The Duke and the Lady in Red (5 page)

“Hello, dearest,” she said to Harry as she walked in. He was four years her junior, not that many would guess that, as life had not been particularly kind to him and the hardships had taken a toll. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “How are you this morning?”

“Well,” he replied, his eyes sparkling with joy as he gave her the smile that never failed to warm her heart.

He sat at the head of the small square table. Sitting opposite him so it would be easier to carry on a conversation, she lifted the teapot and poured some of the brew into her cup. A few covered dishes rested on the table. As it was only the two of them each morning, they kept the meals small and simple. No sideboards laden with assorted items. They could not afford the waste.

“Did you have fun last night?” he asked.

She dropped four cubes of sugar into her tea, stirred. “I did indeed. Although I missed you terribly, not to mention our reading. I'm most anxious to discover where Gulliver's travels take him next.” Her reading to him was their nightly ritual. “I shall stay in tonight.”

“Tell me about the place you visited,” he urged.

“The building was incredible, the ­people adorned magnificently. We shall begin as I walked through the doors.” Then recalling every detail memorized, she set about to paint a vivid portrait of the night, which she hoped would give him a memory he would never be able to acquire on his own.

“I wish I could see it,” he murmured when she was finally finished.

“I wish you could, too, my love. I'll draw pictures for you later if you like.”

He gave a barely perceptible nod, before returning his attention to his food. She knew sketches were a poor substitute, but she could not risk his ruining her plans. Their future depended on them.

 

Chapter 3

“Y
ou are beginning to make my employees uncomfortable with your lurking about in the balcony.”

Avendale had been up here, scouring the crowd, making note of who entered, who left, for the better part of three nights now. He glared at Drake. “Shouldn't you be off tending to your wedding?”

“Phee and her aunt are managing that. I merely need to acquire the license, so I have time to see to my business. Right now the club is a novelty, its acceptance still questionable. However, I did not invite women to join so men could engage in voyeurism. You're going to damage the reputation of my establishment, of what I'm trying to achieve, if you continue in this vein. I shall be forced to relieve you of your key.”

Ignoring the rebuke and the threat, Avendale asked, “What do you know of Mrs. Rosalind Sharpe?”

“Who?”

“You don't know who she is, yet you invited her to your ball?”

“The name is somewhat familiar.”

“The lady in red,” Avendale said impatiently. “I introduced her—­or rather
she
introduced herself—­to you in the gentlemen's salon.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now. I'm afraid I was rather preoccupied with other thoughts that night.”

“So how did she come to your attention?”

Drake brushed his fingers through his long, dark hair. “Her solicitor sent me a missive, thought she might qualify based on my standards.”

“Which were?”

“A well-­turned ankle and money.”

Avendale did not like that the solicitor might have seen her ankle. “How would he know what her ankle looks like?”

Drake sighed. “He was referring to the fact that she is female. Why do you care?”

“Has she been here since the ball? I've not seen her.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Drake leaned against the wall. “Have you an interest in her?”

Avendale saw no point in mincing words. “I want to bed her.”

Drake narrowed his eyes. “The ladies welcomed to my club are not here for that purpose.”

“I'm not going to force her, but I certainly intend to seduce her. Nothing I do will reflect badly upon your establishment.”

“I should hope not. I would hate to revoke your membership.”

“Has she been here?” Avendale repeated succinctly.

“Not that I've noticed.”

“Did she purchase a membership?”

“I would have to check my records.”

“Then check them.”

“That information is private.”

“We have long been friends—­“

“We've never been friends. Acquaintances—­due to our family connections and our friendship with Lovingdon. But other than that, I would be hard-­pressed to refer to us as friends.”

Avendale scowled. For a man who catered to vice, Drake was far too upstanding. And irritating as the devil, even if he was being generous with the definition of their relationship. “Is there anything you can tell me about her?”

“Not really, no.” Drake held up a hand before Avendale could lambast him for his unwillingness to cooperate. “I don't truly know her. As I said, I invited her because of a recommendation.”

“But you must have researched her a tad. And you would have obtained her address in order to send her an invitation.”

“Again, private.”

“Devil take you.” Avendale turned his attention back to the main floor. What if she never returned? What if she hadn't been intrigued by what the Twin Dragons had to offer? What if she'd not been intrigued by him?

