Scandal And The Duchess (8 page)

Had he been joking? Steven loved humor, she’d already come to know. He couldn’t
really
mean to marry her—he’d been teasing her, of course. That was what Steven did. He expected Rose to laugh along with him, and she would.

He’d been gone several hours when the maid who’d been waiting on Rose—Alice was her name—tapped on her door. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the middle-aged and straight-backed woman said. “There is a lady wishing to speak with Captain McBride. She wanted to come up with me, but the manager has kept her to a back parlor.”

“Is she a journalist?” Rose asked in alarm.

“She says not. Doesn’t have the look, Your Grace. More like a highborn lady, and a widow at that. She wouldn’t give her name, though.”

“Hmm.” If this lady was one of Steven’s friends, why wouldn’t she want her name sent up to him? “She was alone?”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, apart from her maid.”

A woman conscious of propriety then. Female journalists these days could be seen whisking about alone, which often caused more brow-raising than the stories they wrote, but a respectable lady went nowhere without at least one servant to escort her.

Rose’s curiosity wouldn’t let it lie. If the woman proved to be a journalist, masquerading as a lady, Rose would be sweet as sugar to her but send her off. If the lady truly was connected with Steven, Rose could at least pass on a message to him.

No, truth to be told, she simply wanted to lay eyes on a woman who would come boldly to a hotel and ask for Steven.

“Shall I tell her you are coming down?” Alice asked as Rose straightened her dress and smoothed her hair.

“No,” Rose said abruptly. “No . . . I’ll just go.”

Alice gave her a sage nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rose’s hair was still not right from Steven having pulled it out of its pins, no matter how much she struggled with it. She gave another curl a fierce push into place and left the room.

Alice accompanied Rose, rather like a guard dog. Rose let her lead the way to a small parlor buried deep inside the hotel’s ground floor. Alice opened the door before Rose could ask her to and announced in a rather grand voice, “The Duchess of Southdown. Ma’am.”

She curtseyed, and Rose went past her into the room.

The woman who rose from the curved sofa, giving Rose a look of confusion, was certainly no journalist. She wore black, as Rose did, widow’s weeds, but her mourning was fresh. Her black hat trailed crepe to her knees, and a thick black veil, which she’d lifted from her face, would cover her completely when down.

“I beg your pardon,” the woman said in a cultured voice. “I am waiting for someone.”

“For Captain McBride,” Rose said. She closed the door behind her, but she was now uncertain she should have come down. “He is out. Is there any message I can deliver to him?”

The woman gave Rose a look as assessing and curious as the one Rose must be giving her. This lady could not have been reading newspapers either, because she showed no recognition of Rose’s name, or the fact that it was now coupled with Steven’s.

“Only this,” the widow said. “Captain McBride has no need to visit while he is in London. Please tell him that.” She paused a beat. “Your Grace.”

The title was delivered in a skeptical tone, as though she didn’t truly believe Rose a duchess of any kind. She thought Rose Steven’s paramour, Rose realized, just as Rose suspected this lady of being one herself.

Steven had told Rose the first morning that his vices were too much drink, too much gambling, and too much interest in the ladies. He’d kissed Rose with fire—any woman would be happy to melt beneath him. Had this one? A small pain entered Rose’s heart.

Practically speaking, however, though this lady might have been Steven’s paramour in the past, at the moment, her face was pale with grief, her eyes red-rimmed. She’d recently lost someone very close to her, and Rose was moved to compassion.

“I will tell him,” Rose said, gentling her voice. “My condolences on your loss.”

The woman’s face started to crumple, but she caught herself and raised a gloved hand to her lips. “Thank you.”

Rose went to her and laid a hand on her arm. “If there is anything I can do . . .”

The woman looked up at her, tears fleeing as she gave Rose a startled look. “No. Nothing. Thank you, Your Grace.” The honorific was delivered with more conviction this time.

The lady gathered her trailing veil and left the room. A maid came out of the shadows in the hall as she emerged, taking her mistress by the arm to lead her away. The lady leaned on the maid, as though depending on her.

Rose’s own maid came forward and stood deferentially, waiting for Rose’s orders. “I never learned her name,” Rose said, watching the pair disappear through a door to the front of the hotel. “Did you?”

Alice shook her head. “Her lady’s maid was properly trained. Never betrayed her with a word, no matter how much I tried.”

Rose had to smile. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said, shaking her head. “Perhaps we should be ashamed of ourselves and feel better by having a large tea.”

“I’ll have one ordered, Your Grace.” Alice returned the smile, and departed to find the kitchens.

***

Steven walked back into his suite to find Rose there. Two sensations went through him at the same time—a flash of joy that she was there, and a wash of frustration.

