Always there was that caveat. Always the words could prove false.
“How did you learn to lie so well?” he asked.
“I’m not lying.”
His scrutiny was almost a physical caress. It took everything within her not to look away.
“I should hope not,” he finally said, and she was able to slowly release the breath she’d been holding. “But I find it difficult to believe you learned everything from your father.”
She smiled. “You’re right on that score. I learned some skills from a fortune-teller. Elise. She was part of the traveling ménage of oddities. Claimed to be a Gypsy. I don’t know if that’s true. But she had black hair and black eyes. When she looked at you, it felt like she saw into your soul.”
“Did she ever tell you your fortune?”
“At least once a week. I was fascinated by the ritual of it. From her I learned the importance of setting the scene. With her scarves and flickering candles and whispers, I could not help but believe she could see my future.”
“What did she predict for you?”
“It was always a variation of the same: before I see thirty years, I will lose what I treasure.”
“Harry.”
“I don’t see that it could be anything else.”
“When do you turn thirty?”
“In two months.” She took a deep breath. “So yes, I have considered what my life would be after I’m thirty. And you, Your Grace, what do you see in your future?”
“An upstanding wife who can bring respectability to me and the family name. A lady whom Society will view with reverence for bringing me to heel.”
A woman with a sterling reputation, one far different from hers. “Someone of whom your mother will approve.”
Nodding, he looked out toward the stream. “I should at least give her that, as I’ve not been a good son,” he said quietly.
Although he was still gazing out, she wasn’t certain he saw Harry any longer. Instead he saw regret, perhaps the reason behind it. They were no longer among the clouds, so regrets were once more prevalent and weighing heavily on shoulders.
She was not surprised by his proclamation. He’d alluded to his mother being disappointed in him. “I suspect you are a better son than you realize.”
He slid his gaze to her. She could easily fall into those dark depths and lose her way. Perhaps she had already. “Where do you find your optimism?” he asked.
“How do you not find yours?”
He laughed darkly. “Because I know my transgressions.”
“They can be forgiven.”
“But not forgotten.”
“I believe we chose how we remember them, how we perceive them. Take my father, for example. I could choose to remember his treatment of Harry beneath the light of ignorance. I could be more tolerant of his actions. Instead I view him through the lens of cruelty. I shall never forgive him. With my dying breath, I shall curse him. I know that makes a part of my soul black and ugly but there are other parts of it that are bit brighter thanks to Harry. Your mother will have no choice except to look at you through the lens of love. She will forgive you because she can do little else.”
“She is hosting a dinner tonight. She wished me to attend.”
Rose would love to go, to see the splendor, to dine with the duke’s family, but she was well aware that he could not share her with those above reproach. “You should go. Harry and I can entertain ourselves.”
He shook his head. “I can’t go.”
“She’s your mother.”
“She killed my father.”
He’d never said the words aloud. Echoing around him, they sounded harsh, cruel, and untrue.
They’d propelled him to his feet, sent him striding over the field, crushing petals beneath his boots. He didn’t know why he’d told her. Why he’d blurted it out.
Her family was far from perfect, yet when he saw her with her brother, witnessed the love and devotion they shared—
He had three brothers and two sisters—half siblings—and he doubted he’d be able to pick them all out in a crowd of six. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen them. He stayed away because he didn’t want to be a bad influence, not that his reasons were entirely noble.
“Avendale, slow down,” Rose called behind him.
He couldn’t. He needed to outrace his thoughts. They were traveling back in time and he didn’t want to go there, never wanted to go there.
“Avendale.” She grabbed his arm.
“Hold up.”
He wanted to shake her off, even as he wanted to wrap himself around her. He was aware of a tug as she tripped, began to fall—
Spinning around, he caught her, steadied her, looked into eyes that had seen cruelty worse than he could have imagined, and yet she’d been forged into a remarkable woman who didn’t belabor the unfairness in life but simply sought to balance it.
“You told me your father died in a fire,” she said softly.
