The Duke and the Lady in Red

by Lorraine Heath

“Trust me, Rose.”

  Her throat clogging with tears, she shook her head. He didn’t understand what it was like when ­people first caught sight of Harry. He’d created a safe haven within his residence, but beyond it he couldn’t control others and their reactions. He couldn’t save her brother from the embarrassment of being reminded how very different he was.

  Avendale cradled her face with one hand. “My box is in shadows. He’ll sit in the back, and no one will see him.”

  “But he has to get there.”

  “I was once involved with an actress. I know a back way in. The only ones who will see him are those I paid well to show no reaction and to hold their tongues.” His gaze delved into hers. “I remember your awe that night we went, the way you scrutinized every aspect. I know now that you were trying to carry all the details back to Harry. Give him the opportunity to experience it on his own.”

  It was her nature to be protective of her brother, to try to spare him all the suffering possible, but even fledgling birds wouldn’t fly if they were never forced out of the nest. She took a deep breath, cursed her corset for not allowing her to breathe as deeply as she needed. “Yes, all right.”

  Placing her hand in the crook of Avendale’s elbow, taking comfort in his strength, absorbing it until her trembling fingers stilled, she carried on down the stairs. Reaching the foyer, she smiled brightly. “Oh, Harry, don’t you look dapper!”

  He nodded, his gaze traveling between her and Avendale. “The duke has an accomplished tailor who came to see me.”

  “I should say he does.”

  “We need to be away,” Avendale said quietly, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back assuaging any remaining fears that this was a horrible idea.

  Harry placed his hat on his head but it didn’t sit quite properly. Rose straightened it as best she could, then declared, “Perfect.”

  Once they were in the coach, Rose found herself sitting on the bench alone with the two gents opposite her. Obviously, Avendale had instructed Harry on the proper etiquette regarding where gentlemen sat. The lamp was lit, but the curtains were drawn over the windows.

  “Were you surprised, Rose?” Harry asked.

  “Quite.”

  “Harry has been busting to tell you all day,” Avendale said. “Why do you think I entertained him with cards all afternoon?”

  “I beat him. Every hand,” her brother crowed, and she refrained from informing him that it was bad form to boast of one’s victories.

  “You’re very clever, Harry.” But then so was Avendale. Clever and kind. While he proclaimed to know nothing at all about caring, it seemed he knew a great deal indeed.

  And she realized with dread that she was falling in love with him. How would she survive when he was no longer in her life? It wasn’t her person she was concerned with, but her heart, her soul. He nurtured them, fed them.

  She’d held herself distant from everyone except those in her small circle. She loved them dearly, but not in the same manner that she did Avendale. It was as though he had somehow become part of her. She was beginning to know the things he would say before he said them. Each time she saw him, she overflowed with gladness. It didn’t matter if only five minutes had passed since she’d last seen him. She wanted to reach across now and touch him, hold him, cradle her head on his shoulder.

  “How long have you been planning this?” she asked him.

  “Almost from the beginning.”

  “You might have mentioned it.”

  “And ruin my fun? Not likely.”

  “I had no idea my little brother was so skilled at keeping secrets.”

  “I’m the best,” Harry said.

  “Between the balloon and this secret, I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t leave you two alone to plot things.”

  “The duke and I are friends. Friends plot adventures.”

  The words flowed over her, through her, and she wondered if Harry was aware how remarkable it was that a man of Avendale’s station in life was his friend. But then was the duke aware that Harry was his friend for no other reason than that Harry liked him? Harry wasn’t influenced by wealth, rank, or position. He judged ­people by what he saw inside them. Which also made it remarkable that he could love her.

  The coach clattered to a stop, rocked, and Rose felt her nervousness kick back in.

  “Wait here,” Avendale ordered, before stepping out of the coach.

  Rose peered behind the curtain to see him marching up some steps to a door. Using the head of his walking stick, he knocked, waited, glanced casually around.

  “What’s he doing?” Harry whispered.

  “Waiting for someone to answer his summons. We seem to be in an alleyway.” She saw the door open, heard voices, although she couldn’t decipher the words exchanged. Then Avendale was heading back toward them.

  A footman opened the coach door as he neared. Reaching in, Avendale took Rose’s hand. “All is arranged.”

  He handed her down before assisting Harry. He led them up the stairs and through the doorway into a small, shadowed room that opened onto stairs.

  A finely dressed gentleman holding a lamp greeted them. “If you’ll be so kind as to come with me.”

  With Avendale providing support for her brother, Rose followed the gentleman up the narrow stairs. At the top, they waited with bated breath while he parted heavy draperies and peered between them. Holding the fabric aside, he stepped out into the hallway and indicated they should precede him.

  They made their way to Avendale’s box with no incidents. Releasing a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, Rose settled on her chair between Harry and Avendale, very much aware of the excitement thrumming through Harry as he took in his surroundings.

  “It’s just as you described,” he whispered, “only better.”

