“You’d better find me that razor,” he said, his Scottish voice soft.
“What?” Rose blinked. “Oh. Yes. Of course. At once.”
She made herself straighten up, the tray pressed hard to her stomach. Captain McBride kept his gaze on her, as palpable as his touch, as she backed away from the bed.
Rose forgot the room was so tiny, and she stumbled into the wall. She righted herself with a laugh, her onyx beads bumping her chest, and she swung away.
Now her skirt got caught on the bedpost. Rose tugged at it, but she couldn’t grab it and hold the tray at the same time.
Captain McBride came halfway out of the bed, the covers sliding down to bare his chest, his side, the curve of his hip. Rose stilled, her eyes widening as he reached for the trapped skirt. She’d only seen a body like his in classic statues she was not supposed to look at. But cold marble had nothing on the living flesh of Steven McBride.
Steven tugged her skirt loose and sat back down, unselfconscious. Rose was free now, but she couldn’t make herself cease staring at him. He noticed of course, but he said nothing, only met her gaze with a challenging one of his own.
Rose at last forced herself to turn away and open the door, but again, she had to juggle the tray to navigate the door handle.
A brown hand came around her and pressed the old-fashioned door handle down for her, Steven’s strong arm pulling the door open. Rose had no breath. She knew she shouldn’t dare peek behind her and look at him, but she couldn’t help herself.
He’d managed to bring the quilt with him, wrapped around his waist. Even so, most of his upper body was bare, the heat of it pouring at Rose through her clothes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Steven smiled, a devastating, knock-a-lady-down smile that had nothing feeble about it. Captain McBride knew Rose liked looking at him, and he didn’t mind one bit.
She drew a stifling breath, yanked herself away from him, and scuttled out the door. Rose was halfway down the stairs when she heard his deep and satisfying laughter.
***
The duchess was scintillating. Not an adjective Steven used much in his life, but Rose Southdown was a lovely, lively woman. Her sad story, delivered with an oh-well-things-could-be-worse briskness tugged at his heart.The coachman’s wife, a plump and pink-cheeked woman, brought up the hot water and razor, and also the pile of Steven’s clothes, brushed out and mostly clean. Steven was disappointed Rose hadn’t delivered them herself, but he’d probably scared her away, coming out of the bed like that.
She’d been married, yes, but to a middle-aged man. Steven remembered meeting the Duke of Southdown once at a soiree at Hart Mackenzie’s mansion. Southdown had been a pleasant enough chap in the English country gentleman sort of way. Hounds, horses, and farming had been his world. Though Southdown was a duke, the highest of the aristocracy, Steven couldn’t help feeling the man would have been more at home talking in the pigsty with his steward about animal husbandry than making pleasantries in a Mayfair drawing room.
Rose’s marriage meant she’d shared a bed with a man, but her shyness with Steven had been deep. Likely Southdown hadn’t removed all his clothes when he came to his wife, only enough of them to do the business.
Or, perhaps Steven wronged the man. Who wouldn’t look at that angel and not fling off his nightshirt and bear her down to the bed?
Mrs. Miles filled the basin, deposited Steven’s cleaned and brushed uniform, gave him a cheery smile, and left him to carry on. Steven filmed his face with soap and carefully shaved his face. Felt good to wash away the stains of travel, too much whiskey, and whatever he’d fallen into out in the street.
He knew he was putting off the inevitable lingering here, but the inevitable was going to be difficult. He couldn’t accomplish the task today anyway, he already knew that. So why shouldn’t Steven take his comfort with the pretty and intriguing widow, cushioning himself against what was to come?
He was closing up the clasps on his uniform jacket when someone knocked on the door. To his “Come,” the plain paneled door swung open to reveal Rose once more.
This time she had a newspaper in her hand, and her face over it was agitated. “I beg your pardon,” she said, then she stopped and stared at him.
Steven said not a word as he finished doing up the buttons, straightening his jacket. Rose flushed as red as his army coat as she realized her mistake at thinking him a pathetic resident of the streets.
“I beg your pardon,” she repeated. “But they’ve done it. Miles tried to break it to me gently, but I’m afraid they’ve included you too.”
“Who has done what?” Steven asked.
For answer, Rose thrust a handful of newspapers at him. Steven turned the first one to where she pointed and read.
The Scandalous Duchess caught again, in the arms of Captain Mc—, a Fusilier in Her Majesty’s Army. Will wedding bells ring, or will they play a different tune?
The second said, Our favorite Duchess comforts a Scottish officer in the street. A Moral Tale.
The third newspaper showed a cruel cartoon of Rose, her bosom exaggerated, and Steven, all arms and legs and chin, pinning her to the coach. The two weren’t exactly copulating in the picture, but the cartoon strongly suggested it. “Ken ye assist me, lassie?” Captain McB—, brother-in-law to those notorious Scots, the Mack—z—s, asks a favor from a Duchess, late of S—d—n. Nothing too sacred for Queen and Country.
Nonsense, but when Steven looked up at Rose, tears stood in her pretty green eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I seemed to have landed you in it.”