The Duke and the Lady in Red (6 page)

In the years since, wisdom had taught her the value in standing her ground. He could only win if she let him. “You're taking liberties you shouldn't.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. She saw the amusement there, and a hint of victory. It appeared he was one to stand his ground as well. “This is a place of vice and sin. Ladies should comprehend the significance of that if they want entry.”

“You're using me to set an example. That could be most dangerous, Your Grace.” Leaning over, she bussed a kiss against his cheek, before sliding her mouth to his ear and whispering in a low, sultry voice, “Know that two can play this game.”

H
er kiss nearly unmanned him. Her words did the deed.

It took Avendale a moment to regain his bearings so he could stand to take his chair. He knew women who were coy. He knew women who didn't pretend to be anything other than what they were. But none of them were as straightforward as she. She would challenge him at every turn, but he welcomed it, was excited by the prospects. It had been a good long while since anything had excited him.

The footman came over and handed them each a card upon which the night's delicacies were printed. “Will you want wine this evening?” he asked.

With an arched brow, Avendale met Rosalind's gaze.

“Wine,” she said. “Red. I prefer heavier ones that linger on the tongue.”

Avendale thought of her tongue lingering on him, lapping at his throat, his chest, lower. Inwardly, he cursed the hoarseness in his voice when he ordered the most expensive bottle on hand.

When the wine was poured, he lifted his goblet to hers. “To making the most of the night.”

Her lips curled up slightly. “Well worth drinking to.” She tapped her glass against his, took a sip of wine, closed her eyes. “That's marvelous.”

She opened her eyes, and he regretted that they were in shadows, that he couldn't see the sapphire depths as clearly. When he made love to her, he would do so with lights blazing. He wanted to see the fire in her eyes, the passion, and ultimately the apex of pleasure.

He ordered the finest fare on the menu. For her, he wanted only the best. She was not some cheap bawd. She was like no woman he'd ever experienced.

“Tell me about this odd family of yours,” she demanded. “With its commoners and nobility.”

He swirled his glass, watched the wine create a vortex that could suck him under if he wasn't careful. ­“People met, fell in love with no consideration for rank or propriety, married, had children. Boring. I'd rather talk about you.”

“Presently, I'm dreadfully boring. I've been in respectable mourning for two years. Now I am ready to experience life again. I want to make the most of it.”

Reaching across the table, he took her hand and stroked his thumb over her knuckles. “I can help you achieve that goal.”

She once more released the light laughter that teased the edges of his soul. “You're not at all arrogant, are you?”

“I know what I want and I'm accustomed to acquiring it.”

She slipped her hand from his. “If you discover the price is exceedingly high?”

“I think you would be worth any price.”

“I'm not a whore, Your Grace.”

“Neither are you an innocent. You know we're engaged in a game of seduction.”

She angled her head, peered at him through lowered lashes. “Yes, and I also know I hold all the cards.”

R
ose was grateful when the turtle soup arrived. Not that her stomach was relaxed enough to truly enjoy the delicacy.

She'd never had a man be so bold in insinuating what he wanted. He both frightened and excited her. The way he watched her, the way his gaze slowly roamed over her as though he could quite clearly envision her without her clothing. The odd thing was that she found herself wondering what he might look like beneath the gentleman's attire.

She had never found herself drawn to a man in this manner, had never itched to loosen buttons or remove a neck cloth. Had never wanted to order him to stand perfectly still while she unwrapped him as though he were a gift. She had little doubt that Avendale was a gift—­probably from Lucifer himself. He was certainly no angel.

At certain moments, she forgot that they weren't alone here, that her thoughts were entirely inappropriate, that his innuendoes were deserving of a slap.

Yet at the same time, the lonely woman inside her was flattered by his attentions, even though she understood that she was merely a novelty. Once he acquired what he wanted, he would be done with her. He was a man of passions that she suspected changed with the wind.

Presently the wind was blowing in her direction and she needed to make the most of it. Who knew when it would begin gusting elsewhere?

“What is your name?” she asked, noticing that he'd barely touched the soup and was again indulging in the wine.

“Avendale.”

