Scandal And The Duchess
Page 20
He needed a cold bath, or maybe a walk in the freezing rain. But Steven couldn’t make himself leave the suite.
“Never mind about the cabinet for now,” Steven said. “I’ll wait until Rose wins back her settlements. She might have a place for it after all.” He thought of the warm glow on Rose’s face whenever she talked about her husband, and something stabbed at him. He needed to wrap up this business, take himself to Scotland for Christmas, and forget Rose. Hart always invited scores of people to his Christmas parties—maybe Steven could meet a lonely widow there and forget this one.
And perhaps the rain outside would change to showers of gold, and champagne would flow in the streets.
Sinclair was watching him again. “If you change your mind, Eleanor and Hart are in Town for now.” He shot a look at the closed door, then one at Steven. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t,” Steven said, shaking his head. “I don’t at all. Wish me luck.”
“Mmph.” Sinclair’s expression changed. “I need luck. Tomorrow, I look for a new governess. Andrew put beetles into the current one’s bed.”
Steven grinned, his thoughts moving with relief to his energetic nine-year-old nephew. “And the governess fled?”
Sinclair lost his amused look. “No, I sacked her. She decided to lock Andrew into the cellar from whence the beetles came. Because it scared him into silence, she suggested I do this every day. Hence, the sack.” The anger fled Sinclair’s eyes. “Caitriona managed to get the governess’s hair switch off her while the fuss was being made about Andrew. Cat tossed it into the fire. Poor woman was bald as an egg on the back of her head.”
“She can wear a bonnet.” Steven’s sympathy for the governess had died as soon as Sinclair said she’d locked Andrew in the cellar.
“Take care, Steven,” Sinclair said, taking up his hat. He looked as though he wanted to say more, settled for his stern barrister glare, and walked out.
***
Rose couldn’t sleep. She had undressed for her rest, but only twenty minutes later she rang for the maid to help her into her clothes again.
She needed to speak to Steven. Well, to see him actually. To be in the same room with him. His presence comforted her more than anything else had in a long time, had somehow even when she’d thought him a downtrodden vagrant on the streets.
She stepped out of her parlor and made her way down the hall, then stopped short as a tall man came abruptly out of Steven’s rooms.
Rose halted, ready to ask in surprise where Steven was going, when she realized it wasn’t Steven. Same light blond hair, same tall physique, same way of piercing her with his gray stare, but a different man.
Steven’s intelligence lurked in the man’s eyes, but while Steven was restless and moody, even in his hungover state, this man had a quiet intensity about him.
“I beg your pardon,” Rose said, though he had been about to step into her. “I need to see . . . my cabinet.”
His gaze flickered with amusement. “Yes, your cabinet is doing very well. It will be pleased for your visit.”
“Damn it all,” Steven said, coming up behind the other man. “Leave her be. Rose, this is my brother Sinclair, known on the backstreets as Basher McBride. Don’t let him intimidate you. Sinclair, allow me to introduce Rose, Dowager Duchess of Southdown.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Sinclair was immediately polite, holding out a hand and bowing as Rose shook it. He didn’t release her hand, but remained holding it in his strong grip. “If my reprobate brother becomes too unruly for you, do not hesitate to send for me. I have a house on Upper Brook Street and chambers in Essex Court.”
“That is kind of you,” Rose began.
“Don’t you have a governess to employ?” Steven said, a scowl creasing his face.
“He wishes me to leave.” Sinclair squeezed Rose’s hand again, this time in genuine cordiality. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
His politeness warmed Rose’s heart. So few bothered to be polite to her these days.
Sinclair made a final bow, shot a look at his brother, and departed.
Steven ushered Rose into the parlor. Rose held her breath as she brushed by him in the doorway, his warmth unnerving her. She hadn’t been able to sleep this afternoon partly because she craved to be in his presence. She’d had to give in and rush to see him.
Rose made herself walk to the cabinet, which waited for her in the middle of the rug. “Was Mr. McBride interested in buying it?”
Steven closed the door. Rose was very aware she was alone with him, even more so than she had been at Sittford House, when any of the dozen servants could have walked into any room they’d happened to be in. Here, the door was closed, Steven had no regular valet, and any other staff would knock and wait to be admitted.
Rose couldn’t look at anything but Steven. The cabinet, a masterwork of craftsmanship, faded to nothing. He still wore his Scottish clothes, his blue and green kilt falling in neat pleats to just below his knees.
“He suggested we ask Eleanor,” Steven said without looking at her. “Hart Mackenzie’s wife. They have plenty of room and more money than God.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware God had any money. A stash of gold bars in one of His back rooms, do you think?” Rose tried to smile, tried to joke, but she found it difficult even to breathe. “Probably comes in handy when He needs to repave His streets.”
