The Duke and the Lady in Red (21 page)

The sofa was not so large that when he laid his arm along its back, he wasn't able to skim his fingers along her cheek. “I'm not leaving, Rose.”

She placed her hand over his, pressed a kiss to the center of his palm—­and he could have sworn he felt it in the middle of his chest. “I did not judge you to be a man who would stay with me. I thought you selfish.”

“I am. Incredibly so. I am here because it is where I wish to be. If I didn't wish to be, nothing would hold me.”

“So your staying has nothing to do with me?”

“Absolutely not.” He tucked strands of her hair behind her ear. “As you're well aware, I care only for my own pleasures and wants.”

She gave him a half smile. “I have noticed that about you. Strange, though, how your pleasures and wants often seem to mirror my needs.”

Taking another long sip of the brandy, he thought he should mention that he cared for her. He wasn't sure exactly when it had happened. Somehow she had become a part of his life that he was loath to give up. He offered her the snifter, watched as her delicate throat worked while she took a small sip. She licked her lips, no doubt savoring the taste that lingered there. He was tempted to lean over and take her mouth. But he feared he would do little more than increase her melancholy.

“I was wondering,” she asked quietly, tapping her finger against the glass, “if you would allow me to bring some of your books here for Harry to read. He so loves reading, and he's read everything we have.”

“Would it not be better to take him to the books?”

She looked at him as though he had proposed setting her brother on a flying carpet.

Still, he plowed on. “When we return to my residence tomorrow, perhaps he should come with us. He could stay in the guest wing. He would have a bedchamber, a small library, servants to assist—­”

“No, I'll not have your servants gawking at him.”

He skimmed the knuckle of his forefinger along her cheek. “I am a duke, Rose. My staff does not gawk.”

Rising, she moved nearer to the fire, staring at it, holding the bowl of the snifter with both hands. “He's comfortable here.”

“I daresay he would be more comfortable there. He would have space in which to move about, a thousand books at his disposal. Servants would see to his needs.” She began shaking her head. Standing, he joined her by the fire. “You asked me to help you make his last days happy. My cook could prepare feasts for him unlike any he's ever experienced. My gardens are lavish. He could walk about them, enjoy them without fear of neighbors peering through windows. You would be within easy reach, anytime day or night. Your worry would lessen. You could check on him anytime you wanted.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Because it lashes at my heart to see you so wounded, so sad.

“It seems the best way not to disrupt our current arrangements.” He wanted to touch her desperately, but he feared she might toss the remaining brandy on him. He would not make himself vulnerable, not even for her.

“I think you care for me,” she said softly, as though the notion had just flittered through her mind.

“Emotions, feelings, sensibilities—­they are not my purview. Pleasure is. All pleasures. Pleasure of the palate when a well-­prepared meal touches the tongue, the pleasure of fragrance when inhaling the aroma of wine aged to perfection, the pleasure of sight when gazing upon a masterfully painted piece of art, the pleasure of sound when a harpist plucks her fingers over the chords, the pleasure of touch.” He outlined the shell of her ear. “I am given to believe that your brother has seen little of the outside world. I understand your fear of his discovery, your need to protect him from those who would judge him and wish him harm. My residence is more museum than home. He could spend hours browsing through it. I possess trinkets from all corners of the world that he could touch, examine to his heart's content.”

“I don't say this to be cruel, but he is somewhat clumsy. If he were to break—­”

“They are trinkets. Their value is in the joy they bring, not what they cost me to possess them. If they break, they break.”

“I've seen them, Avendale. Some are priceless treasures.”

“They mean nothing to me, Rose.”
You do.
Why were those words impossible to say? “I shan't be upset if they break. Perhaps we would even sneak Harry into the Twin Dragons for a game of poker.”

Her gaze roamed over his face, and within her eyes he saw the wonder of possibilities, all that they might share with her brother. “I desperately do not want Harry hurt.”

“I give you my word that he won't be.”

“You can't control others.”

“I think you might be surprised by what a duke can accomplish and what ­people will do to please him. Even one as much a reprobate as I am.”