She was going to kill him. Steven had been forced to walk around cold, rainy London a long while this afternoon, before his arousal gave him any peace. Once he believed he’d regained a modicum of control, he’d traveled to a street off Chancery Lane to find Tavis Collins and show him the drawings he and Rose had discovered. The errand had taken care of the rest of his impatient desires.

Three cups of tea and a dram of whiskey later, Steven had summoned the courage to return to the hotel.

To find Rose in his parlor, waiting eagerly for him. His desires sprang forth with rampaging enthusiasm, proving they’d been dormant, not tamed.

Steven tried to remain businesslike as he tossed his hat and coat to the rack inside the door. “Mr. Collins suggested what
you
did—that you return to Sittford House and scour it for your furniture. He agrees the hand-drawn rose is a clue directing you. He also telegraphed a minister in Dundee who will come in person to declare that the page in the register with your marriage recorded is a forgery. The man didn’t want to travel down—Collins suspects he was heftily paid off.”

“That would surprise me,” Rose said. “Albert is nothing if not tightfisted.”

Steven shrugged. “He might pay a lesser sum in order to hold on to a greater one.” He moved to a table where a decanter of whiskey had been left for him, and poured himself a fragrant glass. Rose watched him, a sparkle in her eye. The way she held herself, as though barely containing something, made him stop before he took a drink. “You seem robust this evening. Had a good rest, did you?”

“A lady came to see you,” Rose said. “Newly widowed. I don’t know who she was.”

“Ah.” If anything would kill his burning need for Rose it was that. “She came
here
? Why on earth did she, I wonder?”

“She didn’t say,” Rose said. “She was rather surprised to see me. She told me to tell you that you needn’t bother to visit her.”

Steven turned the whiskey glass in his hand. “Did she?” He studied the amber contents, debating whether to pour it down his throat and erase the rising pain or opt for staying sober. He chose, and emptied the glass into his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Steven.”

Steven swallowed the burning liquid and thumped down the glass. Rose was looking at him in true contrition, her words almost sad. “For what?” he asked.

“It was clearly a private matter between you and the lady, and none of my business. I went to speak to her because of my own silly curiosity. I should not have.”

Steven reached for the whiskey decanter, then let his hand fall from it. He shook his head. “No need to flog yourself, lass. If a gentleman had come here asking to see you, I’d have had him against the wall, demanding to know what he wanted.”

“But it distressed her, and she wasn’t feigning her grief. For that, I am sorry.”

“No, she’s not feigning.” Steven let out a sigh. “She is the appointment I have tomorrow. She told me not to come, did she?” He fingered the empty glass then firmly pushed it from him. “I’ll tell you the whole sad story, Rosie, but not tonight. Tonight, I’d like to forget all about it.” He gazed at Rose, taking her in, letting the beauty of her soothe him. All the black she wore couldn’t shut out the vibrancy of her, couldn’t even mute it.

Steven abandoned the whiskey and went to her. “You and I are engaged to be married. We have no need to hide ourselves in this hotel as though ashamed of the fact.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “So put on your best dress, my love. I’m taking you out on the town.”

***

Out on the town
meant dinner at a restaurant and an evening at the theatre. The restaurant was the Albion in Russell Street near Drury Lane Theatre, where Steven ordered a lavish meal and champagne. He lounged in his chair, looking relaxed and unashamed, caring nothing that so many people stared at them.

Steven focused all his attention on Rose and no one else in the room. Rose’s blood heated as she found herself the subject of Steven’s gray gaze, especially when he leaned forward slightly to speak to her. His irises were ringed with deeper gray, like the dark lining of a sunlit cloud.

He asked her about her life in Scotland with her father. Rose had thought her existence in rural Scotland then Edinburgh dully domestic, but Steven hung on every word, as though her stories fascinated him. He told her a little about his life in the army, making light of what must be hardships—heat, insects, diseases, exhaustion, and living in danger of attack even in quiet times. Steven painted a picture of Africa that was nothing but beauty, of its huge skies, endless rivers, and expansive lands.

“I’d love to see it,” Rose said wistfully. The world that she knew, in spite of being a lofty duchess, was small. Charles hadn’t enjoyed going out to restaurants like this one, or even coming to London—he’d loved staying home by the fire. Their only outing during Rose’s married life had been rambling walks in the countryside. They’d been climbing in the hills near Sittford when Charles’s heart had given out. He’d felt unwell during the walk, they’d gone back to the house, Charles had taken to his bed, and he’d not lasted the night.

“No reason you shouldn’t,” Steven said. “Africa is dangerous for a lady, but some wives do manage it. As a married man, I’d be entitled to larger quarters.”

“Indeed?” Rose asked with a sly smile. “Now I understand your quest for a wife. A bigger tent.”

