But she wanted him. Somehow that seemed so much worse than needing him. It gave him control.
A soft rap.
They had an arrangement. It wasn’t based on love, caring, or affection. It was pure lust, some animalistic attraction that had them clawing at each other whenever they got close. It was madness. She had to recognize it for what it was and keep her heart from becoming involved.
Another soft rap.
“Yes?” she called out this time.
The door opened. “Are you ready for me, miss?” Edith asked gently as though she expected Rose to shatter.
It irritated her that Avendale had thought she needed to be mollycoddled, just because he’d taken her maidenhead. Blast him. She wasn’t weak.
“Yes,” she answered with a bit more firmness in her voice. As she sat up, the pillow plopped into the water.
Edith retrieved it, before she began washing Rose’s hair.
It wasn’t long before Rose found herself in her nightdress, sitting on a sofa before a low fire, her hair braided. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised by Edith’s expertise at assisting her. She had no doubt that Avendale entertained lots of ladies here. She thought about inquiring but she was in no mood to have confirmed that she was one of many. Perhaps it was because of what she’d given up tonight that she wanted to feel special. Even though she knew she wasn’t.
Yet one more soft rap on the door.
Merrick and Sally never knocked so softly. It was almost as though this residence was in mourning. Suddenly she wished she were back with those she cared for.
Edith set a tray with covered dishes on a low table in front of her. “Your dinner, miss.”
“Where is the duke?”
Straightening, Edith interlaced her fingers tightly together. “In the library.”
Rose got to her feet. “I should like to see him.”
Edith paled. “I’m sorry, miss, but no one is allowed to disturb him when he’s locked himself away.”
Blinking, Rose stared at her. Surely she’d not heard properly. “He locked himself in?”
“Yes, miss. He does that on occasion when he’s in an ill temper.”
Rose had never heard the like. “Take me to the library.”
“Oh no, miss. I was told to see to your comfort. To have you fed and put to bed.”
“Put to bed?” Rose laughed. “I’m not a child to be put to bed. I go when I damned well please.”
Edith’s eyes nearly popped right out of her head. Rose assumed it was because she’d never heard a lady utter profanity. “If you won’t take me to the library, I shall find it on my own.”
She headed for the door. The patter of footsteps echoed through the room as Edith beat her to the door and opened it for her.
“I’ll take you,” Edith said, “but His Grace is not going to like it one bit.”
Rose cared not one whit what he liked.
Brooding, Avendale sat in a chair in front of a low fire in the hearth and took another long swallow of scotch. For all his sins, he had never harmed a woman, never caused one pain.
Until tonight. Until Rose.
Why the bloody hell hadn’t she stopped him, or at least slowed him down?
He didn’t understand this obsession, this need to possess her that coursed through him. Never before in his life had he thought, If I don’t have this woman now, I shall die.
In her presence he lost all reason. How else to explain his giving her five thousand pounds instead of having her arrested for swindling him? She had swindled him further. Not a widow, but a virtuous woman.
His dark laughter echoed around him. No, not virtuous. She might have never had a man between her legs but she was not virtuous. He didn’t know what she was. Who was Rose Sharpe?
What did he know about her really? That she could bring his cock to attention so swiftly that he went dizzy. But other than that—
A loud knock sounded. “Avendale, open the door.”
Bloody hell, what was she doing here?
“Go to bed, Rose.”
“I’ve sent someone to fetch the housekeeper with the key. You might as well let me in.”
He was master here, not her. And his servants understood not to intrude when he was in a dark mood. He’d seen his father in enough of them to know that they were not something he wanted others to witness. His staff was fully aware that if they unlocked that door, someone would lose his or her posi—
Click. Rattle. Creak.
Rose stepped through the open door and closed it behind her.
What the devil? Had the entire world gone mad or just his world?
He came to his feet and stormed to the sideboard. “You do not want to be in here.”
“I quite disagree,” she said calmly. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”
Splashing scotch into his glass, he ground out, “You really need to leave before I do something that we shall both regret.”
“May I have one of those?” she asked.
Jerking his head to the side, he wondered when she had approached. Could she not see his temper flaring?
Looking into her blue eyes, he felt his fury dimming—
“I could truly use it,” she said.
—sputtering . . . dying out. Gone.
He handed her his glass, reached for another. “While you’re here, I expect you to do as I command.”
“I daresay that you’re in for a time of it then as I have no intention of becoming your slave.” When his glass was full, she tapped hers to it. “To an evening of surprises.” Taking a sip, she nodded in approval. “Very nice.”
Then she wandered to the sitting area by the fire and sat in his chair.
He walked over. “I was sitting there.”
With a gamine smile, she peered up at him. “Yes, I know. I can still feel the warmth from your body. It’s quite lovely.”