  “I knew my descriptions wouldn’t do it justice.”

  “How can you capture its soul? It can only be experienced.” Harry leaned forward slightly. “All the ­people. They can’t see me?”

  “Not as long as we stay back here,” Avendale said. “But even if they do see us, they shan’t disturb us.”

  Harry looked over at him. “Because you’re a duke?”

  Avendale gave a confident grin. “Precisely.”

  But Rose realized it was more than that. It was because he wouldn’t tolerate it. He would stand his ground just as his ancestors had on battlefields. She did wish he’d never learned about Harry, because everything was changing, because she’d been so worried about shielding Harry that she had failed to take precautions to protect her heart. Avendale had slipped beneath the wall, made his home there. Yet she could not seem to regret it, even knowing the pain their parting would cause. But that time was not yet.

  Reaching over, she folded her hand over his where it rested on his thigh. Shifting his dark gaze to her, he lifted her hand and very slowly peeled off her glove, inch by agonizing inch. Everything within her went still. When he was finished, he removed both his gloves before interlacing their fingers. This man feared nothing, not Society’s censure or doing things one ought not. For the briefest span of a heartbeat, she dared to dream that he might claim her. That he would move to the edge of the balcony, pull her against his side, and shout that he loved her, that she would become his duchess.

  In the next heartbeat she imagined Tinsdale in the crowd, jumping to his feet, pointing at her, and revealing her for the fraud she was. A thief, a swindler, a charlatan. No better than her father with his magical elixir. The shame her trial would bring to Avendale. The pain it would bring to her if he didn’t stand beside her, the agony if he did.

  A duke’s wife could not disappear into shadows.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  Shaking her head, she lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m just grateful for ton
ight.”

  His eyes narrowed, and she knew he didn’t believe her. It made it all the more difficult that he could read her lies so easily.

  Hearing a gasp, she looked over to see Harry leaning forward and the curtains below drawing back to reveal the stage. She almost cautioned him to take care, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to risk squelching his excitement. Tonight was an incredible opportunity, another that she could have never given to him. But Avendale had the power, the wealth, the influence to make almost anything happen. So Harry was attending the theater.

  As the performance began, she leaned toward Avendale. “Is your actress on the stage tonight?” She didn’t know why she’d asked, why she felt this spark of jealousy that he might spend his evening reliving moments with another woman.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  “She must have been very beautiful.”

  “To be quite honest, I barely remember what she looked like.”

  Years from now, after their time was over, would he say the same of her? “That does not speak well of your feelings for her.”

  “A month ago, I could have described her in detail, but now she pales. They all pale, Rose.”

  He was striving to reassure her, to imply she was somehow special, but she knew that someday, for him, she would pale as well. While in her mind, her memories, he would always remain strikingly vibrant. She could not imagine, no matter how many years she lived, no matter how many men she encountered, that she would ever find anyone to fill the niche he had carved in her heart. Unfair perhaps to any future gentleman whose fancy she might catch, but then she’d long ago learned that not everything was fair.

  Squeezing his hand, she didn’t release her hold as she returned her attention to Harry, who was enthralled, absorbed by the pageantry, the action, the grandeur. Not once did his eyes stray from the tableau before him. Not once did he speak. He made nary a sound. She wished for a portrait of him lost in this world of make-­believe.

  When the curtains finally drew closed, he stood with the rest of the audience, clapped madly, smiled brightly. Leaned over and hugged her as though the gift of the night had been from her.

  Drawing on her glove, she looked over at Avendale to find his expression one of immense satisfaction. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He slid his hand around her neck, pressed a light kiss to her temple, and whispered, “It was for you.”

  Her breath caught, her chest tightened with the knowledge that everything he was doing was for her, to give her memories, to ease her guilt because she couldn’t give her brother a better life. Had she truly thought that, even if Tinsdale was breathing down her neck, she could walk away from her promise to stay?

  They waited until the hallway was cleared to make their way to the stairs and out the back. Harry didn’t speak until they were once again in the coach, traveling home. Only this time Avendale sat beside her, as though, having her near in the box, he wasn’t quite ready to be separated from her. He interlocked their hands, and she regretted that she’d put her glove back on.

  “Thank you, Duke,” Harry said.

  “My pleasure.”

  “What are they doing now, do you think? The ­people on the stage?”

  “Turning in for the night, preparing for another performance tomorrow.”

  “Did they mind us watching them?”

  “No, it’s what they want.”

  “It isn’t as it was with you, Harry,” Rose tried to explain. “They want to entertain ­people.”

  “Is it wrong that I didn’t?” he asked.

  “No, sweeting. It’s one thing to have a passion for bringing plays to life, to have a desire to perform. It’s something else entirely to be forced into doing something you don’t want to do.”

  He nodded, and she hoped he understood. She certainly didn’t want him wishing he’d embraced their father’s attempt to take advantage of Harry’s unusual condition.

  “Are you forced to do things?”