Setting the snifter on the mantel, she faced him squarely. “How would we get Harry to your residence?”

“You have a carriage. We'll leave before first light. No one will see him depart from here. I doubt anyone will see him arrive at my residence.”

She clutched her slender hands, furrowed her delicate brow. “If my dearest wish comes true and your physician is wrong, and death is not hovering in the corner to take Harry . . . should we limit it to a week in your residence?”

“No limits.” He traced his finger along her cheek. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“And if you grow weary of us?”

“I won't.” That he knew without doubt.

“What of Merrick, Sally, and Joseph?”

“They'll stay here.”

She nodded. “That will create less discord. Merrick doesn't like you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“But perhaps they can visit him.”

“Occasionally, perhaps.” With one hand, he cradled her cheek. “You've carried the weight of caring for your brother for a good many years. Let me help you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, her smile quivered. “I'm afraid. I'm not accustomed to not being responsible.”

With his thumb, he wiped away one of the tears that rolled along her cheek. “The night we struck our first bargain, you trusted me. Trust me now.”

She nodded, inhaled deeply, blinked back the tears. He felt a sharp, painful poke in his chest. If he didn't know better, he'd think a wall was crumbling. Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to hers, tasted the salt of lingering tears.

“I'm going to borrow your carriage to return to my residence to see that things are readied for your brother's arrival. I will be back tonight, but you needn't wait up.”

“I'll be awake when you return.”

“Then I shall return in haste.”

He kissed her again, wondering why it was so blasted difficult to leave her. He'd left countless women without so much as a backward glance. But she was different. He'd known that from the beginning.

Drawing back, he slid the crook of his finger below her chin. “Where will I find the giant?”

“In the kitchen, no doubt.”

“Don't worry. Everything will be all right.”

“If it's not—­” She swallowed, licked her lips. “I promise to keep to my end of the bargain. Whatever you want for as long as you want.”

He suddenly had a clear understanding of why she hadn't wanted to accept the necklace. He didn't want her gratitude. He wasn't quite certain what the bloody hell he wanted.

“I would expect no less,” he stated succinctly, before striding from the room, wishing he'd been in possession of gentler words.

“I
don't like it,” Merrick said.

Once Avendale left, Rose returned to Harry's room, grateful to find him still awake. She suspected he slept little these nights, mostly in fits and spurts. There was a labored quality to his breathing, occasionally a whistling like the sound of air rushing through the narrow confines of a cavern. She'd asked Merrick and Sally to join her there. She'd just explained how she was taking Harry on an adventure to the duke's residence.

Harry's face had taken on the wonder of a child being handed a penny candy for the first time. No surprise, Merrick's face had taken on the appearance of a storm cloud.

Now he paced in front of the fireplace. “What do you know of this duke? He took advantage the night we were leaving. He could be doing the same now. Mayhap he intends to parade Harry before all his aristocratic friends. The nobility like to have something special to show off.”

“He has no intentions of parading Harry about,” Rose insisted. “But he is in a better position than we are to see to Harry's needs. He has servants, staff. I daresay he'd hire a nurse if need be.” While he hadn't said as much, she'd wager her five thousand quid that he would do it. He fought so hard to give the appearance of not caring, and yet he had done little except show her kindness. And now he was extending it to Harry.

“We don't take such bad care of him,” Merrick insisted, coming to a halt and jabbing his hands onto his hips.

She realized his pride was hurt. She hadn't considered that. She'd thought they'd all want what was best. “You take marvelous care of him, but this is an opportunity for him to experience a bit more of life. The duke has a billiards room. Harry has never played.”

“It's a silly reason to take him away.”

“You can come visit, every day if you like.” She fought not to grimace. Avendale probably wasn't going to like that.

“It should be up to Harry,” Merrick said.

“Yes, of course, it's completely up to Harry. We're not going to take him kicking and screaming from here.” She looked at her brother. “Do you want to come with us?”

“Do you love him?”

What did that have to do with anything? “I like him very much.”

“I like him, too.” He turned his body slightly so he could see Merrick more clearly. “I'm sorry, Merrick. But I want to go.”