“That’s what they led me to believe.” Releasing his hold on her, he dragged his fingers through his hair. “I did not bring you here for this.”
Taking his hand as though they were children, she led him to a tree, slid down its trunk, and sat on the ground, seeming not to care that her skirt would become stained. She looked up at him, the invitation there. He should announce that it was time for them to depart. Instead he sank down, raised a knee, and draped his wrist over it.
“Tell me,” she urged.
He plucked a flower, pulled off a petal. “Tell her.” Plucked another. “Tell her not.” Another. “Tell her.”
She snatched the flower from between his fingers and tossed it aside. “You know my secrets,” she said.
“Do I?” He doubted that he knew them all.
“The ones that matter.”
In part, due to Harry’s writings, he knew far more than she probably realized. It did seem only fair that he reveal some of his, but he had harbored them for so long that it was difficult to share them now, even with her. Yet if he were going to share them with anyone, it should be she. He was coming to care for her, more than was wise, more than he’d thought possible. He’d always kept himself divorced from his feelings, because he’d learned early on that they couldn’t be trusted. As much as he wanted to trust her, he couldn’t. Not completely, but perhaps enough that he could unburden himself somewhat.
She waited patiently, quietly, as though she knew exactly how difficult it was to bare his secrets. He reached for another flower and found instead her fingers threading through his, holding firmly, providing strength, her blue eyes searching. He cleared his throat and began.
“Memories of my youth are tattered, blurred at the edges. I don’t remember how it came to be, but we were staying with Sir William—he wasn’t Sir William at the time; he was simply Dr. Graves—when word came that my father died in a fire. Mother didn’t cry when she told me but there was this sense of relief. I remember that most. Graves was with her, holding her. I believe he and my mother were lovers. I was too young at the time to make that assumption. It was only as I got older, came to understand what passed between men and women, that I could look back on that time and speculate why he was always about.”
“You think they arranged for his death so they might be together?”
“I know it sounds preposterous. It’s the reason I’ve never spoken of it. At the time I didn’t quite understand death. I knew only that I would not see my father again, because he’d gone to heaven. But I did see him. Three years later.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean you saw his ghost?”
He shook his head, tucking away the little tidbit that she believed in things such as that. “No, he was flesh and blood and very much alive. He kept to the shadows: at the park, the zoological gardens. One night I awoke to find him at the foot of my bed.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“Strangely I wasn’t. I’d begun to think of him as the shadow man, because I couldn’t see his features clearly. That night he told me that my mother and her lover had tried to be rid of him, but he wasn’t so easily gotten rid of. He would make them pay. None of it made sense to me at the time as I didn’t know what a lover was or where he’d been. He also told me he was there to protect me, that my mother didn’t love me, but wished me ill. I was to tell no one. But I’d drawn pictures of him. My mother saw them. One afternoon she took me to Lovingdon’s and ordered me to stay the night. But when it grew dark, I ran home. I saw her strike him down with a fireplace poker. He didn’t get up.”
“Did she see you?”
“No. I was hidden away in the shadows of the terrace. For hours I made no sound. My tears fell in silence. I might have even fallen asleep. I can only recall snippets of the night. Graves was there. So was Inspector Swindler of Scotland Yard. I thought she would be arrested, but she wasn’t. Eventually I ran back to Lovingdon’s. My mother came for me and acted as though there was no blood on her hands. I thought there would be another funeral. But there wasn’t. Nothing was ever said.”
Leaning toward him, she cradled his face. “And she married Graves?”
Taking her hand from his cheek, he traced the lines along her palm. It was easier to speak with a distraction. “Shortly afterward. Sometimes she would look at me, and I saw the guilt. And I wondered when she would kill me, too.”
Shock tightened her features. “You can’t truly have believed your mother would harm you.”
“I was a child. His words, her actions haunted me. I lived in fear until I went off to school. Even then I wasn’t completely certain I was safe. I kept to myself, trusted few. Over time, it became a habit. Which is why, I suppose, I didn’t quite trust you in the beginning.”
