The Duke and the Lady in Red by Lorraine Heath Page B

afterward as though he’d known how effectively he’d shattered her and how hard she was fighting to pull herself back together.
    When she’d been struggling to regain control, to not beg him to take her away from everything, to do with her as he would. Her entire life had been lived for others, and he made her feel as though for once she came first, even as she recognized that it was his own selfish needs spurring him on. He wanted her. He would play any game to have her, just as she would embrace any tactic to best him.
    She could not risk his gaining the upper hand again. Yet even as she sat there she knew how desperately she wanted him to have it. She cursed him long and hard for what he’d given her tonight. What woman could resist it? But she must, she would.
    They would leave London sooner than she had planned, because she knew with certainty that he had the power to easily capture her, and once he did, all else would be lost.

 
    Chapter 7
    A vendale had never been a man obsessed. He didn’t care about anything enough to become obsessed with it. But he was obsessed with Rose.
    She flittered into his thoughts, his dreams, his fantasies. His mind wandered to her at the oddest moments: while he was reading the newspaper over breakfast, sipping scotch, shaving, glancing out the window of his coach at the bustling city. He would see her in red, always in red. Sometimes in satin or silk, sometimes in a gossamer veil that swirled around her and taunted him with glimpses of what might lie beneath the cloth.
    He had not called on her this afternoon, was debating whether to go to the club this evening, because he didn’t want her to know she had this power over him. But sitting at the desk in his library, when he closed his eyes, he could still feel her trembling in his arms. He wanted to be buried deep within her during that climactic moment, wanted to be flung off the same peak at the same—­
    â€œAvendale?”
    His eyes flying open, he found himself staring at the Duke of Lovingdon, a man who had once shared his penchant for wickedness, but who had recently married and become as docile and uninteresting as a sheep.
    Lovingdon arched a dark brow. “Am I disturbing you?”
    â€œNo, I was merely resting my eyes.” He waved his hand over the papers scattered across his desk. “I’ve spent the afternoon going over the tedious reports sent by my various estates’ managers.” He realized the afternoon was waning, dusk was settling in beyond the windows. He shot up out of his chair. “Scotch?”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind.”
    Avendale went to the marbled table, lifted a decanter, and poured its contents into two glasses. “What brings you here? Already bored with your wife?”
    â€œGrace shall never bore me.”
    Avendale heard the absolute conviction in the words. He couldn’t envision having such faith in one person, to know her so well. He had once had the same belief in his mother, but it had been a childish thing. He suspected Lovingdon would one day find his belief in Grace tested. He hoped not, but in his experience ­people were created to disappoint. Turning, he handed Lovingdon his glass, clinked his against it. “Cheers.” He savored a deep swallow before asking, “Then what brings you here?”
    â€œCuriosity. I saw you at the theater last night.”
    With a groan, grateful for the muted light of evening, Avendale dropped into a chair near the window. Lovingdon joined him. Both men stretched out their legs, lounged in comfort. They had been friends too long to pretend manners mattered between them.
    â€œShe was quite lovely. I can’t recall ever seeing you with a woman who appeared respectable at first blush,” Lovingdon said.
    â€œShe is a widow,” he felt obligated to explain. “I intend to teach her that respectability is overrated.”
    â€œWho was her husband?”
    â€œSome