The Duke and the Lady in Red

by Lorraine Heath

  “Perhaps you can tell him later. Meanwhile, let’s finish the dance, then find a darkened corner. I’m in want of another kiss.”

  And she fell just a little bit further in love with him.

  It was half past one when Rose found Harry sitting in the gentlemen’s parlor with Merrick, Sally, and Joseph. And Aphrodite. She sat beside him on the sofa, holding his good hand, stroking it with her long, slender fingers, while her smile radiated warmth and gentleness. When Harry looked at her, Rose could see that he, too, had fallen a little bit in love.

  “Is it time to go?” Harry asked.

  It might have sounded like an inquiry to the others, but she heard the weariness in his voice, knew that he was ready to leave—­no matter how desperately he might wish to stay. She also knew that he had no desire to hurt anyone’s feelings, that he didn’t want their leaving to be on him. So she took on the responsibility. “I’m afraid it is,” she said kindly. “It’s quite late, my feet hurt, and I’m dreadfully tired.”

  He turned his attention to Aphrodite. “I have to leave now.”

  She cupped his face, kissed his cheek. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  Rising with grace and elegance, she began to walk away. Avendale stopped her and exchanged hushed words that Rose couldn’t decipher.

  Sally got out of her chair and gave Harry a hug where he was sitting. “Thanks, duck, for the fun evening. We miss having you with us, but what adventures you’ve been on.”

  “They’ve been the best, Sally, but I’ve missed you, too.”

  “We’ll come see you for dinner tomorrow,” Merrick said as he clapped him on the shoulder.

  Harry nodded, although his movements seemed more laborious and slow. “Yes, all right. That would be grand.”

  Joseph stood and helped Harry to his feet. He merely gave Harry a sharp bob of his head, which Harry returned before walking over to Rose. “I’m ready.”

  Avendale was waiting for them at the door that led into the main gambling salon. When they arrived, Rose saw the gauntlet of ­people—­footmen, croupiers, musicians, commoners, and nobles—­queued up across the gaming room until they reached the entrance.

  “They’d like to say good night,” Avendale said.

  And so they did. The gentlemen shook his hand, the women kissed him on the cheek or gave him a hug. Kind words flowed.

  “Lovely to meet you.”

  “Thank you for joining us.”

  “Pleasure.”

  “Take care.”

  Rose thought she would never, ever be able to thank Avendale enough for the gift of this evening. No matter what she promised him, no matter what he asked, it would never be enough.

  They were quiet in the coach as they traveled home. Rose was absorbing the night. She suspected Harry was doing the same. Gerald was waiting in the foyer when they arrived.

  “Master Harry, I take it you had an entertaining evening.”

  “I did.” He looked at Rose. “I would like a drink, though.”

  “Didn’t you have enough at the club?”

  He nodded. “But I want one more with you, with you and the duke.”

  “My library or yours?” Avendale asked.

  “Mine.”

  They walked down the hallway to Harry’s smaller library. Gerald saw to it that a small fire was burning in the hearth.

  “Ring for me when you’re ready for bed, sir,” Gerald said.

  “I will,” Harry promised. “Thank you, Gerald, for everything.”

  “It is my utmost pleasure, sir.” Back straight and stiff, he strode from the room.

  “Here, Harry,” Rose said, tugging on his jacket. “Let’s get you comfortable while Avendale pours the drinks.” She helped him out of his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, loosened his neck cloth. “Go ahead and take a chair.”

  “A gentleman—­”

  “I know what a gentleman does, but you’re my brother, and I can see how weary you are. Sit.”

  He didn’t argue further, but dropped into the large plush chair. Avendale brought over their drinks and guided Rose to the settee. She watched as her brother slowly drank his scotch, seemed to savor it.

  “Did you enjoy yourself tonight, sweeting?” she asked.

  “Very much indeed.” He nodded toward Avendale. “I like them all, your friends. Especially Aphrodite. Even though I know you paid her to keep me company.”

  “I offered. She refused. Seems she’s never met anyone she likes more than she likes you. Perhaps she can keep you company some afternoon.”

  “I would like that.”

  “I’ll send word to her tomorrow.”

  Rose wasn’t going to worry that Harry might be disappointed, that tonight’s attentions had been merely a result of the occasion. He possessed an innocence, a charm that would appeal to the most hardened woman.

  “When you do, address the missive to Annie,” Harry said.

  “Who the deuce is Annie?” Avendale asked.

  “That’s her true name.”

  Grinning, Avendale bowed his head slightly and lifted his glass, a warrior saluting an opponent who had bested him. “She never shared that with me. I’d say she liked you a great deal.”

  Harry blushed, but looked remarkably pleased with himself. He was also extremely tired. Rose could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the listing of his head to one side.

  “We should let you get some sleep.” As she rose to her feet, so did he. “We shall all sleep late in the morning. It’s what one does after a night such as this.”

  “It was a wonderful gift, Rose. A wonderful gift. For one night, I was normal.”

