“The duke won’t like it. You leaving.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Are you going to tell him you might leave?”
“No, but if it should happen—”
“It won’t.” He turned his attention back to the portrait.
“But if it should and Avendale wants you to leave, you’re to return to Merrick. You’re not to try to find me.”
“It won’t happen,” he repeated. “But if it does”—he gave her a shrewd look—“I won’t have to look for you because the duke will find you.”
A shiver went through her with the acknowledgment that Avendale would be ruthless in his search. “You give him far too much credit.”
“You don’t give him enough.” He returned his attention to the portrait. It wasn’t often that she wanted to smack her brother but at that precise moment she thought he could do with a good wallop.
“You can be most irritating when you want to be,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.
“But you love me anyway.”
She rubbed his shoulder, forgiving him far more easily than she should. “I do, yes.”
“And you love the duke.”
Her fingers jerked, and she quickly removed her hand before he could sense her tension. “That would be a silly thing to do.”
“Why?” He’d turned completely around, his gaze on her intense.
“He could never marry me.”
“Why?”
She sighed with exasperation. “Honestly, Harry, we need to work to expand your vocabulary.”
“Is it because of the things you’ve done, the way we live?”
Reluctantly she nodded, not surprised he’d figured things out. He was so astute, observant. “I’m not a very good person, not really. A duke requires a wife who is above reproach.”
“He needs a wife who loves him.”
“I should think he won’t have any trouble finding that once he sets his mind to it.”
He wouldn’t have any trouble at all. She did hope she’d be gone by then. A small voice in the back of her mind cautioned her to be careful of what she wished for.
Chapter 17
Rose secured for us a small cottage by the sea. At night, the crashing waves would lull me to sleep. On nights when there was a full moon I would walk along the water’s edge. I wanted to wade out into the surf, but I was afraid that I might topple over and not be able to get up, that I would drown. My left side had developed more protrusions, and I’d begun to have difficulty maintaining my balance.
Although she never said anything, I think Rose knew about my midnight walks. One day, she gifted me with a walking stick of beautiful ebony with a dog’s head carved at the end. The carving reminded me of the dog I’d once owned.
Rose began to go out in the evenings. I thought perhaps she had a swain. One night as I was walking, she appeared out of the darkness and I wondered how many nights she may have been there watching me.
“Would you like to step into the sea?” she asked.
“I might fall.”
“I’ll catch you.” I was all of fifteen, still a lad but on the cusp of manhood, although not as large as I would become. She knelt down and removed my shoes. Then she took my hand, and we counted the steps as we waded into the sea.
Six. The water swirled around my ankles, and I imagined that the waves had touched distant shores, that the water was free to journey wherever it pleased. For a moment I was envious.
“We’re leaving this place,” Rose said quietly, but still I heard her over the rush of sound that belongs to the sea.
We were gone by morning.
As the faint knock of ebony on parquet and shuffling feet disturbed Avendale’s concentration, he looked up to see Harry slightly inside the library doorway. It seemed Avendale wasn’t the only one unable to sleep tonight. His conversation with Rose earlier in the day weighed heavily on his mind. Had he been unfair to his mother all these years? Was he being unfair to Rose now?
Following dinner, he’d lost himself in her for a while, but after she’d drifted off to sleep he’d come here to become lost in her past because it was easier than dealing with his own. Or it should have been. He was discovering that hers troubled him far more than he was willing to admit. She had been strong for so long. But without meaning to, he’d taken choices away from her. He shoved himself to his feet. “Harry.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you. I didn’t think anyone would be here this time of night.”
It was well past midnight, the shadows hovering in corners. “Where’s Gerald?”
“Sleeping.”
“You shouldn’t wander about without him.”
Although only a solitary lamp on the desk provided light, Avendale was still able to make out Harry’s smile. “I won’t get lost. I wanted to be in this room because it has the most books. Their fragrance is heavier here. I like the way they smell. But I’ll come back later.”
“Stay. Take a seat by the fire. Join me in a drink.” His guest nodded, and Avendale strode over to the marble table and poured scotch into two glasses before joining Harry. After taking his seat, Avendale lifted his glass. “To a day of adventures and getting your sister into the balloon.”
Harry grinned, drank. Avendale did the same.
They sat in comfortable silence, as Harry gazed around the room and Avendale watched him. Finally he asked, “How did you learn to read? I can’t imagine that you went to a schoolroom.”
“Rose.”
“Of course.”
“She attended school for a short time before Father decided to share me with the world.”
Share me with the world. Phrasing that made what his father did sound less sinister, less unconscionable.
“I know numbers, too,” Harry said. “I don’t like them as much. There’s beauty and magic in letters and words and the way they come together.”
“There’s beauty and magic in numbers as well, my friend. They have come together in ways that allow me to do quite a bit that I wouldn’t be able to otherwise.”
“Am I?” Harry asked.
Avendale angled his head. “Pardon?”