“No need for you to apologize,” Merrick groused. “If I was you, I'd probably want to go, too.”

“I think it's wonderful,” Sally said. Merrick glowered at her, and Rose knew he was thinking,
Traitor.
“Think of everything he'll experience. Lovely breakfasts that are more than my boiled eggs.”

“I like your boiled eggs,” Harry said.

Sally smiled. “You're such a sweet lad. But, caw, to spend time in the presence of a duke . . . it's a dream for some, you know.”

“For you?” Merrick snapped.

She scowled at him. “No, of course not.” But when Merrick looked away, Sally winked and nodded at Rose.

Rose almost laughed, then her thoughts sobered. She'd once judged Avendale by his rank, giving little thought to the man behind it. Now she hardly saw his rank anymore. She saw only the man.

 

Chapter 14

H
arry felt like the puppy he'd had as a boy. It had been an excitable creature, always jumping around, chasing its tail. His father had given it to him before Harry had become a monster, had become the Boulder Boy. In anger, when his father realized Harry was not his son but the devil's, he'd drowned the dog.

Rose had held Harry while he cried. She'd promised him that she would never let anyone hurt him again. She was seventeen before she'd been able to carry through on that promise. Harry often wished that he could make the same promise to her, that he could watch out for her.

Although he suspected that the duke was going to do it for him. Not that he thought the duke was aware of it as the carriage traveled through the London streets. But Harry knew. He was able to sense things like that. Just as he knew it was going to rain again.

The trunk Merrick had helped him pack was on top of the carriage. Rose sat beside him. He suspected the duke would have preferred that she sit at his side, but she was worried that Harry was afraid, that someone would hurt him. He wasn't afraid, at least not for himself, but he did worry about her. He knew that she'd often done things that she shouldn't, that she could go to prison if she were ever caught. She didn't know he knew these things. Because his speech was impeded and he had to communicate with simple words—­his misshapen mouth had difficulty forming the more complicated ones—­­people often thought his brain was encumbered as well. But he was sharper, more aware than ­people realized.

And so it was that he was also very much aware that very soon he would die.

He was growing more tired with each day. Sometimes he could barely lift his head because of all the boulders that had grown from it. They were growing inside him as well; he'd known it for a while. The doctor had confirmed it when he'd pressed on Harry's stomach. He was certain the physician had felt them. He hadn't said as much but his eyes had filled with sorrow.

Harry had wanted to stay with Merrick, but it was more important that Rose be with her duke. Harry knew all about dukes and the power they wielded. He could protect Rose as Harry never could.

Harry wore his hooded cloak. He'd kept the hood up even after he settled into the carriage. Easier to observe the duke that way without the man realizing he was being studied. The duke's gaze seldom left Rose.

“You should know,” the duke began, “that I instructed my butler to have a footman available to you at all times. Should you require anything at all, you need only ask him.”

“That's very kind,” Rose said.

The duke scowled. “I pay them, Rose. They might as well earn their salary.”

The duke didn't like her feeling beholden to him. Harry found that interesting.

“You are welcome to spend time in any of the rooms, as often and as long as you like,” the duke said. “Except for my bedchamber.”

“Harry has difficulty traversing stairs,” Rose said.

“I assumed as much, based upon the current arrangements in your residence. I've had one of the rooms on the lower floor converted into a bedchamber. You should find everything you need, but don't be shy about asking for anything you might require. I don't mean to come off as vulgar, but money is no object.”

Beside him, Rose stiffened. She didn't like it when ­people took coins for granted. “Take advantage, Harry. It may be the only time in our lives when money is no object.”

But it came with a price, of that he knew. He also knew Rose would never tell him the cost.

The coach pulled off the street and onto a cobbled path. Before them lay Buckland Palace. Harry knew his eyes were widening, his mouth was agape, because Rose was correct.

It was a palace. For a while, he would live here.

R
ose clung to Harry's arm as he used his walking stick to transport himself from the carriage to the residence. Avendale was near her, carefully watching as though he feared her brother might topple her over. But when they went through the door, stepped into the foyer, she felt the excitement and wonder thrum through Harry as he took in the high ceiling, the sweeping staircase, the paintings, the glamour of it all.