  Beside her, Avendale stiffened, no doubt waiting for her to explain about the bargains they’d made. But she’d had a choice. The first time she could have walked away. No, she couldn’t have. She’d wanted him as badly as he’d wanted her. The second bargain—­she’d had a choice there as well. Or perhaps he was considering the whole of her life, and how it had involved caring for Harry since she was four years old. “You should know me well enough, Harry, to know I don’t do anything I don’t wish to do.”

  He blinked, considered, then said, “It was a splendid night.”

  “Yes, it was,” she replied, grateful that he wasn’t going to pursue the path of things she’d done. Just because she’d often felt she had no choice did not mean that she felt as though she’d been forced.

  When they arrived home, Gerald was waiting to assist Harry. She kissed her brother on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, sweeting.”

  “Good night, Rose, Duke.”

  She watched him walk down the hallway, his step a bit slower, his gait more imbalanced even with the cane. “Perhaps Sir William should see him tomorrow.”

  “I’ll send word.”

  “Thank you.” Turning, she faced him. She would never owe anyone as much as she owed him. If she voiced the words, she knew he would become irritated, his jaw would tighten, his lips would flatten into a hard line. She understood so much about him, until it was almost as though she was part of him. She could read his moods as she’d never been able to read another’s. “I find it interesting that Harry didn’t comment on my bracelet, considering it was a gift from him. I would have thought he’d be pleased that I was wearing it.”

  “I think he was simply occupied with his adventure of going to the theater.”

  Stepping up to him, she wound her arms around his neck. “I believe, Your Grace, I am not the only one who lies.”

  “I am found out.”

  He didn’t seem at all upset about it as he lifted her into his arms and began carrying her up the stairs. With nimble fingers, she unknotted his neck cloth, fully aware that anticipation thrummed through her. “I suppose I shan’t need Edith tonight.”

  “I’ll be doing the honor of undressing you.”

  He did make her feel as though it was an honor while he undressed her slowly, provocatively, pressing kisses to revealed skin that never seemed to displease him. He had ruined her for any other man. When he was done with her, she would spend the remainder of her life in solitude and not regret a moment of it. She hoarded these moments, collecting the details until the madness of their coming together overwhelmed her. But years from now, she would be able to recall the smallest of specifics because she had trained herself over time not to overlook anything so she could describe every aspect of the things she’d seen to Harry.

  Not that she would ever share any of this with him. No, these memories were for her alone, to keep her warm when her bones were frail and her skin like parchment. She would recall the way she lounged on the bed and watched as he removed his clothes, his eyes never leaving hers. The manner in which he prowled toward her like some big cat, all long limbs, sinewy muscles stretching out beside her. Beautiful perfection.

  He could have served as the model for the male portion of the sculpture in the fountain. She was hit with the realization that he probably had. In his youth, arrogant and bold, and confident of his masculinity. She’d been so absorbed by the enticing shape of the figure that she’d barely noticed the face. Shame on her. She who had always hated how her body distracted men had been guilty of the same thing.

  But then why would she look at any other man’s face—­whether cast in flesh or marble—­when such an incredibly handsome and well-­formed one was above her now. His dark eyes burned with desire and she marveled that he still yearned to be with her, that after these many nights, the passion continued to flare hot and unyielding.

  Dipping his he
ad, he took her mouth. Lifting her hips, she welcomed the marvelous length of him. They moved in tandem. The sensations spiraled, consuming until they alone existed, until they shattered.

  And she knew a day would come when her heart would do the same.

  Chapter 19

  Harry buttoned up the shirt that the duke’s accomplished tailor had made for him to wear when walking about the house. The soft material was heavenly against his skin, made him feel as though he were being continually caressed by the gentlest of hands.

  “It won’t be long now, will it?” he asked quietly.

  Sir William snapped his black bag closed. “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Don’t tell Rose.”

  His eyes reflecting regret that there was no more to be done, the physician met his gaze, nodded. “If that’s how you wish the matter handled, I’ll oblige.”

  “Normally I like to give her surprises. This won’t be one of them but it’s better that way.”

  “You don’t think it would be kinder to prepare her?”

  “She knows I’m dying. You told her that already.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I did.”

  “She doesn’t need to know how soon it will be, how bad things are now.”

  “I wish I could do more for you.”

  “You’ve done a good deal.”

  “I’ll leave some additional laudanum.”

  Harry didn’t object, although he wasn’t going to use it. It made him drowsy. He did not want to spend whatever time was left sleeping. It was imperative he finished writing his story. So many more books were waiting to be read, so many things left to be done. He didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse to know that his time was short, that so much would not be experienced.

  We arrived in London in the dead of night, for that was how we always arrived anywhere, as though we were miscreants intent upon causing mischief, but I knew it was my disfigurement that prompted our secretive arrivals. Although I wore a hooded cloak whenever I went out, it did not have the power to save me from those who would inflict harm. ­People fear what they do not understand, and they seldom took the time to understand me.