Scandal and the Duchess Read online

  The drive took them past the dower house, a much smaller version of the main mansion. It too had been built of golden stone, and its three-story, one-winged splendor looked a bit more cheerful than its parent.

  As they rolled by, Steven heard barking—a lot of barking. A man came out the front door of the dower house, followed by three hounds, and stopped to stare at the cart.

  “That’s Mr. Hartley, the steward,” Rose said. She lifted her hand in greeting, and Mr. Hartley’s mouth popped open. The dogs stared as well, but wagged tails. “Albert has turned the dower house into a kennel for his dogs. Albert loves to hunt, you see.”

  The steward belatedly bowed, but his eyes gaze remained fixed as the dogcart rattled by.

  The driver took them around the last curve of the drive and pulled to a halt in front of the main door. Steven stepped off the back of the cart, slipped the man a few coins, and then helped Rose descend.

  Steven shouldn’t suddenly feel better with her warm weight against him, shouldn’t want to stop in the act of helping her down to press a kiss to her lips. Then again, that was what an engaged couple in love might do. Wouldn’t be odd at all.

  Steven knew that his kiss wouldn’t stop with a light touch. Not by a long way. He had to content himself with a caress to her waist, or else he’d lose control. Regretful, but there it was.

  The front door was locked, but Rose had a key. Even as she turned it, the door was wrenched open from the inside, making her lose hold of the key. “Ma’am!” the footman who stood on the threshold exclaimed. “I mean, Your Grace.”

  The footman was a tall lad, dapper and good-looking in his kit, as the footmen of great houses were meant to be. Many were hired more for their looks than their wit, Steven had learned by experience. His brother Patrick had tended to hire impoverished but well-schooled young men to help in his household—they’d been terrible footmen but had regularly discussed mathematics and classical thought with the brothers, which had been the point.

  This footman seemed to be of the decorative but dim variety. He stared at Rose as hard as the steward had done, but with less guilt in his eyes.

  “Tell the duke Her Grace has arrived,” Steven said to him in his commanding-officer voice.

  The young man dragged his gaze from Rose, blinked at Steven, then snapped to attention. “His Grace is not at home. Sir.”

  “It’s all right, John,” Rose said. “I’ve only come for a few things I left behind.”

  John blinked some more, indecision warring in his eyes. He seemed respectful of Rose, even happy to see her, but he must have been given strict instructions regarding her admittance.

  Steven softened his tone. “No one needs to know you let us in,” he said. “Her Grace has a key, and you never heard us.”

  John stared at them a little longer before Steven’s words penetrated. “Ah.” His face flooded with color. “Yes, sir, that will be what happened.” He stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Welcome home, Your Grace. If you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am, it’s a fine thing to see you back.”

  Chapter Five

  The house opened its arms to welcome Rose. She looked around with fondness as they started up the wide staircase, which rose gracefully in the open hall all the way to the top of the house. Portraits of dukes and duchesses and their sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, great-aunts, reprobate uncles, dogs, horses, and even a few cats covered every inch of the walls. Charles had introduced them all, telling Rose a funny story about each one. What had been intimidating to her at first glance had turned into a gathering of family.

  Steven studied the surroundings with less enthusiasm. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a bit puffy, and by the way he’d massaged his temples during the journey, Rose knew he had a bad headache.

  “His Grace really is not at home?” Steven asked John as the lad followed them. “Or is that a polite fabrication?”

  John had a slight difficulty with the word fabrication, but he finally understood. “No, it’s not a porky—I mean, a lie, sir. His Grace went up to London on business, so housekeeper said. Not expected back until tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Steven said. “Thank you, lad. Now, remember, you have no idea we’re here.”

  “None at all, sir.” John shot him a grin. He gave Steven a hero-worshiping look for another moment, before he realized he’d been dismissed. “Right. It truly is good to see you, ma’am.” He bowed to Rose and ran back down the stairs with athletic grace.

  “He must make quite an impression on the duke’s guests,” Steven said once the lad was safely away. “As long as he stands still and says nothing.”