The kisses they'd shared indicated otherwise. But perhaps the attraction had frightened her. Just because she was a widow didn't mean that she'd known passion. Her husband could have been one of those sanctimonious sorts who believed only men derived pleasure from copulation. What had transpired between her and Avendale had been heated—­

Blond silken strands caught up into a perfect coiffure with a few curls dangling along a slender neck snagged his attention as a woman walked through the door. The air backed up painfully in his lungs. She wore a deep violet gown that left her shoulders bare so that he could nibble on them more easily. White gloves rose past her elbows. He would enjoy leisurely peeling them off.

“What's garnered your attention?” Drake asked.

“She's here.” At last, at long last. He released his breath. It was unconscionable that she affected him so. To maintain the upper hand, he would remain up here for at least half an hour. Then he would slowly make his way—­

To hell with it. He couldn't risk her leaving before he ensured their paths crossed.

“Have a room prepared for a private card game.” He strode briskly from the balcony.

“Is the elusive Duke of Avendale smitten?” Drake called out.

Ignoring the mocking tone, Avendale carried on. Smitten was too tame a word for what he felt. Regretfully he had no words to describe this madness that was in possession of him because he'd never experienced anything like it. He simply knew he had to have her. One way or another. At any cost.

S
he'd waited three nights before returning to the club. Best not to appear too eager. But they might have been the longest nights of her life, even though she'd spent them with Harry, reading, playing whist, walking through the gardens. He preferred the gardens at night. Although the flowers had closed their blossoms, their fragrance still lingered.

Here, the fragrances were very different. Tobacco, spirits on the breath, dark masculine colognes fought with lighter feminine perfumes for dominance. She was surprised not many women were about, but then simply because a place was accessible to ladies didn't mean they would frequent it, particularly if they had domineering fathers, brothers, or husbands in their lives. She was fortunate to rule her own life. She had since she'd reached the age of ten and seven and run off from her cruel father.

She handed her wrap to a young woman at the counter by the door, received a slip of paper with a number on it, and tucked it into her reticule.

She wondered if she should first visit the women's salon and private gaming area, if she should strive to strengthen connections there. With her last visit, she'd met very few ladies, and while her ultimate plan involved a gentleman, she knew that women had quite the influence over males, even if those males were domineering.

On the other hand, she was sure to be noticed with so few women about in here. Being noticed was paramount.

As she approached a roulette table, she caught a gentleman's eye. Winking at her, he eased over slightly, allowing room for her to get nearer to the excitement. She watched the little ball spinning, heading toward a numbered slot. Five, she thought. It landed on twenty-­one. A single groan, composed of nearly a dozen voices, rose up. No sooner had the wooden tokens been gathered up than others were being set down.

A hand came to rest on the side of her waist, and she was remarkably aware of a broad chest at her back. She might have been startled if his presence wasn't so powerful, if she hadn't sensed his approach before he arrived.

“Have you ever played?” Avendale whispered low against her ear, and she fought not to alert him to the tiny shiver that coursed through her at his nearness.

“No, but it seems rather easy.”

“Which means the odds of losing is greater.” He set some coins on the table. The man who had spun the wheel gave him a stack of green disks and placed a small metal token on it. Avendale held the disks out to her. “Place them wherever you like.”

“I don't want to lose your money.”

“It's only money.”

She ground her back teeth together to withhold a scathing retort. Only money to him. Life to her.

Peering at him through lowered eyelashes, giving him a gamine smile, she took the wooden circles and placed them all on twenty-­five, Harry's age.

“You can spread them out if you like,” Avendale said.

“I believe in all or nothing.”

She felt a subtle tightening of his hand on her waist.

“As do I,” he rasped so low she suspected no one else heard.

The croupier waved his hand over the table, spun the wheel, dropped the ball—­

Rose was acutely aware of Avendale's inappropriate nearness. She should elbow him, get him to move, and yet she relished the heat of him, his fragrance, his breath feathering along strands of her hair. She didn't want the ball to ever roll into a slot. She wanted to stay as she was forever, which was remarkably stupid and shortsighted. She had responsibilities. A plan.

“Thirty-­three black,” the croupier called out.

Rose slammed her eyes closed, released with a great huff the breath she'd been holding. Opening her eyes, she peered up at Avendale. “I'm so sorry.”

“Have dinner with me, and I'll forgive you.”

