Avendale had slept only a couple of hours when he awoke with Rose snuggled against him. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to skim his hand lightly up and down the bared skin of her arm. She didn’t stir. She’d been so worried about Harry being exhausted that she’d overlooked the fact that she was as well.
With a lamp on the bedside table still burning, he was able to look down on her profile. How was it that she considered her features unremarkable? How was it that he had the first time he’d spied her?
If he were honest, he had to acknowledge that an armada of ships would never sail to reclaim her for her beauty, but they might damned well sail to reclaim her for her courage, her grit, her determination, her unwillingness to be cowed. She always stood her ground with him. He wasn’t certain he’d ever met a woman more his equal.
And dammit all to bloody hell, he’d fallen in love with her.
Probably that first night when she had turned to refuse the champagne he was offering. He’d recognized the refusal in her eyes before she’d assessed him, the acceptance afterward. Or perhaps it had been when she’d told him that she held all the cards. Such cocky confidence.
He loved that aspect to her. No mewling miss.
He had begun to fall in love with her long before he knew the truth about her, but when he had uncovered her secrets, his feelings for her had merely cemented. Would she honor the bargain to its full extent? If he wanted her with him forever, would she be willing to stay that long?
Or had she made the bargain expecting their time together to be short?
A soft rap on the door stopped him from driving himself mad with the questions and speculations. Easing out of bed, he snatched up his silk robe and drew it on as he padded to the door. Opening it, he found Gerald standing there. The man’s face said it all.
“Your Grace—”
“It’s all right. I’ll be down shortly.” Closing the door, he pressed his forehead to the wood. Why did it hurt so much? If only he could spare Rose—
“Is it Harry?” she asked softly.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her sitting up in bed, the covers clutched to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Rose.”
Pressing her lips into a straight line, she nodded. “Right. There are things that will need to be done.”
She tossed back the covers. He crossed over, sat on the edge of the bed, gently folded his hands over her shoulders to still her actions. “You’ve kept an upper lip for years, I suspect ever since you were accused of dropping your brother. You don’t have to keep an upper lip for me.”
She shook her head. “Avendale . . .”
He held her gaze. “You don’t have to put on a show of being strong for me.”
“If I don’t,” she rasped, “I shall fall apart.”
“I’ll catch you and help you put yourself back together.”
Tears began welling in her eyes. A loud, harsh sob that sounded as though it came from the pit of her soul broke free. Then another. Another. Holding her tightly as her shoulders shook with the force of her grief, he rocked her and cooed her name.
While his own heart broke at her anguish.
Harry looked at peace. That was what Rose thought as she sat on a footstool beside the chair where her brother had begun the journey for his final rest. She’d been holding his hand for nearly half an hour now. For at least twice that, she had wept within Avendale’s embrace.
She would have to send word to Merrick and the others, but she was not yet prepared to pen the missive. No, she wouldn’t write them. She would tell them in person. They had loved Harry nearly as much as she had. He had loved them.
“Rose, the coroner is here,” Avendale said quietly, yet firmly.
Nodding, she got to her feet, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “No more boulders, my love. No more pain. But oh how you shall be missed.”
She looked at Avendale. “I should go see Merrick now.”
“I need to show you something first.” With his arm around her shoulders, he led her from her brother’s bedchamber to the small library where Harry had written, read, and indulged in spirits.
“I do hope he finished his story,” she said.
“I believe he did.”
He escorted her to the desk. On top of the neat stack of papers was a folded piece of parchment with her name on it. Very carefully she opened it.
My dearest Rose,
For some time now I have written a letter to you every night. In the morning, if it was not needed, I would burn it. I suppose that if you are reading this one that it was needed.
The life I shared with you has come to a close. I will not be so selfish as to ask you not to weep, but I do hope that you will also smile. For I have gone to that beautiful place with the beautiful people you used to tell me about.
I know you believe that life was not kind to me, but it was, you see, because it gave me you.
I finished my story, Rose. Last night in the wee hours. Although it is really our story, perhaps even more your story, which is why I wanted the duke to read it. I think you love him. I also think he loves you, although I am not sure he is a man who would voice the words. You wouldn’t believe them if he did. I do not know why you always thought yourself unlovable, while I—as hideous as I was—never considered myself so. But then I always had your love and was able to view myself through your eyes. I wish I could have done the same for you.
Please thank the duke for the grand time I had in his company. He gave me so many gifts but best of all, he gave me his friendship. That above all else, I treasured and took with me. That and your love. Hopefully mine stayed with you.
Read the book now, Rose.
Always,
Harry
Without glancing at Avendale, Rose folded up the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. Harry was wrong about Avendale loving her. He hadn’t known about the bargain she had struck with the duke. “He treasured your friendship.”
“As I did his.”
She really hadn’t expected them to get along so famously. Looking down at the stack of papers, she touched her fingers to it. “He said he finished.”
“I thought he was close to the end. He asked me to return to him what he’d given me. I assumed he wanted to put it all together. Are you going to read it?”
She looked at the title written in his perfect penmanship. He’d always been so proud of it. “He said I should read it now.”
She moved the first page away, and tears filled her eyes as she read the words.
This story is dedicated to my sister, my perfect Rose.
She shook her head. “I was not perfect.”
“To him you were.”
Stepping into Avendale’s embrace, she welcomed his arms closing around her and wondered if a time would ever come when her heart would not ache.