Two footmen were already scurrying down a hallway, Harry's trunk in tow. If they had caught sight of him beneath the hood of his cloak, they gave no indication. But the morning was only just beginning, the fog hampering the arrival of sunlight. Perhaps they hadn't gotten a good look.

Thatcher stepped forward; a young footman—­whom she had never seen—­stood at attention slightly behind him. She suspected Avendale had a good many servants she'd never set eyes on before.

“Your Grace, all is prepared as you requested,” Thatcher said, before turning to Rose. “Welcome back, miss.” He shifted his gaze slightly. “Welcome to Buckland Palace, Mr. Longmore.”

Harry pushed back his hood. “I'm pleased to be here.”

Neither Thatcher nor the young footman indicated anything amiss. No gasps, no widening of eyes, no stepping back. They both reacted not at all.

Twisting slightly, Thatcher said, “This is Gerald. He'll be attending to your needs while you're in residence.”

“Thank you.”

Rose was amazed that there was no awkwardness. She wondered precisely what Avendale had told his staff. She doubted he'd tell her if she asked.

“Harry, would you like a tour of the place before we sit down to breakfast?” Avendale asked.

Harry nodded slightly, and Rose fought not to be nervous. Everything was going splendidly well, but she had come to expect that trouble rested just below the surface.

“Shall I take your cloak, Mr. Longmore?” Gerald asked, stepping forward, hand extended.

Shifting his cane to his bad hand, Harry managed to loosen the button on his cloak with his good hand. Rose wanted to help him, but she understood his pride, so she waited patiently while he awkwardly removed it and held it out to the footman.

Gerald took it, draped it over his arm. “While you're touring, I shall see to putting your things away if you've no objection.”

“Thank you.”

Gerald exchanged a nod with Avendale before heading for the hallway that led into the wing where Harry would reside.

“I shall ensure that all is readied for breakfast,” Thatcher announced, then he, too, was gone.

“Let's start to get you familiar with the place, shall we?” Avendale asked. “Although I suggest you keep Gerald near should you decide to go wandering. It's quite easy to get lost in the maze of hallways.”

He led the way with a leisurely gait that didn't leave Harry behind. He explained things as he went, much as he had with her. As Harry walked beside her, Rose was very much aware of his awe and wonder. She wished she could take him on a tour around the world.

Then they entered Avendale's library. Harry gasped. Rose realized that within the pages of all the books here, Harry would travel farther than she could ever take him. Cautiously he approached the shelves, placed his good hand on the leather spine of several books.

“Look at them, Rose.”

“They're yours to read while you're here,” she assured him.

“You're to let Gerald fetch the ones that are too high for you to reach,” Avendale told him.

“I shall never get through them all.”

“You'll find a smaller library in your wing,” Avendale said, “but I fear most of the books there are love stories and might not be to your liking.”

Turning slightly, Harry bestowed upon him his rendition of a smile. “I enjoy romantic stories. They never leave me feeling sad at the end.”

“My mother preferred the same sort of tale. You should find an abundance of them there.”

Rose had not expected the camaraderie she saw developing between Avendale and Harry. All her doubts about bringing him here were easing away as she realized Avendale was truly welcoming Harry into his home.

When they arrived at the breakfast dining room, Harry's eyes grew wide at the assortment of food spread out along the sideboard.

“It's quite lavish, isn't it, Harry?” Rose asked.

He shook his head, looked at Avendale, looked at her. “I could never eat all that.”

“You don't have to,” Avendale said. “Whatever remains is distributed to those in need.”

Rose stared at him. He lifted a brow. “Did you think we simply tossed out whatever remained?”

“Why would I think anything else? You live with such excess.”

“A good many ­people make a rather nice living off my excesses,” he said.

She'd never considered that. So much about him, she'd never considered. She'd told him that their relationship was naught but the surface because he refused to provide her with the details of his life. Perhaps it was merely that she was not as observant as she'd always thought.

Holding a plate, Gerald stepped forward, and Rose wondered when he'd arrived. “What would you fancy, sir?” he asked Harry.