  “He really is a very good footman,” Rose said protectively. “I was never very strict with the servants, which gained me more disapproval from my stepson, unfortunately.”

  Steven flushed. “Forgive me, Rosie. My head has me growling like a bear this morning.” He gazed up the stairs and its seeming miles of railings. “Two pieces of furniture . . . in all this?”

  Rose understood his dismay. They’d paused on the first landing, which gave them a view of the ground floor below and the first floor above. Both halls were filled with graceful furniture—lowboys and highboys, console and demi-lune tables, straight-backed chairs and Bergère chairs, candle stands and candelabras, cushioned benches and settees. The furniture was valuable, Charles had said, ranging in period from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, through the Regency and to the manufactured styles early in Queen Victoria’s reign. After that came the cleaner styles of William Morris and his ilk, and the hand-carved, rather sinuous French chairs Charles had purchased in Paris a few years ago.

  And these were only the landings. Sittford House had one hundred rooms—exactly—and each was fully furnished.

  “Charles was no fool,” Rose said. “He knew Albert was exacting and didn’t like his father spending any money he might inherit. Charles must have had something specific for me in mind. But what?”

  Steven sank to the top stair of the landing, his hand to his head. Rose seated herself next to him, concerned. “You all right?”

  Steven rubbed his temples. “My brain is melting, but nothing to worry about. Let us sit here quietly and think about this, my Rose. Instead of tearing all over the house searching every cabinet, we should make a plan. Was there something in particular you admired? That the duke knew you liked?”

  “I’ve been trying to think. But the last year or so is such a jumble, it’s difficult.”

  Steven lounged back on his elbows and looked up at her. “You were fond of your husband.”

  Rose nodded. “Indeed I was. Charles was a good man.”

  Steven stretched out his legs, and Rose’s heart beat faster in confusion. Steven was a sinfully beautiful sight—a hard-bodied man in a kilt, his reclining position stretching his coat open over his broad chest. Gentlemen didn’t lie down in the presence of ladies, unless they had something intimate in mind, but sitting here beside Steven seemed so natural. Rose wasn’t afraid, even though they were quite alone, the staff unlikely to come upstairs. Steven was a strong man; he might do anything, and yet, Rose felt comfortable with him, as she’d felt with no one else since Charles.

  But here they were, on the floor in the house of a man she’d admired and respected. Though the world had assumed Charles had taken a young second wife to have something pretty on his arm, Rose and Charles had liked each other very much. They’d been able to talk, share jokes and opinions, and laughter. Charles had also not been reluctant where bed had been concerned. The fact that his heart had dangerously weakened had surprised them both.

  Steven’s touch jolted her back to the present. He closed his hand around hers, his strength coming to her through his grip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize how hard this would be for you.”

  Rose hadn’t either. Tears stung her eyes. Steven squeezed her fingers, then he released her and let out a groan. “Och, my bloody head.”

  “Let me.” Rose moved until sh
e sat behind him, and she cradled his head in her lap. She removed her gloves and touched her fingers to Steven’s temples.

  A mistake, she realized as soon as skin contacted skin. His pulse throbbed beneath her fingertips, his lifeblood. Steven had so much warmth in him, so much life.

  He closed his eyes as Rose began to massage his forehead, which was a good thing. His gray eyes, even tinged red from his hangover, unnerved her. She didn’t tell him she’d lain awake most of the night, worried he’d gone and wouldn’t be back. Worried that he’d found another damsel in distress to help, one more interesting than Rose.

  When she’d heard Steven stumble in at a small hour in the morning, she’d let out a sigh of relief. She’d wanted to go to him, speak to him, make sure he was all right. It had taken all Rose’s strength of will to keep herself in her chamber and away from him.

  Now she eased her fingers over his temples, finding his close-cropped hair warm and sleek. She liked the way the shorn ends tickled her fingers.

  “Mmm,” Steven said. “That’s nice.”