“Never mind about the cabinet for now,” Steven said. “I’ll wait until Rose wins back her settlements. She might have a place for it after all.” He thought of the warm glow on Rose’s face whenever she talked about her husband, and something stabbed at him. He needed to wrap up this business, take himself to Scotland for Christmas, and forget Rose. Hart always invited scores of people to his Christmas parties—maybe Steven could meet a lonely widow there and forget this one.
And perhaps the rain outside would change to showers of gold, and champagne would flow in the streets.
Sinclair was watching him again. “If you change your mind, Eleanor and Hart are in Town for now.” He shot a look at the closed door, then one at Steven. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t,” Steven said, shaking his head. “I don’t at all. Wish me luck.”
“Mmph.” Sinclair’s expression changed. “I need luck. Tomorrow, I look for a new governess. Andrew put beetles into the current one’s bed.”
Steven grinned, his thoughts moving with relief to his energetic nine-year-old nephew. “And the governess fled?”
Sinclair lost his amused look. “No, I sacked her. She decided to lock Andrew into the cellar from whence the beetles came. Because it scared him into silence, she suggested I do this every day. Hence, the sack.” The anger fled Sinclair’s eyes. “Caitriona managed to get the governess’s hair switch off her while the fuss was being made about Andrew. Cat tossed it into the fire. Poor woman was bald as an egg on the back of her head.”
“She can wear a bonnet.” Steven’s sympathy for the governess had died as soon as Sinclair said she’d locked Andrew in the cellar.
“Take care, Steven,” Sinclair said, taking up his hat. He looked as though he wanted to say more, settled for his stern barrister glare, and walked out.
***
Rose couldn’t sleep. She had undressed for her rest, but only twenty minutes later she rang for the maid to help her into her clothes again.
She needed to speak to Steven. Well, to see him actually. To be in the same room with him. His presence comforted her more than anything else had in a long time, had somehow even when she’d thought him a downtrodden vagrant on the streets.
She stepped out of her parlor and made her way down the hall, then stopped short as a tall man came abruptly out of Steven’s rooms.
Rose halted, ready to ask in surprise where Steven was going, when she realized it wasn’t Steven. Same light blond hair, same tall physique, same way of piercing her with his gray stare, but a different man.
Steven’s intelligence lurked in the man’s eyes, but while Steven was restless and moody, even in his hungover state, this man had a quiet intensity about him.
“I beg your pardon,” Rose said, though he had been about to step into her. “I need to see . . . my cabinet.”
His gaze flickered with amusement. “Yes, your cabinet is doing very well. It will be pleased for your visit.”
“Damn it all,” Steven said, coming up behind the other man. “Leave her be. Rose, this is my brother Sinclair, known on the backstreets as Basher McBride. Don’t let him intimidate you. Sinclair, allow me to introduce Rose, Dowager Duchess of Southdown.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Sinclair was immediately polite, holding out a hand and bowing as Rose shook it. He didn’t release her hand, but remained holding it in his strong grip. “If my reprobate brother becomes too unruly for you, do not hesitate to send for me. I have a house on Upper Brook Street and chambers in Essex Court.”
“That is kind of you,” Rose began.
“Don’t you have a governess to employ?” Steven said, a scowl creasing his face.
“He wishes me to leave.” Sinclair squeezed Rose’s hand again, this time in genuine cordiality. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
His politeness warmed Rose’s heart. So few bothered to be polite to her these days.
Sinclair made a final bow, shot a look at his brother, and departed.
Steven ushered Rose into the parlor. Rose held her breath as she brushed by him in the doorway, his warmth unnerving her. She hadn’t been able to sleep this afternoon partly because she craved to be in his presence. She’d had to give in and rush to see him.
Rose made herself walk to the cabinet, which waited for her in the middle of the rug. “Was Mr. McBride interested in buying it?”
Steven closed the door. Rose was very aware she was alone with him, even more so than she had been at Sittford House, when any of the dozen servants could have walked into any room they’d happened to be in. Here, the door was closed, Steven had no regular valet, and any other staff would knock and wait to be admitted.
Rose couldn’t look at anything but Steven. The cabinet, a masterwork of craftsmanship, faded to nothing. He still wore his Scottish clothes, his blue and green kilt falling in neat pleats to just below his knees.
“He suggested we ask Eleanor,” Steven said without looking at her. “Hart Mackenzie’s wife. They have plenty of room and more money than God.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware God had any money. A stash of gold bars in one of His back rooms, do you think?” Rose tried to smile, tried to joke, but she found it difficult even to breathe. “Probably comes in handy when He needs to repave His streets.”