She brought her legs up, tucked them beneath her. Any other woman would have scrambled to the other chair. But then she wasn’t any other woman. He’d known it the moment he set eyes on her.
Dropping into the opposite chair, he stretched out his legs, took a sip of his scotch, and studied her. Her braided hair draping over one shoulder, she wore a plain muslin nightdress. Tomorrow he would purchase her something in satin and silk. What was the point? Two seconds after she donned it, he would have it off. It irritated him that he wanted her again with a fierceness that nearly unmanned him.
“So your being a widow,” he began, “it was all part of the ruse?”
“Yes.”
“There is no estate to settle?”
“No.”
“But you had Beckwith jumping through hoops like a well-trained dog.”
“Quite so. However he is becoming suspicious, close to figuring out that I sent him on a wild-goose chase. That I had no husband, had no inheritance, had never been to India. Never so much as set foot out of England, to be honest. Therefore it was time to move on, a bit sooner than I would have liked, but necessary.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your untouched state?” he asked quietly. “You had ample opportunity in the coach.”
“Not really, not once your mouth landed on mine. All reasonable thought seems to scatter when you touch me. Besides, I didn’t think it would matter.”
“I tore into you like a battering ram trying to breach the walls of a castle.”
“You weren’t quite that uncivilized, and it wasn’t that bad.”
“You cried out.”
“I’d have not expected you to be upset that you hurt me.”
“This game we’ve been playing . . . I thought you were more experienced, that you understood—”
“I did understand. Lack of experience does not make one ignorant.”
“B
ut lack of knowledge made me so. Had I known—”
“What would you have done differently?” she demanded with a raised eyebrow.
“I intend to show you when I’m no longer angry with you.”
She gave him a slow, sensual smile, and the last remnants of anger he’d been harboring melted away. Damnation, he was going to show her before dawn.
“Who are you, Rosalind Sharpe?”
“I am the woman who will warm your bed for a week. Then I shall move on.”
His gut clenched with the thought of her leaving. “That easily?” he asked.
“Neither of us is looking for anything permanent.”
She had the right of it there. He would grow tired of her soon enough, and she definitely wasn’t the sort he’d take to wife. He needed a respectable woman who could cloak him in her virtuousness.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as forthright—” He stopped, shook his head. “You speak in a forthright manner, but I fear you are full of deceptions.”
“My desire for you is not false.”
This time the tightening in his gut nearly doubled him over. “How have you remained untouched?”
“I never before met anyone with whom I wished to be so intimate. You could have gotten me for half the amount.”
He laughed. “I like you, Rose. Damned if I don’t.”
“I like you as well, Your Grace.”
“Not so well if you had no compunction about swindling me.”
Lifting a shoulder, she peered at him over the rim of her glass. “As I said, I had creditors breathing down my neck. I was a bit desperate, and you did confess that money meant nothing at all to you.”
“I was foolish enough to say that, wasn’t I?”
She glanced around. “When you have so much it’s easy to forget there are those who have so little.”
He would not feel guilty for all that he possessed. In spite of his errant life, he had managed his estates well, ensuring they were profitable. “I make considerable contributions to charity.”
She gave him an impish grin. “Is that the name of a harlot you frequent?”
He barked out his laughter. He’d never known a woman so open about matters of which ladies never spoke. “You are a contradiction. Until an hour ago, you were a virgin, and yet you have no compunction about spewing bawdy talk.”
“I’ve led a singular life, which I will not discuss. I’ve been on my own since I was ten and seven, no chaperone to ensure I remain pure in thought and ignorant of all that transpires between men and women.”
He knew many a girl who had married at seventeen. Why did he find it appalling to think of her being on her own at so tender an age? “How did you manage to survive?”
“With skill, cunning, and perseverance.”
“And a fair amount of swindling?”
“I never take from those who can ill afford to be taken from.”
“You believe that somehow makes you noble?”
“No, not at all. And I know I shall pay dearly for it. Just not yet.”
“On the contrary, I believe it is time you paid for leading me to believe you are far more experienced than you are.” Setting aside his glass, he stood. He didn’t see fear in her eyes, but merely curiosity and desire. Always the desire. He’d never met a woman who made him feel as though she yearned to be with him. Oh, women certainly sought out his company, flirted with him, teased him, tempted him. But they never made him feel as though something deep within them called to something deep within him.
Crossing over, he took her glass and set it on the table. She didn’t object, she barely moved, her gaze never leaving his. He no longer trusted himself to read her moods, to read what she might be communicating. She had fooled him once. She could be doing it again.
Yet she’d come here to his lair, to poke the tiger. She had to know that he’d have not bothered her if she’d stayed in her room and simply gone to sleep. He might have felt differently in the morning. His temper might have cooled by then.
