The Duke and the Lady in Red (28 page)

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 head, 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

H
arry 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.

W
e 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.

Our residence was the finest in which we'd ever lived. One night Rose went out and the next morning, she described to me a gaming hell. I was at once shocked and intrigued that she would visit such a place. But she did not seem herself as she sought to create a vivid portrait of all that she had seen. I had the sense that there was a good deal about her adventure that she was not sharing, a part of it that even frightened her. I tried not to worry, as I knew there was nothing I could do
, yet it seemed I worried all the same.

“Thatcher said you wished to see me.”

Pulling himself from the story, Avendale stood as Rose crossed his library to stand in front of his desk. It had been a few days since their foray to the theater. He was growing bored. He imagined Harry was doing the same. Mechanical toys could hold his interest for only so long. “I'd like to take Harry to the Twin Dragons Tuesday next, and before you object—­”

“I trust you.”

The words slammed into him with such force that they nearly sent him reeling. He hadn't realized how desperately he wanted her trust, how desperately he wanted so much he wasn't certain he could acquire. She was here with him now because of her brother. She would stay with him for as long as he wished because of all the things he did to ensure her brother's last days were memorable. He would not resent her reasons, but he found himself wishing for more between them. Even if he considered overlooking her past to make her his duchess, the responsibilities there were far more than she could fathom. How could he ask her to accept the duties that came with being his wife when he knew that she craved freedom?

His entire adult life he'd been a selfish bastard, caring for his own wants and needs. It was an uncomfortable fit to consider changing for her, to think of letting her go when he so desperately still wanted her. He didn't know how she'd done it all these years, caring for her brother at the expense of her own desires.

“Excellent,” he said cheerfully, not wanting to reveal the doubts creeping through his conscience. “Let's keep it a secret from Harry for now, shall we?”

“You like secrets.”

“I like surprises.” But secrets did little more than lead a man to ruin.

A
vendale stood in the modest parlor of his mother's residence and waited while the butler informed her of his arrival. Above the fireplace was a portrait of her with her husband and their children. She had asked him to be part of the gathering but he'd been too busy at the time, with scotch in need of drinking and a woman in need of pleasuring. He regretted it now because she asked so little of him. And he was about to ask of her an immense favor.

“Whit!”

Hearing the joy in her voice, he turned from the portrait. “Mother.”

Crossing over to him, she gave him a quick hug, then held him at arm's length to study him as though she possessed the power to read his thoughts. He wondered why he had failed to notice during their last visit how her hair had faded to silver and the lines at her eyes and mouth had deepened into wrinkles. Before Rose, he noticed so few things.

“You're looking well,” his mother said now. “Yet you're troubled. What's amiss?”

“Nothing really. I just—­ May we sit?”

“Oh yes, of course. Forgive my lack of manners. Shall I ring for tea?”

“No, I—­” He almost told her that he wouldn't be there that long, but what he wanted couldn't be explained easily. “Scotch if you have it.”

Her mouth formed a moue of displeasure. Still, she rang for the butler. When tea, biscuits, and scotch had been delivered, Avendale savored the fine amber liquid while his mother sipped her tea. Leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, holding the glass between two hands, he said, “I have a favor to ask. While I believe I could get assistance from my acquaintances—­” Rose was correct. His only friend was Lovingdon. The others were merely acquaintances. “I believe I would have more success if the request came from you.”

“What do you require?”

Just like that. No hesitation, no doubt, as though he'd been a good son, as though he deserved her loyalty, as though he weren't taking advantage of her influence, the goodwill others had toward her. Her face was wreathed with hope that she could assist, that she could help him acquire what he sought.

During the past decade, how often had she—­with the same hopefulness—­waited for him to arrive for a special dinner, waited for him to visit? How many invitations had he ignored? Once he'd been old enough to move out, he'd rarely crossed her threshold. Setting aside his glass, he stood. “I'm sorry. I made a mistake in coming here today.”

With swift movements, he headed for the door.

“Whit, my darling son, whatever you need, whatever trouble you might be facing, we are here for you.”

Stopping in his tracks, he knew if he walked through the door, he would never, ever be back. He could no longer live without the truth. He just wasn't certain he wanted it. He thought of the truth with which Rose dealt. She was going to lose her brother. Yet she courageously faced each day. Compared with her he was a blistering coward.

Turning, he faced his mother, watched as the hope returned to her eyes. He was going to dash it, bluntly and cruelly. It was the best way. No mincing of words, no more dancing around something that should have been faced years ago—­when it had happened. “I saw you kill my father.”

She staggered back as though he'd thrown the mass of his body at her. Probably felt as though he had. Tears welling in her eyes, she cupped a shaking hand over her mouth, shook her head, and sank onto the settee.