  She hugged him hard. “To me, you’re always normal. I love you, Harry.”

  She felt the squeeze of his arms. “I love you, Rose.”

  Leaning back, she smiled up at him. “Sleep well, my dearest.”

  “I will.” Then he shook Avendale’s hand. “Good night, my friend.”

  “Good night, Harry. I’ll have Gerald sent in.”

  “Not yet. I’m going to write for a bit. I’ll ring for him when I need him.”

  “As you wish. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Reaching out, Rose squeezed Harry’s hand. She didn’t know why she was so reluctant to leave him. She might not have if Avendale’s arm hadn’t come around her, propelling her forward.

  “The evening tired him out,” she said as they headed for the foyer and the stairs leading to his bedchamber.

  “I believe it tired us all out.”

  “Not completely,” she said, as she nestled against him. “I have enough energy left for you to tell me about your visit with your mother. I rather liked her.”

  “The next time she invites me to dinner, we’ll go.”

  She released a weary laugh. “I can’t go into your mother’s home, sit at her table. I’m a criminal.”

  “As were a good many of the ­people you met tonight—­at one time or another. One can change, Rose.”

  “Not our past, not what is already done.”

  “I wish you would tell me everything you’ve done.”

  “Not now.” Never, if she had her way. “I don’t want to ruin what has been a lovely night.”

  “But for us it is not quite over.” He lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

  After dipping the pen into the inkwell, Harry scrawled out the final words, the ones that belonged at the front of the story but that he had waited until last to write. He was finished, in more ways than one. Glad to be done. Glad to have the story written. Sad about it as well, for now he had no purpose.

  As he did every night, he wrote a letter to Rose and set it on top of the pages—­

  Just in case.

  Chapter 21

  Avendale had slept only a ­couple of hours when he a
woke with Rose snuggled against him. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to skim his hand lightly up and down the bared skin of her arm. She didn’t stir. She’d been so worried about Harry being exhausted that she’d overlooked the fact that she was as well.

  With a lamp on the bedside table still burning, he was able to look down on her profile. How was it that she considered her features unremarkable? How was it that he had the first time he’d spied her?

  If he were honest, he had to acknowledge that an armada of ships would never sail to reclaim her for her beauty, but they might damned well sail to reclaim her for her courage, her grit, her determination, her unwillingness to be cowed. She always stood her ground with him. He wasn’t certain he’d ever met a woman more his equal.

  And dammit all to bloody hell, he’d fallen in love with her.

  Probably that first night when she had turned to refuse the champagne he was offering. He’d recognized the refusal in her eyes before she’d assessed him, the acceptance afterward. Or perhaps it had been when she’d told him that she held all the cards. Such cocky confidence.

  He loved that aspect to her. No mewling miss.

  He had begun to fall in love with her long before he knew the truth about her, but when he had uncovered her secrets, his feelings for her had merely cemented. Would she honor the bargain to its full extent? If he wanted her with him forever, would she be willing to stay that long?

  Or had she made the bargain expecting their time together to be short?

  A soft rap on the door stopped him from driving himself mad with the questions and speculations. Easing out of bed, he snatched up his silk robe and drew it on as he padded to the door. Opening it, he found Gerald standing there. The man’s face said it all.

  “Your Grace—­”

  “It’s all right. I’ll be down shortly.” Closing the door, he pressed his forehead to the wood. Why did it hurt so much? If only he could spare Rose—­

  “Is it Harry?” she asked softly.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her sitting up in bed, the covers clutched to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Rose.”

  Pressing her lips into a straight line, she nodded. “Right. There are things that will need to be done.”

  She tossed back the covers. He crossed over, sat on the edge of the bed, gently folded his hands over her shoulders to still her actions. “You’ve kept an upper lip for years, I suspect ever since you were accused of dropping your brother. You don’t have to keep an upper lip for me.”

  She shook her head. “Avendale . . .”

  He held her gaze. “You don’t have to put on a show of being strong for me.”

  “If I don’t,” she rasped, “I shall fall apart.”

  “I’ll catch you and help you put yourself back together.”

  Tears began welling in her eyes. A loud, harsh sob that sounded as though it came from the pit of her soul broke free. Then another. Another. Holding her tightly as her shoulders shook with the force of her grief, he rocked her and cooed her name.

  While his own heart broke at her anguish.

  Harry looked at peace. That was what Rose thought as she sat on a footstool beside the chair where her brother had begun the journey for his final rest. She’d been holding his hand for nearly half an hour now. For at least twice that, she had wept within Avendale’s embrace.

  She would have to send word to Merrick and the others, but she was not yet prepared to pen the missive. No, she wouldn’t write them. She would tell them in person. They had loved Harry nearly as much as she had. He had loved them.

  “Rose, the coroner is here,” Avendale said quietly, yet firmly.

  Nodding, she got to her feet, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “No more boulders, my love. No more pain. But oh how you shall be missed.”

  She looked at Avendale. “I should go see Merrick now.”