“But you trust me now.”
“Not entirely.”
Her mouth formed a little moue of displeasure and he wanted to kiss it away. Why was it, no matter what she did, he wanted to kiss her? He slid toward her until his hip touched hers, until his arm crossed over her lap, pressing his palm to the firm ground, and he was able to balance himself so he had one hand free to cradle her face. “Should I trust you?”
She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “Probably not, but you should talk to your mother about that night. Perhaps there’s an explanation for all it.”
“Do you think she would feel better knowing what I saw?”
“I think she would feel better if you were more a part of her life. And I think you would benefit from knowing the truth.”
But what if it was worse than he’d ever imagined? “I’ve let it go on for too long. No good would come of it.”
“I’d not have thought you a coward.”
Her words served as a punch to the gut; the challenge in her eyes nearly felled him. “Careful. You don’t want to make an enemy of me.”
“I know that well enough.” With her fingers, she gently feathered the hair back from his brow. “Go to dinner.”
He wasn’t half tempted, only he wanted her at his side, but one didn’t bring his paramour, especially one who skirted the law, to his mother’s dining table. Although it wasn’t as though his mother’s friends hadn’t done a bit of skirting themselves. Still, the dinner party wasn’t where he should begin reconciliation. “There will be time to make amends later.”
Weary of revisiting the past, wanting to be ensconced in the present where passion loomed, he covered her mouth with his. An image of the future flitted through his mind, and he saw her there, strolling over his land, his children tugging at her skirts. All the responsibilities and duties that she didn’t want.
She had agreed to stay with him for as long as he wanted, but already he regretted the bargain, because he was discovering that he didn’t want her with him unless it was where she wished to be. And she had already told him that it wasn’t. The carefree life she craved would not be found at his side. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be unselfish enough to let her go.
Standing in the gallery, Rose studied the former Duke of Avendale’s portrait.
After they’d returned from their outing, Avendale had taken his leave to attend to some business in town. It amazed her to discover that he was not quite the man of leisure she’d thought. It seemed there was always some detail that required his attention.
Hearing the familiar shuffling, she turned to her brother and smiled. “You should have sent for me, sweeting. No need fo
r you to traverse stairs.”
“I wanted to.” He gave her an almost bashful grin. “Besides, I wasn’t looking for you. I just like to explore.”
“It is an amazing place. I try to imagine all the care that went into arranging each room, and it’s quite beyond me.”
“It speaks of permanence.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s it. I’m not of a mind to view anything as permanent. It’s all fleeting.”
Sadness touched his eyes. “You should have permanent, forever.”
She smiled, to soften her words, to ensure they brought no guilt his way. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” Usually by now she was itching to move on with her nomadic life.
Harry looked past her shoulder, to the portrait that took up a great portion of the wall, more than any other painting, as though the man’s ego demanded it. “Avendale’s father?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like him,” he whispered.
“There is something sinister in his eyes, isn’t there?”
“The artist didn’t like him either. He didn’t hide that Avendale’s father wasn’t nice.”
Briefly she wondered what sort of rendering an artist might do of Harry, if given the chance. It might be interesting. Her father had been gifted with handsome features but his hatred and self-centeredness had twisted them until his demeanor made him unattractive. Harry might have been graced with the same pleasing lines beneath the misshapen masses, but even without them she found him quite beautiful.
“You should have a portrait done,” Harry said.
What a disaster that would be, to have a likeness created that would provide police with more clues to her identity. “Perhaps someday.”
Harry limped over to study the portrait of Avendale’s mother.
“Harry, if you were to awaken one morning, and I weren’t here—”
He turned. “Why wouldn’t you be here?”
“Something might happen and I would need to leave.”
“What?”
“Anything is possible. It’s just a hypothetical, but I want you to know that even if I’m not with you, I still love you more than anything.”
The Duke and the Lady in Red Page 23