Steven’s grin widened. “More impetus than that, I assure you.” His eyes took on a teasing light. “I can think of many more reasons for a man to marry you, Rosie.”

She gave him an innocent look. “Someone to bring you your slippers?”

Steven moved closer, his voice going low. “That could be interesting.” He leaned into her, blocking the view of the other diners, and curled his tongue slowly at her.

Rose went hot all the way down. Steven showing his blatant wanting here in a restaurant, in public, made her body tighten, her breasts heavy and warm. She recalled the feeling of him pressed between her legs when he’d sat her on the cabinet, the bite of pleasure-pain when he’d left the mark on her breast. She burned.

“McBride?”

Rose flushed, but Steven sat up without hurry and turned to see who’d spoken. Two men in regimentals were approaching the table, one lifting his hand in greeting.

Steven rose to meet them then held out a hand and assisted Rose to her feet. “Rose, may I introduce Major Clifford and Lieutenant Spencer, from my regiment. Gentlemen, this is my fiancée, the Dowager Duchess of Southdown.”

Both men stared, eyes widening, while trying to be polite. “Ah,” the major said. “I had no idea. Congratulations McBride.”

“Scots’ luck,” Spencer, who wasn’t much into his twenties, said. “My felicitations, sir.”

They shook hands with Rose, bowed, made compliments, and directed more teasing remarks at Steven. Rose answered cordially, and didn’t jump when Steven tucked her hand beneath his arm and pulled her close.

Rose kept her surprise hidden. She hadn’t thought Steven would extend the pretense of their engagement beyond the ruse for the journalists. These were Steven’s colleagues, his friends, and he was blithely standing in front of them declaring himself engaged.

Rose was surprised again when they said good-bye to the lieutenant and major and left the restaurant and rode the short distance to Covent Garden Theatre. The drama had already begun when they arrived, but lack of punctuality didn’t seem to be unusual. Others were trickling in, talking and laughing, unworried that they were late.

A pretty woman, her plump body reminding Rose of a dove, waved to Steven. She was on the arm of a tall Scotsman with dark red hair and a handsome face, who kept his gaze fixed on a gilded frieze above them, studying it with grave intensity. He didn’t cease his scrutiny even when Steven and Rose stopped in front of the couple.

“Steven, how lovely,” the lady said, catching his hands. “I didn’t know you were in London. Your brother never tells me
anything
.”

Steven clasped her gloved hands in return, leaned down, and kissed the woman’s cheek. “Haven’t been here long, I promise.”

The kiss drew the attention of the tall Scot very fast. His gaze slammed to Steven’s, and though he didn’t look directly into Steven’s eyes, the ferocity on his face was plain.

Steven released the woman’s hands and stepped back without showing concern. “Sinclair keeps to himself. His remembering to mention anything about his personal life is an event. Unless he’s whinging on about governesses.”

“Still no luck there?”

Steven shook his head. “Afraid not.”

The Scotsman did not relax, even with Steven a pace away from the woman. He fixed Steven with a stern eye, seeming to pay no attention to what they discussed. His lady apparently found nothing unusual in this. She continued, “Well, I’ve exhausted all my recommendations and so have my sisters-in-law. By the time Sinclair finds someone appropriate, Cat and Andrew will be grown.”

“The last one objected to Andrew filling her bed with beetles,” Steven said. “Can’t much blame her. Couldn’t have been nice, sliding under the sheets to find them crawling with critters that crunch when squashed.”

“Oh, Steven, you are awful.” The lady laughed openly, but the Scotsman remained unmoved.

“Beg your pardon,” Steven said. “My manners are appalling. Rose, may I introduce you to Beth—Lady Ian Mackenzie. Beth, I present—”

“The Dowager Duchess of Southdown,” the Scotsman said, his low and strong voice breaking over Steven’s. “Betrothed to Captain Steven McBride, but no official announcement has appeared in any newspaper. Staying at the Langham hotel in adjacent suites. The dowager is a year and three months widowed, her marriage to the Duke of Southdown called into question by the new duke, Albert Francis.”

Beth stared at her husband, but again, she didn’t look surprised or concerned.

“Oh dear,” Rose said when the man closed his mouth and switched his unnerving focus to her. “Has there been a general declaration?”

“I read seven newspapers today,” Lord Ian said, still staring at Rose. “All say the same thing. But the engagement can’t be real until there is an official announcement, so the newspapers are making it up.” He switched his gaze to Steven. “Why are they?”

Steven did not look alarmed. “Let us adjourn to a box upstairs, Ian, my friend.” He reached to put a hand on Ian’s shoulder then pulled back before touching him, as though thinking better of it. “And I’ll explain everything.”