“Your Grace, all is prepared as you requested,” Thatcher said, before turning to Rose. “Welcome back, miss.” He shifted his gaze slightly. “Welcome to Buckland Palace, Mr. Longmore.”
Harry pushed back his hood. “I’m pleased to be here.”
Neither Thatcher nor the young footman indicated anything amiss. No gasps, no widening of eyes, no stepping back. They both reacted not at all.
Twisting slightly, Thatcher said, “This is Gerald. He’ll be attending to your needs while you’re in residence.”
“Thank you.”
Rose was amazed that there was no awkwardness. She wondered precisely what Avendale had told his staff. She doubted he’d tell her if she asked.
“Harry, would you like a tour of the place before we sit down to breakfast?” Avendale asked.
Harry nodded slightly, and Rose fought not to be nervous. Everything was going splendidly well, but she had come to expect that trouble rested just below the surface.
“Shall I take your cloak, Mr. Longmore?” Gerald asked, stepping forward, hand extended.
Shifting his cane to his bad hand, Harry managed to loosen the button on his cloak with his good hand. Rose wanted to help him, but she understood his pride, so she waited patiently while he awkwardly removed it and held it out to the footman.
Gerald took it, draped it over his arm. “While you’re touring, I shall see to putting your things away if you’ve no objection.”
“Thank you.”
Gerald exchanged a nod with Avendale before heading for the hallway that led into the wing where Harry would reside.
“I shall ensure that all is readied for breakfast,” Thatcher announced, then he, too, was gone.
“Let’s start to get you familiar with the place, shall we?” Avendale asked. “Although I suggest you keep Gerald near should you decide to go wandering. It’s quite easy to get lost in the maze of hallways.”
He led the way with a leisurely gait that didn’t leave Harry behind. He explained things as he went, much as he had with her. As Harry walked beside her, Rose was very much aware of his awe and wonder. She wished she could take him on a tour around the world.
Then they entered Avendale’s library. Harry gasped. Rose realized that within the pages of all the books here, Harry would travel farther than she could ever take him. Cautiously he approached the shelves, placed his good hand on the leather spine of several books.
“Look at them, Rose.”
“They’re yours to read while you’re here,” she assured him.
“You’re to let Gerald fetch the ones that are too high for you to reach,” Avendale told him.
“I shall never get through them all.”
“You’ll find a smaller library in your wing,” Avendale said, “but I fear most of the books there are love stories and might not be to your liking.”
Turning slightly, Harry bestowed upon him his rendition of a smile. “I enjoy romantic stories. They never leave me feeling sad at the end.”
“My mother preferred the same sort of tale. You should find an abundance of them there.”
Rose had not expected the camaraderie she saw developing between Avendale and Harry. All her doubts about bringing him here were easing away as she realized Avendale was truly welcoming Harry into his home.
When they arrived at the breakfast dining room, Harry’s eyes grew wide at the assortment of food spread out along the sideboard.
“It’s quite lavish, isn’t it, Harry?” Rose asked.
He shook his head, looked at Avendale, looked at her. “I could never eat all that.”
“You don’t have to,” Avendale said. “Whatever remains is distributed to those in need.”
Rose stared at him. He lifted a brow. “Did you think we simply tossed out whatever remained?”
“Why would I think anything else? You live with such excess.”
“A good many people make a rather nice living off my excesses,” he said.
She’d never considered that. So much about him, she’d never considered. She’d told him that their relationship was naught but the surface because he refused to provide her with the details of his life. Perhaps it was merely that she was not as observant as she’d always thought.
Holding a plate, Gerald stepped forward, and Rose wondered when he’d arrived. “What would you fancy, sir?” he asked Harry.
“Everything.”
“As you wish.” He made his way along the sideboard, placing an assortment of food on the plate while Harry followed.
Avendale moved in closer to her. “He seems to have taken to the place. I hope you’re feeling more at ease about his being here.”
Nodding, she touched his arm. “I’ll never be able to repay you for all this.” No matter how long she stayed with him, no matter what he asked of her.
“Don’t worry about that now.”
Unsaid was that she should enjoy whatever time she had left with Harry. The sentiment was in Avendale’s dark, somber gaze. When they were all settled at the table, she watched as Harry took his first bite of deviled egg. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. She thought he was going to be even more delighted with dinner.
Gerald discreetly sliced the ham on Harry’s plate, prepared his tea, was quick to replenish his glass of water. She did hope Avendale was paying the man well. She gazed across the table at Avendale. His attention was focused on pushing food onto his fork with his knife. Harry’s features often dimmed others’ appetite. Even Merrick, Sally, and Joseph seldom joined him for meals. Avendale seemed not the least bit bothered.
Her chest tightened. He would pay his servants well. He was a man of wealth, but he wasn’t stingy with it. He’d opened his home, his books to Harry. He was expanding her brother’s world. Perhaps they would play a game of chess. Perhaps they would talk.
