The Duke and the Lady in Red (7 page)

 

Chapter 5

“A
horse? What you be needing a horse for?” Merrick asked.

Rose watched as her coachman, Joseph, examined the beautiful white mare. Mr. Slattery, who had just delivered it, was standing off to the side out of earshot, thank goodness, as Merrick had no command of dulcet tones.

“For rides in the park,” she answered softly.

“You've got two legs. They seem to work well enough.”

She sighed with exasperation and bent down until she was on eye level with him. “Honestly, Merrick, you do try my patience. I intend for this to be our last haul for a while and I need to make it count. In order for that happen, I'm required to project a certain image. If you must discuss this, we'll do it later.”

She straightened as Joseph turned away from the horse and winked at her. “She's good.”

Smiling, she trod across the ground behind her residence where a small stable and livery was kept. She held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Slattery. I shall notify Mr. Beckwith to send you the funds with interest as soon as he has finished settling my husband's estate.”

“Thank you, m'um,” he said, tipping his hat to her before he left.

She saw no reason to alert him that her solicitor had stopped by that morning to inform her that he was having a dreadful time locating the ­people with whom he needed to speak in India in order to settle the estate and ensure she received all her husband had left to her. Over tea, she had flattered him for his determined efforts and encouraged him not to give up. He was her last hope in acquiring what was rightfully hers. She knew it was a nuisance having to work with foreigners, but there you had it.

He had reiterated that she was to send any merchants his way so that he could assure them her credit was good and payment would be forthcoming. She had also convinced him to lend her two thousand pounds in cash for anything for which she could not be billed. After all, a woman alone in the world could not be expected to get by with no coin whatsoever.

“Joseph, saddle her up for me, will you?” she asked. “I'm going to change into my riding habit and then I'll be off.”

“I don't like this,” Merrick muttered as they walked to the house.

“You don't have to.”

“It just seems that this time you're taking a lot more risks.”

“For greater rewards.” Stopping, she faced him. “He's not like the others, Merrick. He can't be won over with flattery or words designed to puff up his pride. It's a very different sort of web I'm weaving. It requires more finesse, a more elaborate deception.”

“Then leave off. Find someone else to fleece.”

She hadn't half considered it. “No. I'm enjoying the challenge of it, of him. Besides, he is too intrigued with me to simply walk away if I appeared to have lost interest. He wants me too badly.”

“Sounds as though it's
your
pride that's being puffed up here.”

Did Merrick have the right of it? She couldn't deny that Avendale's pursuit was a balm to her wounded soul, but it wasn't affecting her decisions. They were as they'd always been: calculating and made without emotion. “My pride has nothing to do with it. As I said, he won't give me up, but when the time comes we need to be able to move with urgency and to a location quite far away. I'm thinking Scotland, especially if I'm able to gain enough so we can live comfortably for a while without worrying about creditors or obtaining more funds. If you don't like the way I keep food in your belly, clothes on your back, and a roof over your head, you're welcome to leave.”

He scowled. “You know I won't find anything better than this. Least you give me respect.”

“I ask only that you do the same of me.”

An hour later she was sitting astride Lily—­the name she'd decided on for the horse—­as the mare trotted along Rotten Row. It was a gorgeous afternoon. A slight breeze in the air, the sun warming her face. So many ­people were about. She recognized a few from her sojourns to the Twin Dragons. Three gentlemen tipped their hats to her. A ­couple of ladies smiled.

But she needed more.

Patience, she cautioned herself. The key was patience.

Then she saw him. He was here, trotting toward her on a large black horse. Magnificent. Avendale, not the horse. Although the beast was a beauty.

The thrill of his presence, the excitement of his nearing nearly toppled her from her saddle. Here was the more she wanted, the more she could never possess.

She wished circumstances were different, wished she were different. But if she were, she wouldn't be here now, would have never met him. He was a duke and she was completely undeserving of his time and attention. But it didn't stop her from craving it.

Slowing Lily to a walk, she gave no pretense that she was doing anything other than what she was: waiting for him to catch up to her. As he came closer, she pulled back on the reins, stopped.

Bringing his horse to a halt, he swept his hat from his head. “Rose.”

She loved the shortened version of her name on his lips. One syllable, but he said it in a way that was both provocative and sensual. Whatever was wrong with her, to be so affected, when others had called her that for most of her life? But no one else made her want to sway toward him. No one else made her heart patter against her ribs. No one else made her seriously consider adding fornication without benefit of marriage to her lengthy list of sins.

“Benjamin.”

He growled. “I knew I shouldn't have shared that with you.”

“If you're going to be familiar with me, it seems I should be equally familiar with you.”

“If you can't call me Avendale, call me Whit.”

“Your mother calls you that. The last thing I want is for you to think of me as your mother.”

“The things I want to do with you . . . trust me, my mother will be the farthest thing from my mind regardless of what you call me.”

The blatant sexual yearning in his eyes nearly had her sliding to the ground in a pool of heated desire. How was it possible that he affected her so with little more than a gaze? Never before had she wanted to run her hands up a man's arms, over his shoulders, along his chest and back. Never had she wanted to see exactly what lay beneath his clothing, how it might be sculpted and shaped, how the lines might fan out and meet.

With a little nudge she urged her horse forward. Avendale—­she could not think of him as Whit or even Benjamin as his title suited him much better—­brought his horse round so it could plod along beside hers.

“How long will you be in London?” he asked.

She looked at him askance. “I intend to make it my home. I have found much here that . . . appeals to me.” With any other man, the last sentence would have been a lie, spoken merely to give him reason to preen. But Avendale was not one for preening, and speaking honestly about her attraction to him served her purpose.