“Am I your friend?”
It seemed there was also truth in words. Avendale had used the term without thought, without considering the weight of it. Without realizing how Harry, who wrote with such honesty, might interpret it. “Yes, I believe you are.”
Harry grinned, nodded. “You are my friend as well.”
Avendale lifted his glass. “I’m honored. To friendship.”
They both sipped, savored. With a blunt-tipped finger, Avendale tapped his glass. “I’m enjoying reading your story very much.”
“It’s all true.”
“I thought as much. Your sister is an extraordinary woman. You should know that I shall see to it she’s well cared for.”
In spite of his limited facial expressions, Harry gave Avendale a grin that could only be described as cunning. “I know.”
Avendale realized very little got past Rose’s brother. He could have accomplished anything he wanted were the world more accepting of those who were different.
Harry craned his head back slightly. “How do you get to the books up there?” He pointed at the balcony—its walls composed of more shelves laden with literary treasures—that circled the room. “The ladder isn’t high enough.”
“No, it’s only useful in getting to the books on the top shelves at this level. To get to the balcony—come. I’ll show you.” Setting his glass aside, he took Harry’s and placed it beside his. Then he stood there, fighting not to reach over and help Harry to his feet. He had a too keen understanding of pride, and he could see it reflected in Harry’s struggle. There would come a time when he would not be able to get up on his own, but the time was not yet.
Avendale never would have described himself as a patient man. Odd that he was being so now.
When Harry was finally as upright as possible, leaning on his cane, Avendale jerked his head in the direction behind him. “This way.”
He led Harry to a section of shelves not far from the fireplace. “Now watch.”
He gave the shelves a quick shove at the seam that separated one section from the other. A click sounded as an inner latch was released, and the shelves sprang forward a tad. He slipped his hand behind the fissure and opened the door fully to reveal a spiral staircase nestled inside a small alcove.
With a gasp, Harry widened his eyes in astonishment as he whispered in awe, “A secret passage.”
“Indeed. It was my favorite place to sneak about when I was a lad. Go on in.”
With a deep breath, Harry stepped inside as though he thought the small room would transport him somewhere. In a way, perhaps it did. He touched the black metal railing with wonder, released what might have been a muted laugh. He peered over at Avendale. “May I go up?”
Damnation, he hadn’t considered that Harry would make that request. He should have merely said the balcony was ornamental. “I was given to understand that you have difficulty traversing stairs.”
Disappointment dimmed the sparkle in Harry’s eyes. “I’m awkward and slow.”
“Is that all?” Avendale asked. “I’ve no pressing appointments. Have you?”
Rose stood in the library doorway, quiet as a dormouse, and watched as her brother explored the balcony while Avendale patiently answered his questions. From time to time their laughter rolled out through the room, causing tears to prick her eyes.
She’d awoken in a lethargic haze to discover Avendale absent from the bed, and so she’d gone in search of him, assuming he would be in his library. She’d not expected the sight that greeted her.
They were an odd pairing—the handsome duke and her misshapen brother—but to see them together, a friendship forming, caused a tightness in her chest that might prevent her from ever being able to inhale a deep breath again. It was so obvious that Harry adored Avendale, that Avendale was the older brother he’d never possessed.
Avendale’s kindness . . . she’d not anticipated it. She’d expected him to be tolerant. She hadn’t thought he would embrace Harry as he had. Although in spite of Harry’s imperfections, he possessed the ability to charm when given the opportunity. The problem was that so few gave him the chance. Far too many judged him by his appearance and went no further.
Although the same could be said of her: men saw her bosom and assumed it comprised the whole of her. Except Avendale hadn’t.
As he pulled down a large book, set it on a small table, and opened it, he was a danger to her heart. Pointing to something, he turned aside, spoke, and Harry moved in to look at whatever was displayed on the page. Even from this distance she could see the surprise cross his features before he laughed.
With a broad masculine smile that conveyed a secret shared between men, Avendale clapped him on the shoulder. Harry looked up—
“Rose!” His delight at spying her was evident in his expression. She rather wished he hadn’t spotted her. Standing there for days watching them would have pleased her more.
Harry limped to the railing and her breath caught with the possibility of him toppling over it. “Careful, sweeting!”
“There’s a hidden staircase,” he called down, and pointed. “Come up it.”
She saw it then, the shelves that were a door slightly ajar. Harry would have loved discovering the hidden alcove, exploring it. She was grateful to Avendale for sharing it with her brother.
Traversing up the winding spiral stairs, experiencing a sense of vertigo and dizziness, she was amazed that Harry had handled them. At the top, Avendale was waiting for her.
“I fear your brother has decided this is his favorite part of the residence,” he said, wrapping his warm fingers around hers and leading her onto the balcony. Their footsteps echoed hollowly around them as the cavernous ceiling reflected the sounds.
“I daresay I can hardly blame him.”