He was not a man who judged. Even knowing she survived by swindling others, he’d never brought her to task for it, had never made her feel like the criminal she knew herself to be. She could even forgive him for the deliberate night of debauchery that had resulted in her missing her appointment with Harry. Left to her own devices, she never would have told Avendale about her brother, not because she was ashamed of Harry—because she wasn’t—but she had judged the duke to be a man without compassion. She wondered what else she might have misjudged.
When Harry pronounced that he was on the cusp of bursting his buttons, they took him to the guest wing, and once more he was as a child surrounded by wonders. They walked into a study and there, resting on the desk, were the pages of his manuscript.
He approached it slowly, as though it were somehow different within these walls, not quite recognizable. Head bowed, he pressed his good hand to the neatly arranged stack of papers.
“You’ll be able to work on your story here,” Rose told him. “Perhaps get it finished.”
Nodding, he lifted his head, zeroed his gaze in on Avendale. “Would you like to read it?”
Rose stepped forward. “You finished it? How marvelous.”
He shook his head. “No, but I thought the duke might find it . . . interesting. But you can’t let her read it. Not until it’s finished.”
With a huff, Rose planted her hands on her hips. “You barely know him and you’re going to let him read it? And not me? The sister who loves you more than life?”
Harry’s gaze never left Avendale. “I think he should read it.”
“I will be most delighted to do so.”
Harry shoved it toward the edge of the desk. Avendale gathered it up. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”
“Don’t let her see it.”
“Honestly,” Rose said indignantly, “if you ask me not to read it, I won’t.”
“She lies,” Harry said.
Avendale chuckled low. “So I’ve discovered.”
�
�I’m insulted. Harry, I’ve never lied to you.”
He swung his head toward her, his blue gaze intense, and she realized she’d not done as good a job at protecting him as she’d intended. He knew she was conniving, that she’d not always been honest with him.
“Make yourself at home,” Avendale said. “I’m going to see that your sister lies down for a bit. She didn’t sleep well last night.”
How did he know that? Was he aware that she was exhausted, thought she might drop at any moment? The worries had taken a toll.
She hugged Harry, told him to send Gerald for her if she was needed, then she quit the room with Avendale at her side. With orders to take the manuscript to his library, he handed the pages to a footman they passed in the hallway. Then with his hand at the small of her back, he led her to the bedchamber.
She’d expected him to tear off their clothes, to take her before they’d even reached the bed. Instead he merely said, “I’ll send Edith in to assist you with your clothing. Get some rest.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you know I didn’t sleep?”
“Because I was holding you and was very much aware of how tense you were. You never relaxed a muscle.”
“I thought coming here might be a disaster.”
He crossed over to her, cradled her cheek. “Even though I told you it wouldn’t be?”
“I’ve been in charge for so long. I find it difficult to hand over the reins where Harry is concerned.”
“You haven’t handed them over. You just have someone else to help you hold them.”
Reaching up, she trailed her fingers along his bristled jaw. “Every time I think I know you, I discover that I don’t. Why are you not staying with me now?”
“Because I have some matters to which I must attend. While it may appear that I live a life of leisure, I am only allowed to do so because I attend to my business when I should.”
“Are you going out then?”
“No, I’ll be in the library, studying reports, making decisions. It’s boring and tedious, but it must be done. When I’m finished I’ll join you here.”
“I know I said it earlier, but I can’t believe how kind you’re being to Harry.”
“You say that as though you are on the verge of recommending me for sainthood. I’m far from being a saint. I’m merely keeping to my end of our bargain.”
He brushed his lips over hers, before leaving the room. Her heart would remain safer if she believed him.
The problem was—she didn’t.
But even if he professed undying love, what would come of it? He was a duke. She was a criminal, with a past that shadowed her and would one day blot out all the light. Until then, she could serve as his mistress for as long as he wanted her—or until he took a wife. Her transgressions were many, but taking a married man to her bed was not going to be one of them.
Chapter 15
It always hurt to know that she was hurting, to see the sorrow and tears welling in her eyes. Sometimes I imagined that I could actually hear her heart cracking, tiny fault lines spreading out.
For her, I fought hard to stand with pride as people gathered around, pointed, whispered, gaped. Once a woman became ill, brought up her breakfast. After that my father decided it best to have hay spread around me, as though I were an animal with no control over my bodily functions. When it was the gawkers for whom the straw was necessary.
I never spoke, never let on that I was mortified by my nearly naked form being displayed as an oddity. Because I ceased to speak, my father thought I’d become mute. But Rose knew the truth of it. In the darkest hours of the night, she would creep over and kneel beside my bed.
“One day, we’ll run away,” she promised with such earnestness that even the boulders after which I was named would have wept. “As soon as I have determined how we can survive.”
Then she would tell me a story of a beautiful place with beautiful people where I was loved, and I would drift off to sleep feeling not quite so ugly.
“Your Grace?”
Avendale jerked his head up from the words he’d been reading, surprised to discover that nearly an hour had passed. He’d meant merely to read a page. He’d read dozens. It was disconcerting to have been caught so absorbed by the tale that he’d not heard his butler enter his library. “Yes, Thatcher?”