“Your mother gave you a name when you were born. What was it?”

“Actually, I suspect it was my father who provided the name. As I understand it he was very specific regarding how things were to be done.”

“How old were you when he died?”

“Four when they told me he was killed in a fire.”

Odd phrasing, she thought, but she suspected any specific inquiry regarding it would be rebuffed, so she moved on. “Do you remember him?”

“Benjamin Paul Buckland, Earl of Whitson, Duke of Avendale,” he said abruptly, obviously not intending to answer her question about his father. “From the moment I was born, I carried the courtesy title of the Earl of Whitson. To this day, my mother calls me Whit more often than she calls me Avendale. No one, absolutely no one, calls me Benjamin or Paul. That, sweetheart, is the extent to which I will share anything about my family or my past. They have no place in my life.”

“The past is always there,” she told him. “You might ignore it, but you would be a fool not to recognize its influence, and you don't strike me as a fool.”

“I'm interested in you, aren't I? That should prove me not to be a fool.”

The opposite, she thought. It proved the opposite.

The next dish was brought out. Duck glazed in some sort of orange concoction that she wished she could take home to Harry. Sally cooked but her skills leaned more toward hearty food that put meat on bones, not that one could tell by looking at Rose. She was quite conscientious regarding her figure since she considered it her most alluring asset when it came to capturing the attention of the males of her species.

“Have you a box at the theater?” she asked.

He took a long swallow of his wine, and she wished she could remove his neck cloth, watch the movements of his throat as he indulged in the red bouquet. She didn't know why she had this blasted obsession with removing his clothes. No other man had ever caused these thoughts to spiral recklessly through her mind, but then no other man she'd encountered up close was as fine a specimen as the one before her now.

“I believe it is mandatory for dukes to have a box at the theater,” he finally said.

“I've never been to the London theater. It is on my list of things I should like to do in my life.”

“Did Mr. Sharpe not take you?”

She was surprised he'd brought up her husband. She would have thought it bad form to mention another man to a woman one was attempting to seduce. “We never visited London. Instead, we moved to India two seconds after we were married.”

“Why India?”

She gave him a small smile. “You expect me to reveal my past while you refuse to reveal yours?”

“I'm sure yours is more interesting. Where else have you traveled?”

“Only to India. My husband had business there.”

“Where were you raised?”

“To the north.”

His luscious mouth that no doubt tasted of dark wine now spread into a slow grin. “Seems you are as forthcoming as I.”

“Stubborn more like,” she said, sipping her own wine. “I won't reveal my past if you won't reveal yours.”

“Then we must concentrate on the present.”

She paid little attention to the number of courses brought out, but she knew their dinner was coming to an end when a piece of cake coated in chocolate was set before her. As she enjoyed her first bite, she released a little moan. “That is scrumptious.”

Reaching across, he stroked his thumb at the corner of her mouth. She saw a bit of chocolate on it just before he slipped it between his lips. “Indeed you are.”

Molten heat spiraled through her. Why did she have these reactions when he barely touched her, merely gazed at her, smiled? Dare she risk another kiss tonight?

After he signed his name in a small book the footman brought him, Avendale got to his feet and helped her out of her chair. As they walked through the dining room, his large hand lighted on the small of her back, nonchalantly and yet possessively. She could not help but feel he was laying claim to her in front of anyone who was here.

“Perhaps you would join me for a private card game,” he said quietly as they stepped into the main area. “I've had a secluded room arranged.”

Stopping, she shifted slightly to face him and fought to appear as innocent as possible. “How many will be playing?”

His eyes darkened with promise. “Only you and I.”

She considered, but knew it was too soon. It was always to her advantage to leave them wanting. “I am tempted, Your Grace.
You
tempt me, but I think we both know that it could prove very dangerous and lead to destinations to which I am not yet ready to travel.”

“I would be on my best behavior.”

“Your
best
could prove to be very bad indeed. I truly appreciate dinner, but I must be off now. Perhaps another night.” Rising up on her toes, placing a hand on his shoulder for balance, she lightly brushed her lips along his cheek before whispering in his ear, “I shall be riding in Hyde Park tomorrow at four.”