  Steven was nice, and Rose desired him—she knew what the heat flushing her body meant.

  “I’ve always been good at soothing away hurts,” Rose said.

  Steven’s eyes flicked open, his gaze seeking hers. “Have you now?” He finished with an upturn of lips, a wicked one. “Skilled with your hands, are you?”

  Her face went hot, but she kept her voice light. “Are you flirting with me, Captain McBride?”

  “With my own fiancée? Of course I am.” His smiled broadened. “I’m not a polite man, Rosie, I warn you.”

  Rose didn’t want to be polite. She wanted to sit here and drown in him, to let him smile at her like that all day long.

  She made herself ease away and rise to her feet. “We should get on.”

  Steven looked up at her from where he lay back on his elbows, his gaze taking in every inch of her. “You’re right, Rosie. We should carry on until we’re both satisfied.”

  Rose flushed and turned to the next half of the staircase. “You’re being naughty now.”

  “I’m naughty all the time, sweetest Rose.”

  He came off the steps and to his feet, moving swiftly for a man with a bad headache. Steven caught up to her and stopped her, Rose one step above him.

  The stair took away their difference in height, putting their faces on the same level. Steven’s breath touched Rose’s lips, reminding her of the all-too-brief kiss he’d given her on the staircase at the hotel.

  What was it about staircases? Rose couldn’t stop herself reaching out and touching his cheek.

  Steven’s guarded expression dropped. He looked at her with naked wanting, no disguising it, no holding back. As warmth swept through Rose, answering heat flared in his eyes.

  It was nothing to lean a small bit forward and kiss his lips.

  Steven’s eyes swept closed as his arm came around her, nothing gentle. He parted her lips with a strong mouth, pulling her close, binding her to him. He swept his tongue into her, no politeness, no reticence. This kiss was insistent and new, and the hot, wild friction of it swept away the rest of Rose’s reluctance.

  No man had ever kissed her like this before, not with this raw, desperate wanting. These weren’t the hesitant kisses of a man who feared to offend a respectable widow. Steven knew what he wanted, and he would take it, to hell with civility.

  Rose cupped the back of his neck, again finding the sleek fineness of his hair. Strength and heat came through his body, entering hers at every point of contact. She knew his hunger as his mouth worked. Every part of Rose went shaky—the only thing holding her up was Steven. Her legs had lost all strength.

  Steven’s mouth was fire. One hand came up between them, cupping her breast in his palm, hand tightening.

  She was going to fall. Rose clutched Steven’s back, fingers pressing through his coat to the hard strength of him.

  Steven pulled away a little, but only to smooth a lock of her hair. “My Scottish Rose.” His voice was low, uneven.

  Rose couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer. She wanted to kiss him again. Wanted it more than anything, more than she should, especially standing in this house.

  Steven brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingertips. His brows drew together, then he touched the corner of her mouth.

  Just as Rose thought he’d pulled away, he made a raw sound in his throat and kissed her again.

  Heady sensations, heat chasing shivers, and again Rose had to lock her fingers on to his coat to remain on her feet. Steven closed his teeth over her lower lip, and fire streaked through her, like a lightning storm homing in on one point.

  Steven traced her lip with his tongue, then once more slid his mouth over hers. This time, Rose met his strokes with her own, their bodies locked together, touched by the cool draft from the staircase.

  Sanity didn’t return even when Steven eased back, wiping a tiny bit of moisture from Rose’s upper lip.

  “Oh, Rosie,” he said, his accent thick. “Why the devil did I have to meet ye?”

  “We didn’t meet.” Rose struggled to find her voice. “We stumbled into each other.”

  “Aye, and I wanted to stay fallen on you forever. You’re a beautiful woman, my Scottish Rose. You could be the end of me.”

  And you, of me, Rose finished silently.

  Steven touched her cheeks, his hands caressing as he held her with his gaze. His eyes looked clearer now, the same color as the winter sky through the window behind him.

  Love was for warmth, and spring, Rose tried to tell herself. Not for winter, and cold.