“Mr. Watkins is here, sir.”
“Excellent. Send him in.” Avendale stood, walked to a side table and poured a splash of scotch into two glasses. He turned to the doorway just as a man of medium height and width, his clothing impeccable, strode in.
“Watkins.” Avendale extended a glass toward him.
The man staggered to a halt. “It’s not yet noon, Your Grace.”
“Trust me, Watkins, you’re going to need it.”
His tailor took the offered glass and sipped cautiously, while Avendale leaned his hips against the edge of his desk. He downed his own scotch, sighed. “A gentleman is staying with me. A Mr. Harry Longmore. He requires clothing. Something simple for moving about during the day as well as evening attire.”
“My specialty, Your Grace.”
“Which is why I sent for you. I require a man of your skills, but I fear the task will present a challenge. To put it bluntly the man is deformed, hideously so.”
Watkins finished off his drink, licked his lips. “I see.”
“I doubt you’ll be able fit him to perfection, but a close proximity would be well rewarded. And haste doubly so. We need the items within the week.”
“I shall do my best. I can begin straightaway if you like.”
“Excellent. Come along then. I’ll introduce you.”
Harry was busily scribbling at his desk when the duke walked in with a man who had a thick thatch of black and white hair swirling over his head, bushy side whiskers, and a heavy mustache that hid much of his mouth. For a moment Harry knew a spark of despair. Had the duke brought him here to display as a curiosity to his friends as Merrick had thought? If he had, it was without Rose’s knowledge; he was certain of that. She would be furious when she discovered the treachery. She would take Harry away, and he would have to leave all the marvelous books behind, unread.
But the man’s eyes didn’t even so much as widen when his gaze fell on Harry.
“Harry,” the duke began, “allow me to introduce Mr. Watkins, my tailor. He’s one of the most accomplished London has to offer. I would like you to allow him to take your measurements for some new clothing.”
Harry’s face grew hot with shame because he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion regarding the duke’s intentions. He was no different than those who looked upon him and judged what he was. He should have known the duke was only trying to make him feel more comfortable in these elegant surroundings. He knew he walked about in clothes that hung loosely, more like a potato sack, over his odd frame. Sally was a fine seamstress but not one of London’s most accomplished. He nodded with eagerness at the prospect of proper clothes.
“Splendid,” the duke said. He raised a finger. “But we’re to keep this a secret, just between us gents. I have a surprise planned for your sister, and I don’t want her to know about it just yet.”
Harry liked giving Rose surprises. When he was a boy he would pick flowers for her, find pretty rocks. But he hadn’t been able to give her anything since he’d begun spending so much time indoors. His writing was for her, would be a gift to her when the time came. He was filling the pages with all the love he held for her so it would remain with her when he was gone.
But to be able to share a surprise with her now—he was fairly certain it would be a surprise she would like because the duke’s eyes were warm with mischief laced with anticipation. He was looking forward to surprising Rose. Harry put his finger to his lips. “Shh.”
“Precisely. I’ll leave you two to it.”
As the duke strolled from the room, Harry wondered if the duke was even aware that he loved Rose.
After a marvelous sleep, Rose wanted to stroll leisurely through the gardens with Harry, but they got only as far as the fountain where a nude couple carved in stone embraced in such a way that very little was left to the imagination.
“It’s really quite scandalous,” she felt obligated to point out. “The detail”—the taut buttocks of the man; the firm, uplifted breasts of the woman—“is designed to shock those with proper sensibilities.”
“I think they’re beautiful.”
“I quite agree,” a voice boomed behind her, and she nearly leaped into the fountain.
Avendale came to stand on the other side of her, and she had to fight not to reach out to him, not to step nearer and curl against his side. Her resistance where he was concerned was nonexistent. She just didn’t know if she could be content to be a mistress for the remainder of her life. Considering her past, marriage was not feasible. “There is beauty, truth, honesty in the naked form,” Avendale said. “I find it a crime that society is so bothered by it that it must be covered with an abundance of clothing.” With a grin, he shook her skirt as though to demonstrate what clothing entailed, in case she wasn’t aware.
“Would the sight of it not lose its appeal if it were always visible?” she asked, even knowing that she would never tire of seeing him without clothing. “Perhaps we would begin to take it for granted.”
“I continue to find this couple arousing and they’ve been here for years.”
“But then you’re debauched. I’m sure your wife will have them taken away.”
“No doubt, so I must enjoy them while I may. What do you think, Harry? Should I have chosen a fountain that displayed fish cavorting about?”
“Don’t bring him into this,” she chastised.
“Why? He has an opinion, doesn’t he? I’d like to hear it.”
Harry grinned, his face turned red, and he wouldn’t quite meet Rose’s gaze. “I like this one very much.”
“All men do. I think women do as well, but they have been trained to deny it. You like it, don’t you, Rose?”
The Duke and the Lady in Red Page 20