“I prefer you not stroke me with words, but with your hands.” He leaned over so far that she was surprised he didn't topple from the saddle. “Or your mouth.”

She was quite certain she turned as red as her favorite evening gown. “You do take liberties with your innuendoes.” She wondered why she sounded so breathless, as though she were galloping over the green.

“You're not untouched. I see no reason to mince words or to pretend that I want anything other than what I do.”

“Just because I'm no longer virginal does not mean that I don't deserve to be wooed. I require affection.”

“I assure you that you won't find yourself noticing any lack of affection.”

Those heated eyes again, the promise of passion that she feared would leave her scalded for life.

“Let's stroll, shall we?” he asked.

Stroll? Did he truly believe that her legs could support her after the way he looked at her, the words he uttered? She didn't want to be so affected by him. It muddled her thinking. On the other hand, perhaps being nearer to him would muddle his.

“Yes, that would be delightful.” At least her breath had recovered, and she sounded more like herself.

As he drew his horse to a halt, she did the same with hers, then watched in fascination as he swung his leg back and dismounted. Why did every movement of his, no matter how common or small, have to intrigue her? He could hold her attention for hours by doing nothing more than taking in breaths. It was utterly ridiculous that he should have a claim over her senses.

He came to stand before her and wrapped his hands around her waist. Such large hands, such capable ones. Hands that could effectively close around her throat and stop all breath from entering her body should he discover her plans, should they fill him with rage. She should have chosen a smaller man, but the truth was that she'd had little choice once he'd approached her, once she'd lured him in.

He wanted her now, and she knew he was not one to turn his back until he'd gained what he wanted.

Which was the reason she momentarily considered facing his wrath, because what he wanted, she would not give. She'd done a good many things in her life, a good many that brought her no pride, but she had managed to do what she needed without spreading her legs to obtain what she
wanted
. She was every bit as determined to gain what she coveted as he was.

Although the advantage was all hers. She knew the true game being played, the rules. While he was engaged in another sort of sport. The trick was to ensure that he didn't realize they weren't on the same playing field until she'd already won.

Dropping her gaze to his luscious lips, she thought of their previous kisses, knew visions of them were enough to flush her skin, cause her eyes to become molten blue. She knew a moment of satisfaction as she saw him swallow, felt his hands tighten on her. She placed her gloved hands on his shoulders, relished the strength there, even as it caused trepidation to slice through her.

Slowly, so slowly, he lifted her up, lifted her off, lowered her feet to the ground, bringing her in close so her breasts skimmed along his chest. Her nipples puckered painfully, her heart pounded, her stomach clenched. She locked her knees, ensuring she remained upright.

Because of his blasted hat, the upper portion of his face was in shadow as he looked down at her. She wanted to knock it off with one quick swipe, see his eyes clearly, know his thoughts, his feelings, his desires. With his thumbs, he stroked her ribs, once, twice, thrice before finally releasing his hold, stepping back, and gathering up the reins for both horses, holding them loosely in one hand before offering her his free arm.

It would be wiser to ignore it, but she couldn't deny her fingers the luxury of the firmness in his muscles. Against her better judgment, she nestled her hand in the crook of his elbow.

While she was not particularly diminutive in height, she was well aware that he shortened his steps to accommodate her as they walked leisurely along, leaving Rotten Row behind. At first he acknowledged a few ­people with a nod, a touch to his hat brim, but then he seemed to grow bored with it. No one approached to speak with him. He somehow managed to give off the aura of a man not wanting to be disturbed.

Any hope she might have held for an untarnished reputation fluttered away like the butterflies that frolicked around them. She was well aware that he was claiming her here. In the afternoon sunlight, in the crowded park where those with leisurely lives strolled about, making note of who was spending time with whom. With his demonstration of possessiveness, her options became fewer.

But then if she were honest with herself, they had diminished to one the moment she turned to find him extending a flute of champagne toward her. She might as well enjoy his company for as long as she would have it, as far as they would take it. Although not as far as he insinuated.

She had spoken true last night. She did hold the cards. While she had nothing on which to base her judgment other than her assessment of him, she knew he was not a man who forced a woman into doing something to which she objected. They might kiss, they might touch, but ultimately he would be left wanting. She wondered at the regret that filled her with the thought.

“How many estates do you have?” she asked.

He glanced down at her, and she shrugged. “I'm curious about you and you seem hesitant to discuss anything too personal. I can ask around to find out about your estates. I daresay the solicitor seeing to my husband's estate could tell me. He seems to know the well-­heeled and the aristocracy quite well.”

“Who's your solicitor?” he asked.

“Beckwith.”

“Which one?”

“Daniel.”

“The youngest.”

“You're familiar with Beckwith and Sons?”

He gave one curt nod. “Their father handled much of my business until he passed it on to his eldest. The other two sons have solid reputations. I don't know that you could have gone to anyone better.”

“I fear he's finding it a bit frustrating to settle everything. My husband did not leave his affairs in good order. Beckwith is having a time of it straightening things out. Meanwhile I rely on the kindness of strangers. Although I do worry that those to whom I am in debt will soon lose patience.”

“If anyone can hold them at bay, Beckwith can.”

“I shall depend on it. So your estates?” she prodded, wanting to get them away from discussing Beckwith. She wasn't too concerned about Avendale approaching the man about her business, as it was obvious that he was more interested in his own.

“Two plus my residence in London. Ghastly large, but it came to me through my father. I suspect I shall always have it.”

“You mentioned that he died when you were four. Have you many memories of him?”

“Very few, none of them worth your time.”

“Anything about you is worth my time.”

He released a dark laugh. “Not that. Why all the questions, Rose?”