“Look at it all, Rose,” Harry said as she joined him. “Some of these are extremely old books. Ancient. They smell different than the ones below.”
He would notice. He was aware of so many subtleties. “They do, don’t they?”
She saw the table was now empty. “What of the book Avendale was sharing with you?”
Harry blushed; Avendale cleared his throat before leveling his hooded gaze on her. “Just a bit of naughtiness. I’ll show you later if you like.”
“Are you corrupting my brother?”
“Absolutely.”
Unable to help herself, she laughed. There was no contrition whatsoever in his manner. She’d tried so hard to shelter Harry. Had she done him a disservice? He was a young man, with a young man’s curiosities. In that regard, Avendale would no doubt serve as the perfect tutor.
“Perhaps I should leave you to it,” she said.
Harry’s eyes widened with surprise, while Avendale merely gave her a devilish grin. “I believe we’re finished for tonight. Harry tells me you often read to him. Perhaps you would do so now.”
They settled into a very cozy corner of the balcony, near the windows. The chairs were large and plush, perfect for curling in, although Rose was the only one to take advantage of that aspect. Harry leaned forward, ever alert, while Avendale lounged back.
After peering over at Avendale, Harry struck the same pose as much as he was able, and Rose’s heart twisted. She was remarkably glad that Avendale had suggested they bring Harry here.
He handed her Arabian Nights and she began to read “Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp.” She found herself wishing they might have a thousand and one nights such as this.
Chapter 18
As Rose dressed in a gown of red, she could not help but acknowledge that Harry had settled in rather nicely during the week since he had first come to Buckland Palace. He was devouring books, walking in the garden, and twice more Merrick, Sally, and Joseph had joined them for dinner.
Each afternoon, Avendale presented him with some surprise: a windup acrobatic clown; a mechanized racetrack that took up a good portion of the parlor and had Harry enthusiastically wagering on the outcome even though the same horse always won; a kaleidoscope, a telescope. Last night the skies had been clear and they’d taken to the gardens to observe the stars.
So when Avendale had asked her to accompany him to the theater this evening, she had not felt that she was in a position to decline the invitation. He was giving far more of his time to Harry than she’d expected, and it wasn’t fair that Avendale’s hours alone with her only occurred late at night when they retired.
They deserved an evening out together. Harry had been terribly understanding. When she had suggested sending for Merrick to keep him company, Harry had told her he preferred to be alone. The duke had granted him permission to disassemble the racetrack, and Harry was looking quite forward to deciphering how it worked.
Looking past her reflection in the mirror, she watched as Avendale shrugged into his evening jacket. By now she shouldn’t take such joy in observing him as he dressed, although she preferred his clothing being removed. Shouldn’t the novelty have worn off, shouldn’t they be tired of each other?
Edith secured the last pearl comb in Rose’s hair, then reached for the necklace.
“I’ll handle that,” Avendale said, coming up behind Rose.
With a quick curtsy, Edith took her leave. Rose barely moved as Avendale draped the gorgeous piece at her throat. She watched him, saw appreciation light his eyes, and decided to take the jewelry with her when she left, because it would so well serve as a reminder of their time together. She would be able to recall the sensations he stirred as he placed it on her.
“Thank you,” she said when he
was finished.
She began tugging on a glove, and he stepped back. In the mirror, she saw his brow furrow.
“Hmm,” he murmured.
When the glove was in place above her elbow, she began on the next. “What is it?” she asked.
“Something doesn’t seem quite right.”
With the last bit of kidskin in place, she stood and moved to the cheval glass. She turned one way, then another. “I don’t see anything amiss.”
“Perhaps it’s this.” Taking her hand, he draped a ruby and diamond bracelet over her wrist before securing it.
“Avendale—”
“Don’t say no,” he said, cutting off her objection, lifting his gaze to hers. “Leave it behind if you like, although it is from Harry.”
“Harry has no money with which to purchase something like this.”
“I taught him to play poker this afternoon. He gave me a sound thrashing.”
She knew beyond any doubt that he had cheated to receive that thrashing. She cradled his jaw. “I did not expect you to be so kind.”
“I’m not certain I expected it of myself either, but I’m not entirely unselfish. If we don’t leave soon, we’re going to miss the curtains opening. It will ruin the entire evening if we don’t see the play from the beginning.”
Draping her wrap over her arm, she followed him out into the hallway and began descending the stairs.
“What play are we seeing?” she asked.
“Some Shakespearean drama no doubt. Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose—”
She staggered to a stop at the sight of Harry standing in the foyer grinning up at her. He wore black trousers, a black swallow-tailed jacket, white shirt, gray waistcoat, and a perfectly knotted cravat. He held in the hand leaning on the gleaming cane a tall beaver hat.
“Avendale,” she whispered. He’d stopped one step below her, and she turned to him now. Her heart was breaking at his kindness, but it was also breaking for the cruelty he was unintentionally inflicting. “We can’t take him with us.”
The Duke and the Lady in Red Page 24