“Everything.”

“As you wish.” He made his way along the sideboard, placing an assortment of food on the plate while Harry followed.

Avendale moved in closer to her. “He seems to have taken to the place. I hope you're feeling more at ease about his being here.”

Nodding, she touched his arm. “I'll never be able to repay you for all this.” No matter how long she stayed with him, no matter what he asked of her.

“Don't worry about that now.”

Unsaid was that she should enjoy whatever time she had left with Harry. The sentiment was in Avendale's dark, somber gaze. When they were all settled at the table, she watched as Harry took his first bite of deviled egg. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. She thought he was going to be even more delighted with dinner.

Gerald discreetly sliced the ham on Harry's plate, prepared his tea, was quick to replenish his glass of water. She did hope Avendale was paying the man well. She gazed across the table at Avendale. His attention was focused on pushing food onto his fork with his knife. Harry's features often dimmed others' appetite. Even Merrick, Sally, and Joseph seldom joined him for meals. Avendale seemed not the least bit bothered.

Her chest tightened. He would pay his servants well. He was a man of wealth, but he wasn't stingy with it. He'd opened his home, his books to Harry. He was expanding her brother's world. Perhaps they would play a game of chess. Perhaps they would talk.

He was not a man who judged. Even knowing she survived by swindling others, he'd never brought her to task for it, had never made her feel like the criminal she knew herself to be. She could even forgive him for the deliberate night of debauchery that had resulted in her missing her appointment with Harry. Left to her own devices, she never would have told Avendale about her brother, not because she was ashamed of Harry—­because she wasn't—­but she had judged the duke to be a man without compassion. She wondered what else she might have misjudged.

When Harry pronounced that he was on the cusp of bursting his buttons, they took him to the guest wing, and once more he was as a child surrounded by wonders. They walked into a study and there, resting on the desk, were the pages of his manuscript.

He approached it slowly, as though it were somehow different within these walls, not quite recognizable. Head bowed, he pressed his good hand to the neatly arranged stack of papers.

“You'll be able to work on your story here,” Rose told him. “Perhaps get it finished.”

Nodding, he lifted his head, zeroed his gaze in on Avendale. “Would you like to read it?”

Rose stepped forward. “You finished it? How marvelous.”

He shook his head. “No, but I thought the duke might find it . . . interesting. But you can't let her read it. Not until it's finished.”

With a huff, Rose planted her hands on her hips. “You barely know him and you're going to let him read it? And not me? The sister who loves you more than life?”

Harry's gaze never left Avendale. “I think he should read it.”

“I will be most delighted to do so.”

Harry shoved it toward the edge of the desk. Avendale gathered it up. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”

“Don't let her see it.”

“Honestly,” Rose said indignantly, “if you ask me not to read it, I won't.”

“She lies,” Harry said.

Avendale chuckled low. “So I've discovered.”

“I'm insulted. Harry, I've never lied to you.”

He swung his head toward her, his blue gaze intense, and she realized she'd not done as good a job at protecting him as she'd intended. He knew she was conniving, that she'd not always been honest with him.

“Make yourself at home,” Avendale said. “I'm going to see that your sister lies down for a bit. She didn't sleep well last night.”

How did he know that? Was he aware that she was exhausted, thought she might drop at any moment? The worries had taken a toll.

She hugged Harry, told him to send Gerald for her if she was needed, then she quit the room with Avendale at her side. With orders to take the manuscript to his library, he handed the pages to a footman they passed in the hallway. Then with his hand at the small of her back, he led her to the bedchamber.

She'd expected him to tear off their clothes, to take her before they'd even reached the bed. Instead he merely said, “I'll send Edith in to assist you with your clothing. Get some rest.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you know I didn't sleep?”

“Because I was holding you and was very much aware of how tense you were. You never relaxed a muscle.”

“I thought coming here might be a disaster.”

He crossed over to her, cradled her cheek. “Even though I told you it wouldn't be?”

“I've been in charge for so long. I find it difficult to hand over the reins where Harry is concerned.”

“You haven't handed them over. You just have someone else to help you hold them.”