Instead she’d joined him. She had to have known where her actions would lead. Bracketing his arms on either side of her, folding his hands around the arms of the chair, he leaned in and took her mouth. She responded as though she were kindling and he’d struck a match. In spite of his impatience and rough taking of her earlier, she opened her mouth to him, her tongue swirling over his. No shy miss. Not at all.
She gained nothing by pretending to want him. She had the money. He had met her terms, although he was already regretting that he’d agreed to let her have an hour alone in the afternoon. He wanted to be with her every moment, every second until the time of their bargain came to an end. Slipping an arm beneath her legs, another around her back, he lifted her and cradled her against his chest. He didn’t want to consider how well she molded against him, how perfectly she fit. Nothing in life was perfect. Nothing fit exactly.
Yet he could almost swear that she did as she settled against him.
“I do know how to walk up stairs,” she said.
“But my legs are longer, will get us there faster.”
She dropped her head to the curve of his shoulder. “Why do you lock yourself in your library when you’re in a foul mood?”
“I don’t like others to see my temper.” He started up the sweeping staircase. “I see it as a weakness.”
“I don’t think anything about you is weak.”
She was wrong there. Where she was concerned, he wasn’t nearly as strong as he needed to be. Twice now this evening she’d diffused his anger with little more than a smile. If he weren’t careful, she might change him irrevocably.
That he could not risk.
She thought she could become accustomed to his strong arms holding her, to his carrying her where he wanted her to be. The thought angered her. She’d not needed anyone since she had run away from her father when she was seventeen. She hadn’t exactly been on her own, but she was the one responsible for the others. They were with her because they believed in her, because she was the one willing to do anything to see them all safe.
Wasn’t that the reason that she was now in the duke’s bedchamber as he slowly lowered her feet to the carpeted floor?
It had to be the reason, the only reason. She wouldn’t allow it to be more, to think that perhaps a week with her wouldn’t be enough for him. That something grand could come from something steeped in retribution.
She would leave here with memories only. She knew that. He would not give her any part of himself that she could carry away. All he would give her was pleasure. Nothing deeper than that.
His large hands slowly worked free the buttons on her nightdress. A cheap thing that she could easily replace if he ripped it apart. But no, he had chosen to ruin something that had cost her a pretty penny. She smiled. No, it would cost him as it was included in the bills he would be paying. And then he would pay for it again when she had another ordered before the week was done.
She supposed she should have waited until all the creditors were paid before she came to be with him, but he was a blackguard with standards. A duke who would pay his debts, even if those debts were hers. Strange how she trusted him, trusted his word.
A little voice whispered for her to trust him with everything, but she couldn’t. The time spent with him was as much for herself as anything. As her nightdress slid to the floor, she thought of nothing except him, except Avendale.
The satisfaction in his eyes, the admiration, the heat.
“God, but you are beautiful,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “I could flog myself for going so quickly before and denying myself the sight of you completely unclothed.”
“Perhaps I’ll flog you for denying me the sight of you.” She didn’t know from where her boldness heralded. She only knew that it felt right, that with him there was no shame in the naked form
, no mortification in what they would share.
He wasn’t done up nearly as much as he’d been before. She merely had to release a few buttons at the front of his shirt, not even the cuffs. Then he was reaching back and dragging the cloth over his shoulders, over his head, slowly revealing a sculpted stomach and chest. Bronzed. And she wondered what he did to expose himself to the sun.
His eyes glinted with satisfaction. He knew he was beautiful. She wished she could bring him down a notch by telling him that she’d seen better, but it would be a lie and there was enough deception between them. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gingerly touched them to the heated flesh.
Avendale groaned low and she felt powerful to be able to affect him so. She flattened her hands just below his ribs and slowly caressed upward. Such firmness, such silk. How could he be both? She carried her hands on a journey over his chest, along his shoulders, and down his powerful arms. His muscles were like granite.
“I would tell you that you’re magnificent,” she said, meeting his eyes, “but I suspect enough ladies have told you that to swell your head.”
“None of them mattered.” His jaw tensed, a muscle there jumped, and she wondered if he’d fought to stop himself from saying she mattered.
What silly, fanciful thoughts. He cared nothing for her beyond what they would have here. He could have asked for a fortnight, for two, and she’d have granted it. But he merely wanted a week, and then he’d be done with her. As much as she might wish otherwise, she was one of them. The ones who, in the end, didn’t matter.
But she wouldn’t think of that. Not tonight.
She skimmed her hands up his arms, reversing the previous journey, until her hands rested where skin met cloth. She could see the bulge there, the strain against his trousers. She knew what it felt like buried within her, but she’d barely seen it.
Lowering her gaze, she flicked a button free of its mooring. Then another. Another. Setting him free. Pressing quivering fingers against the heat, she found it difficult to draw in air. “Had I gotten a good glimpse of this before, I might have been terrified.”
The Duke and the Lady in Red Page 11