She released a light laugh. “Forgive me? When I had no control over the outcome?”

“You chose the number. Besides, you apologized so you must be feeling a measure of guilt. I merely wish to relieve you of it. Have you eaten this evening?”

“Nothing substantial.”

“I've yet to sample the dining room here, but I do know the cook is excellent.”

“I suppose I'm feeling a bit peckish.”

“Splendid.” He offered his arm, but the intensity of his gaze gave her pause. He could destroy her plans so easily. Or perhaps he would turn out to be her savior.

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Merrick had discovered that Avendale was quite well off. A lot of activity was going on at his residence, as though he were moving out a previous mistress in hopes of moving in a different one. If he was thinking of her for that role, he was going to be disappointed, as Rose had no plans to be his mistress, to visit his bed. But his interest indicated that she could taunt him, make him want her until he was willing to give her whatever she asked. Only to discover too late that he would not acquire all he desired.

She had some standards, arbitrary and low though they might be.

As they made their way along hallways, she caught the occasional inquisitive, speculative glance from gents and ladies, but was relieved to see—­once they entered the dining room—­that at nearly every occupied table was a man and a woman. Two gents were seated at one table. At two others were solitary gentlemen. But this seemed to be a place that catered more to ­couples.

Avendale spoke low with a man in red livery. Then they were escorted to a distant corner that housed more shadows than light.

She had the irritating notion that he was ashamed to be seen with her. “Would it be better to not isolate ourselves?” she asked, not bothering to hide her pique at being hidden away.

“I want to get to know you better,” he said. “Being away from the others suits my purpose.”

“They may think we're up to no good.”

“They all know me well enough to know that I'm always up to no good.”

“You say that with such pride.”

“One must excel at something and I excel at being fodder for gossip.”

Had he no shame? How wonderful it must be to be in a position not to care what others thought. He nodded toward the footman or whatever the man was, and the servant quickly pulled out her chair.

Hesitating, she considered the other ­couples. Surely they were not all married, surely sitting with Avendale in a darkened corner would not cause damage to her reputation, to her goal. On the other hand, sitting in the shadows with him might make everything else moot, might allow her to gain what she wanted that much more quickly.

She sank onto the seat and proceeded to peel off a glove. Before she could blink, Avendale was kneeling beside her, taking her hand. “Allow me.”

She fought not to appear stunned. “Get up. ­People are likely to think you're proposing marriage.”

“As I said, they know me well enough here, and so they know I'm not engaged in any such nonsense. Although before the night is done I intend to propose something quite wicked.”

His eyes smoldered as they met hers. With that devilish smile of his, how could she take offense? She couldn't blame him for his forthrightness when she'd accepted his kisses the other night. In fact, she preferred it. The game he was playing was more honest than hers. “I believe, Your Grace, that you have mistaken me for a woman of questionable moral character. I assure you I am no light-­skirt.”

“I'm counting on it.”

What the devil did he mean by that? Then all thoughts fled her mind as he slowly stroked a blunt-­tipped finger along the inside of her upper arm, above the glove. Down. Up once more. Pleasure skidded along her skin, warmed her to the core.

When he reached the glove again, he began slowly rolling it down, the edge of his fingers caressing her skin, a hint of a touch, more a promise, until the supple kidskin was gathered at her wrist. She wondered if he could feel the throbbing of her pulse there.

Gently he tugged on each finger, until he finally peeled away the glove. He held her fingers, strength and assurance in his hold. He wasn't cocky. She didn't even think he could be classified as arrogant, but he was a man who understood his place in the world was at its peak, and he could not be toppled from it. She imagined his ancestors on a battlefield. They would have led the charge; even if they had been the last ones standing, they'd have not gone down in defeat. She had an insane realization that she should have stayed at the roulette wheel. The odds might have been with the house, but she thought she stood a better chance at beating them than beating him. Then again, she did so love a challenge, and outfoxing him would bring such satisfaction.

He took her other hand, gave the exact same ministrations to the skin above her elbow, caressing with soft deliberation before removing her glove. Only this time when he took her fingers, he turned her palm up and pressed a kiss to its heart. Her lungs froze. Everything within her told her to run, but she had run only twice in her life. The first time had resulted in failure and a beating. But she had learned the hard lesson. The second time, no one had been able to catch her.