Where was her anger, her offense, her repudiation? It infuriated him that the tiny seed of doubt he'd nurtured all these years was crushed beneath the weight of horror marching over her features. “You're not going to deny it?”

Her mouth moved, but no words sprung forth, as though she couldn't decipher where to begin. Finally, in a barely audible tone, she asked, “How is it . . . that you think you saw . . . something so horrible?”

“You'd taken me to Lovingdon's but after we were put to bed, I slipped out and raced home, because I missed you. I came in through the gardens, but sensed something wasn't right and became frightened. The door into the library was opened. As I approached, I saw you bash him with a poker.”

She shook her head more briskly, held up a hand as though she had the power to stay his words. “I didn't mean to kill him, only to stop him.”

“But why would—­”

“She was protecting me,” a deep voice cut in quietly but forcefully.

Avendale jerked around to find himself facing the wrath of Sir William. He'd always thought the man gentle, almost too kind, but at that moment, Avendale saw a man who would kill to protect what was his. And the duchess was his.

“She was protecting me,” Sir William repeated.

“Because you and my mother were lovers?” he spat. “You were found out, so you sought to rid yourself of my father?”

“No!” his mother cried out. “Is that what you thought all these years?”

“What else was I think to when Sir William was always about?”

“That you and she were in need of protection. Your father was a beast. We tried to rid your mother of his presence once; it didn't work.”

“
We?
” He looked back to his mother.

“She had nothing to do with it the first time.”

He returned his attention to Sir William. “Who did?”

Sir William's face went blank. “It's not important.”

“Was this when he supposedly died in a fire?”

“I would invite you to sit, but I suspect you'd prefer to hear all this standing,” Sir William said. “There was a fire, which he started, but he was rescued from it. Would have been better for all if he'd been left where he'd fallen, but he wasn't. Arrangements were made for him to travel as a convict on a prison hulk to the far side of the world. Smart man, your father. He managed to escape and made his way back here.”

“Once I realized he was alive and back in London, I knew he would come for me,” his mother said softly, sadness in her eyes. “I sent you and the servants away. I'd changed while he was gone. I was happy. I wanted him to understand that I would not allow him to take that away from me; I would not allow him to take you. But he had trussed William up like a Christmas goose. He was going to kill him, send me to Bedlam. Who would protect you from him then?”

Avendale shook his head. “I don't remember Sir William being there, not trussed up. I recall him later, telling you the man was dead.”

“Trauma can affect one's memory,” Sir William said. “And it's been a little over twenty years.”

He nodded. So much of his early years was a blur, so many things he hadn't wanted to remember sharpened into clarity with his mother's confession. He recalled his father beating her.

“Is that why you've kept your distance all these years?” his mother asked. “Because you knew what I'd done and can't forgive me.”

He thought of all the things Rose had done to protect her brother. How she had once told him that she knew she would pay a price for them. His mother had done the same, paid a price to protect him. They both had. He knelt before her. “He came to me one night, told me you were trying to rid yourself of him, that you also wished me harm.”

She gasped. “No.”

“When I saw you kill him, I feared I was next.”

“Oh my dear God, Whit.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, overflowed onto her cheeks. She cradled his face between her hands. “I would never hurt you. You are my precious boy.”

How was it that he had so badly misjudged? He wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his head in her lap. “I'm sorry, so sorry that I distanced myself. I was angry, didn't understand what had happened but was too cowardly to ask.”

“It's not your fault. Damn your father for putting such notions in your head. I swear if he were alive I'd kill him again.”

Straightening, he looked into eyes that were not those of a murderer, but a lioness who would protect her cub. He could hardly countenance what he'd believed at the age of seven, the fears he had allowed to guide his life. “As I got older, it made no sense, but the damage was done.”

She cupped his cheek. “I am not completely without fault. I felt such guilt. I was always afraid that somehow you would discover the truth. Now you have. If only I'd taken you aside and told you everything years ago. But I feared what you would think of me.”

“I suspect I would have thought what I think now: that you are a remarkable woman.”

Once more tears filled her eyes. “Not so remarkable. Defending my life and those I loved was thrust upon me. My actions were not what I would have chosen, but sometimes we don't have a choice.”

How did one know, he wondered, when one had a choice—­when one should have a choice?

“If he had told you that you could leave, would you have gone?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “He had beaten my love for him out of me. William came into my life and refilled my heart. I will always choose love above all else. It is the only thing that matters. My dearest wish is that none of my children will go through life without it.”

“I'm sorry I've not been a good son.”

“Oh, Whit, I could not have asked for a better son.”

He knew it for the lie it was, but he let her have it.

Leaning back, she brushed his hair from his brow in the same manner that she had when he was a small boy. “Now, you came to ask a favor of us. What is it?”

The years of separation melted away as though they'd never been. His heart swelled with all the love he held for his mother. Then he told her what he needed done.