  “I need to show you something first.” With his arm around her shoulders, he led her from her brother’s bedchamber to the small library where Harry had written, read, and indulged in spirits.

  “I do hope he finished his story,” she said.

  “I believe he did.”

  He escorted her to the desk. On top of the neat stack of papers was a folded piece of parchment with her name on it. Very carefully she opened it.

  My dearest Rose,

  For some time now I have written a letter to you every night. In the morning, if it was not needed, I would burn it. I suppose that if you are reading this one that it was needed.

  The life I shared with you has come to a close. I will not be so selfish as to ask you not to weep, but I do hope that you will also smile. For I have gone to that beautiful place with the beautiful ­people you used to tell me about.

  I know you believe that life was not kind to me, but it was, you see, because it gave me you.

  I finished my story, Rose. Last night in the wee hours. Although it is really our story, perhaps even more your story, which is why I wanted the duke to read it. I think you love him. I also think he loves you, although I am not sure he is a man who would voice the words. You wouldn’t believe them if he did. I do not know why you always thought yourself unlovable, while I—­as hideous as I was—­never considered myself so. But then I always had your love and was able to view myself through your eyes. I wish I could have done the same for you.

  Please thank the duke for the grand time I had in his company. He gave me so many gifts but best of all, he gave me his friendship. That above all else, I treasured and took with me. That and your love. Hopefully mine stayed with you.

  Read the book now, Rose.

  Always,

  Harry

  Without glancing at Avendale, Rose folded up the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. Harry was wrong about Avendale loving her. He hadn’t known about the bargain she had struck with the duke. “He treasured your friendship.”

  “As I did his.”

  She really hadn’t expected them to get along so famously. Looking down at the stack of papers, she touched her fingers to it. “He said he finished.”

  “I thought he was close to the end. He asked me to return to him what he’d given me. I assumed he wanted to put it all together. Are you going to read it?”

  She looked at the title written in his perfect penmanship. He’d always been so proud of it. “He said I should read it now.”

  She moved the first page away, and tears filled her eyes as she read the words.

  This story is dedicated to my sister, my perfect Rose.

  She shook her head. “I was not perfect.”

  “To him you were.”

  Stepping into Avendale’s embrace, she welcomed his arms closing around her and wondered if a time would ever come when her heart would not ache.

  Chapter 22

  Over the next few days the ache did lessen as Avendale’s staff took the time to offer her their condolences. Merrick, Sally, and Joseph wept almost as much as she did. They were with her in the parlor when those who had been part of their night at the Twin Dragons had stopped by. Those who had managed the games, played the music, served the food. Then all of Avendale’s family, friends, and acquaintances who had been there that evening. They spoke fondly of their time with Harry, shared parts of the night that Rose hadn’t realized had occurred—­card games and laughter. He had been in their lives but a short while and yet it seemed he’d left an indelible mark never to be forgotten.

  Rose thought it a lovely legacy.

  Harry was laid to rest in a garden cemetery surrounded by beauty. She was not surprised, as Avendale had seen to the arrangements. It seemed where her brother was concerned he was determined not to spare any expense.

  When she wept, he comforted her. When she couldn’t sleep, he held her. When she walked the gardens, he provided an arm upon which she c
ould lean. One day rolled over into the next until a fortnight had passed, and she knew it was time that she forced away the melancholy. She had made a pact with Avendale to be with him however he wanted for as long as he wanted. Surely he didn’t want this mourning woman.

  She was standing in front of the fountain when she heard the footfalls over the cobblestones. Glancing at Avendale, she smiled. In spite of her sadness, she was always glad to see him, although for some strange reason he was carrying the silver bowl littered with invitations that usually remained in the foyer.

  “Enjoying the fountain?” he asked.

  “It is odd, but my favorite memories of Harry occurred while he was in your residence. Every aspect of it reminds me of him. You truly went above and beyond to make his final days grand. I’m not certain I’d ever seen him smile so much. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude,” he said gruffly.

  “Yet still you have it.” She nodded toward the bowl. “What are you doing with that? I’ve never seen you give it a glance.”

  “While I’ve seen you give it a hundred. Every time we go into the foyer, your gaze darts over to it. And I’ve wondered: Is it the beauty of the bowl that fascinates you or what it holds?”

  The beauty of what it contained: to have so many who wanted him in their lives. Did he even grasp how precious that was? “You receive countless invitations, and yet you ignore them all.”

  “Perhaps it’s time I stopped.”

  She thought she could hear each drop of water pinging into the fountain. Not that she blamed him for having enough of her. She wasn’t keeping to their bargain by giving him what he wanted, because surely he didn’t want the sad creature she’d become.

  “You’ll send mothers’ hearts a-­fluttering with the hope that you’re searching for a wife.” While her own might cease to beat.

  “I’m not searching for a wife but rather something that might bring you some happiness. Have you ever been to a ball, other than the one at the Twin Dragons?”

  The lie hung on her tongue but she couldn’t spit it out. “I’ve attended country dances, but I suspect they pale in comparison to a ball hosted by someone in the aristocracy.”