The Duke and the Lady in Red (27 page)

 

Chapter 18

A
s Rose dressed in a gown of red, she could not help but acknowledge that Harry had settled in rather nicely during the week since he had first come to Buckland Palace. He was devouring books, walking in the garden, and twice more Merrick, Sally, and Joseph had joined them for dinner.

Each afternoon, Avendale presented him with some surprise: a windup acrobatic clown; a mechanized racetrack that took up a good portion of the parlor and had Harry enthusiastically wagering on the outcome even though the same horse always won; a kaleidoscope, a telescope. Last night the skies had been clear and they'd taken to the gardens to observe the stars.

So when Avendale had asked her to accompany him to the theater this evening, she had not felt that she was in a position to decline the invitation. He was giving far more of his time to Harry than she'd expected, and it wasn't fair that Avendale's hours alone with her only occurred late at night when they retired.

They deserved an evening out together. Harry had been terribly understanding. When she had suggested sending for Merrick to keep him company, Harry had told her he preferred to be alone. The duke had granted him permission to disassemble the racetrack, and Harry was looking quite forward to deciphering how it worked.

Looking past her reflection in the mirror, she watched as Avendale shrugged into his evening jacket. By now she shouldn't take such joy in observing him as he dressed, although she preferred his clothing being removed. Shouldn't the novelty have worn off, shouldn't they be tired of each other?

Edith secured the last pearl comb in Rose's hair, then reached for the necklace.

“I'll handle that,” Avendale said, coming up behind Rose.

With a quick curtsy, Edith took her leave. Rose barely moved as Avendale draped the gorgeous piece at her throat. She watched him, saw appreciation light his eyes, and decided to take the jewelry with her when she left, because it would so well serve as a reminder of their time together. She would be able to recall the sensations he stirred as he placed it on her.

“Thank you,” she said when he was finished.

She began tugging on a glove, and he stepped back. In the mirror, she saw his brow furrow.

“Hmm,” he murmured.

When the glove was in place above her elbow, she began on the next. “What is it?” she asked.

“Something doesn't seem quite right.”

With the last bit of kidskin in place, she stood and moved to the cheval glass. She turned one way, then another. “I don't see anything amiss.”

“Perhaps it's this.” Taking her hand, he draped a ruby and diamond bracelet over her wrist before securing it.

“Avendale—­”

“Don't say no,” he said, cutting off her objection, lifting his gaze to hers. “Leave it behind if you like, although it is from Harry.”

“Harry has no money with which to purchase something like this.”

“I taught him to play poker this afternoon. He gave me a sound thrashing.”

She knew beyond any doubt that he had cheated to receive that thrashing. She cradled his jaw. “I did not expect you to be so kind.”

“I'm not certain I expected it of myself either, but I'm not entirely unselfish. If we don't leave soon, we're going to miss the curtains opening. It will ruin the entire evening if we don't see the play from the beginning.”

Draping her wrap over her arm, she followed him out into the hallway and began descending the stairs.

“What play are we seeing?” she asked.

“Some Shakespearean drama no doubt. Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose—­”

She staggered to a stop at the sight of Harry standing in the foyer grinning up at her. He wore black trousers, a black swallow-­tailed jacket, white shirt, gray waistcoat, and a perfectly knotted cravat. He held in the hand leaning on the gleaming cane a tall beaver hat.

“Avendale,” she whispered. He'd stopped one step below her, and she turned to him now. Her heart was breaking at his kindness, but it was also breaking for the cruelty he was unintentionally inflicting. “We can't take him with us.”

“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 tonight.”

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.