The scandal sheets printed filth, and she was apologizing. Steven tossed the papers to the bed. “No, love, I’m sorry I’ve landed you in it. Don’t worry, I’ve weathered worse. I’ll take myself away, and the scandalmongers will forget in a few days, when something more juicy comes their way.”
A shame, but there it was. Perhaps when Steven finished his duty and had leave again, he could find her and speculate on what might have been. That is, if another aristo hadn’t snatched Rose up in the meantime. A woman as headily desirable as this one wouldn’t stay alone for long, unless every man in London was blind and stupid.
Rose chewed her lower lip, a fine sight, and her brows drew into an agitated frown. “I’m afraid the scandalmongers will not let you get away so easily. They followed me home, it seems, or were bright enough to come here—I’m sure a few coins in the right hands let them know I spent the night in the coach house behind the duke’s mansion. With you.”
Looking into her eyes, Steven wished like hell he’d spent the night in the way the journalists speculated. He and Rose in the narrow bed, cuddled under the blanket against the November cold, bare flesh to flesh.
Steven started to get hard at the thought, the buttons of his trousers suddenly too snug.
Rose watched him, worry for him in her expression. For him, Steven realized. For the drunkard who’d fallen on her and made her life even more wretched.
“We can slip you out the back,” she was saying. “Or Miles can take you in the coach, perhaps quickly enough so they can’t follow. To a train out of London?”
Yes, Steven could board a train for Scotland, bury himself at his brother Elliot’s estate, fishing and playing with his niece and new nephew. Forget that he’d ever seen Rose Southdown and had the pleasure of being na**d in her bed—unfortunately not in the way he’d have wished.
But no, he had errands to run, even if the result would be hell. He’d get away, but not lightly.
Or . . .
Steven shot her a sudden smile, his natural wickedness pushing aside all thoughts of running. “Send for your coach,” he said. “Have it meet us in the front of the main house, or wherever the journalists are prowling. Put on your best frock, and come out with me.”
Rose’s eyes widened, but she looked curious rather than afraid. “What on earth for?”
“Because we’re going to face them. If they want scandal, we’ll give them scandal. We’ll ram it down their throats. And then we’ll turn the tables.” He held out his hand. “Do you trust me?”
Rose’s green eyes danced. “I have no idea. I’ve only just met you.”
“Good. I’ll tell you all about my ideas on the way.”
“On the way where?”“The Langham. I have a room there, but I’ll have them put us in a couple of suites.”
Rose’s smile began, a wickedness matching his own. “Us?”
“This will take courage, but I’m certain you’re up to it. Any woman who dragged a drunken, dirty lout home with her and carried breakfast to him in the morning has courage, in my opinion. Are we agreed?” Steven stuck out his hand again, and this time, Rose took it.
“Agreed.”
Steven shook her soft, warm hand, but that was much too businesslike. He raised the backs of her fingers to his lips. “Agreed.”
He wanted to haul her all the way against him and kiss her very kissable mouth, but Steven took pity on her and let her go.
“I will meet you downstairs,” Rose said. Her eyes were alight, her face beautiful. “Au revoir.”
She laughed and breezed out, leaving the room much emptier.
***
Rose knew she had to be mad as she hurried down to her own room, but she pushed the objections out as she donned her Sunday best. The gown was black bombazine and quite plain, but looked well enough. Rose settled its small bustle and put the matching hat on her head.
Downstairs she walked out of the coach house and through the passage to the main house. The interior was dark and musty-smelling—Albert wasn’t in residence, and rarely opened the place even when he was in Town. Charles would be so unhappy; he’d loved this house.
Rose swung open the front door, which had already been unbolted, and walked out, head high, to face the mob.
Most were journalists in black suits and hats, with three or four female scribblers in their midst. The women who followed Rose tended to be even harder on her than the men—the men at least could sometimes remember to be gentlemen. The women always let Rose have the worst of their opinions.
The crowd surged forward, intent upon her, but Rose remained firmly on the doorstep, glancing about for her carriage as though she didn’t notice the scandalmongers. The coach was coming, driven by Miles, and when it stopped at the door, Steven got out of it.
Seeing him resplendent in his clean and brushed red uniform, the gold braid gleaming in the winter sunshine, Rose wondered how she’d ever though him a pathetic castaway of the streets. Darkness, grime, and the rife smell of drink had convinced her, but there was no trace of dirt and alcohol now.
Steven stood tall and strong, his hatless head the color of sunshine. His hair was cropped close, as some military men’s were, and he was clean-shaven, young gentlemen nowadays eschewing the heavy moustaches, beards, and mutton-chops of the older generation.
The journalists watched, agog, as Steven walked through them, took Rose by the arm, and led her to the carriage. At the carriage door, he lifted her hand to his lips, pressed a warm kiss to her glove, then helped her inside.