  But perhaps love knew no seasons—it simply came when it was time.

  “We should commence our search,” Steven said. “Before young John returns to be shocked.”

  “Yes.” Again, Rose had to search for breath to form the sound. “We should.”

  Steven smiled at her, which did nothing to help Rose collect herself. He released her from the comfort of his arms, but only to take her hand and lead her on up the stairs.

  ***

  Steven hadn’t caught his breath even by the time Rose had led him up through the maze of the house to the top floor.

  The manor wasn’t truly a maze—it had been built at the end of the seventeenth century, when straight lines and symmetrical architecture had been in fashion. But its occupants had, for the past two hundred years, filled it with screens, cabinetry, sofas, tables, chairs, paintings, bric-a-brac, mirrors, chests, highboys, étagères, desks, and credenzas by the score, and every room had mixed and matched styles from over the centuries. A decorator in the past had tried to break up the severity of right angles in rooms by placing the furniture together in the middle, which succeeded only in making everything more of a jumble.

  Might have interested Steven more if his whole body hadn’t been burning from Rose’s nearness. One taste of her wasn’t enough, and never would be.

  Steven had sensed a desperate hunger in her, one she might not even realize she possessed. Rose obviously missed her husband, but whether or not he’d satisfied her in bed was anyone’s guess. The fact that the man had died on their honeymoon could mean anything from he’d been overexcited making love to his beautiful wife to slipping and falling down the stairs. The journalists would believe the first—that Rose had killed him by being too eager in the bridegroom’s bed, but Steven had no idea what the real story was.

  Rose walked through the house without worry, looking over everything her husband must have shown her, without guilt. Whoever had been to blame for the duke’s demise, it hadn’t been Rose.

  They went through room after lofty room, Rose knowing her way around perfectly. Steven enjoyed imagining her leading him until he had no idea where he was, and then telling him she’d take him back out for a price of a kiss or two. For more than kisses. She’d smile when she said it, her eyes sparkling.

  No, that would never happen. Rose wasn’t the sort of woman who went in for naughty games. In spite of the
scandal sheets, she was a gentleman’s daughter, raised to the straight and narrow. More’s the pity.

  Rose turned around so suddenly that Steven almost ran into her. Reminded him of their first meeting, he falling onto her bosom, then sliding down her welcoming body.

  “I’ve thought of something,” she said.

  Steven had thought of something too . . . she under him on white sheets, her golden hair trickling through his hands.

  He tried to shake off the vision, but it wouldn’t leave him. Rose languid against the pillow, her fingers drifting over Steven’s skin, both of them sleek with sweat. They’d be joined, the heat between them overwhelming the winter’s chill . . .

  “Did you hear me?” Rose asked, peering at him. “Are you certain you’re all right, Captain McBride?”

  No, and he never would be again.

  “What?” Steven managed to say. The hangover was making him be in two different places at once—in this chill, square house in reality and the curved, soft bed of his imagination. The true Rose existed in this cold, dull place, instead of in the fantasy in his head. Unfair.

  “This way,” she was saying. “There was a cabinet I always loved, always raved about. Charles had promised to have it moved into my bedchamber, but he never had the chance.”

  Her words ended in a sad note, echoed by the quiet swish of her dress as she walked away from him.

  Steven caught up to her in the wide hallway. “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “What happened to you, I mean.”

  Rose turned to him, her green eyes softening in the gloom. “You know, you are the only person who hasn’t immediately believed his death was my fault.” She paused. “Or do you?”

  “No.” Steven rubbed his hand through his hair to keep himself from reaching for her. “I don’t.”

  “They say I deliberately married a man with a weak heart,” Rose said. “And then . . . proved to be too much for him.” Her color heightened.

  Steven knew exactly why they’d imagined that—beautiful, young Rose would throw any middle-aged man into palpitations. The journalists saw her lush body and red lips and extrapolated that her physical presence had caused the man’s death. Steven couldn’t blame them for thinking so—wasn’t he still fantasizing about having her in his bed?