Then without a backward glance, she left him standing there. Once again, she was aware of his gaze homed in on her, was aware of everything about him. She was spinning a web and knew that with him, she had to be careful that she wasn't the one who became ensnared in it.

 

Chapter 4

“T
he duchess is here to see you, Your Grace,” Thatcher announced.

At the desk in his library the following afternoon, Avendale looked up from the note he'd been penning to his mother. Thatcher continued to refer to her as the duchess, although she'd not been a duchess for a good many years, not since she'd married a commoner. But for Thatcher, who had been in her employ long before he was in Avendale's, she would always remain the duchess.

“Inform her that I'm not at home.”

Thatcher merely looked at him.

Avendale sighed. “You are in my employ now, Thatcher, not hers.”

“She is your mother.”

“I am well aware.” But their relationship was strained, had been for years. It was difficult for him to be with her and not reveal what he suspected, what he knew, what he'd seen. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd almost confronted her, but what could come of it—­except to put more distance between them?

Thatcher did not move, did not avert his gaze.

“I should have you sacked,” Avendale said.

Thatcher lifted a brow that had once been black as Satan's soul and was now almost as white as angel wings. “Does that mean you are home?”

“Yes.” But only because, upon reconsideration, he needed her to know he would be making use of the theater box this week. Easier to tell her in person than to pen the missive. He allowed her to use it, as he seldom went to the theater. Truth be told, he couldn't recall the last time he'd gone. When he was much younger and had taken a fancy to an older actress. She had taught him the value of seasoned women.

His mother swept into the room, radiating poise and self-­assurance.

Avendale got up, rounded the desk, and pressed a kiss to his mother's cheek. “You don't have to be announced.”

She gave him a wry smile. “I worry about interrupting you and one of your paramours.”

“Yes, I suppose that might prove uncomfortable.” He walked over to the sideboard. “A bit of sherry?”

“It's only just past noon,” she admonished.

“Then it seems I'm getting started late.” He poured himself some scotch, indicated two chairs near a window that looked out on the gardens. As she daintily took a seat in the plush brown velvet chair, he sprawled in the one opposite her.

“The residence seems different somehow,” she said.

“I dispensed with the company I was keeping and had the servants give it a thorough cleaning.”

She brightened. “Does this mean a nice lady has caught your fancy?”

“A lady yes. Remains to be seen how nice she is. I'm hoping not very.”

“Oh, Whit,” she chastised. “There is more to life than naughty women.”

“Not for me.”

“It's high time you settled down. Lovingdon has married, and now I hear that Drake Darling is betrothed to Lady Ophelia Lyttleton. Seems something is in the air this Season.”

“Then I shall immediately take to holding my breath as often and as long as possible so that I don't become infected with whatever is in the air to cause such bad judgment,” he assured her.

“Why are you so against love?”

“Surely you didn't come here to discuss the state of my heart.”

“No, but sometimes I wonder where my sweet little boy went.”

Her sweet little boy had seen something that had irrevocably changed him. He recognized she would never forgive herself if she knew.

“He grew up,” he told her. “By the by, I shall need my box at the theater this week.”

“Oh dear God, not another actress.”

He grinned. “On the contrary, she may be the most unpretentious woman I've ever met.”

“Who is she?”

“You won't know her. She doesn't run around in your circles.”

“You would be surprised by how wide my circles are these days.”

That much was true. She met a good many commoners through her husband. “Mrs. Rosalind Sharpe.”

“A married woman?”

He heard the disappointment in her voice, and it pricked that she would suspect the worst. He didn't know why, because he had entertained married women on occasion, so his mother's assumption was valid. “Widowed.”

“Old?”

“Young.”

“Dark?”

“Fair. She's new to London.”

“Marvelous. I'm hosting a dinner party Thursday next. I stopped by to issue an invitation. You should bring her.”

“My relationship with her—­or what I intend for my relationship with her to be—­is not something to which you want to expose your other children.”

His mother looked at him for long assessing moments that made him want to squirm in his chair. “I know you're searching for something, Whit. I wish I knew what the devil it was.”

So did he, but he hadn't a bloody clue.