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.