Scandal And The Duchess
Page 9
The tiniest kiss, that of a man unable to stop himself touching his beloved, but Steven’s body nearly exploded. Heat rushed from Rose’s soft mouth to burn through every nerve of him. Steven’s heart constricted again, and if there was a rule against full-blown hard-ons on the hotel’s main staircase, he was in trouble.
Rose’s breath was warm, her body a soft bit of heaven. Her lips parted as Steven lifted away from her, her eyes half-closed with the stirrings of desire.
No wonder Rose was followed about, no wonder her every move filled the scandal sheets. Every man in London must be falling over his feet to have her, their pursuit giving the scribblers plenty to write about. Now they’d write about Steven as well, and his privilege of kissing this beautiful woman.
Rose blinked a little, no doubt wanting to tell him to go to the devil, but she kept up the pretense and gave him a little smile instead. No one passing would believe anything but that Rose was happily engaged to Steven. He tightened his arm around Rose and led her on up the stairs.
Steven’s lips burned from the brief contact, firing him from the inside out. If he got out of this little charade alive, it would be a bloody miracle.
***
“A tricky problem,” the solicitor said.
Steven and Rose sat in comfortable chairs in the parlor of Rose’s suite at the hotel that afternoon, the solicitor, Mr. Collins, facing them. Mr. Collins was surprisingly young—Rose surmised he couldn’t have been more than his early thirties. But he came highly recommended by both the Duke of Kilmorgan and Steven’s barrister brother, Sinclair McBride. Mr. Collins had a shock of bright red hair, a tastefully trimmed moustache, and a neat black suit. Everything correct.
Steven had changed out of his regimentals and had donned a McBride plaid kilt, plain white shirt and waistcoat, and a black frock coat. He wore thick wool socks that emphasized his strong calves, and low leather shoes. Rose could not help surreptitiously running her gaze over him, more than once. More than twice. He made a delectable picture.
The suite he’d procured for her was one of the most elegant in the hotel. The parlor had a cluster of velvet-cushioned sofas and chairs drawn near a marble fireplace, with a heavily carved dining table and matching chairs on the other side of the room. A gas chandelier above them stretched out gilded arms ending in etched globes to soften the harsh light. Tall, draped windows graced the other side of the room, the lace curtains letting in patterns of sunshine.
The bedroom was still more elegant, with a large carved bed heaped generously with pillows, the dressing table more vast than the one she’d had in her dressing room at Sittford House, the Duke of Southdown’s estate. Everything Rose needed for a comfortable stay had been provided, including a maid to look after her.
Captain McBride was giving all this to her. When Rose had tried again to ask him why, he’d shrugged and said of course he’d take care of his betrothed. He’d told Miles to go home to his wife—Miles still technically worked for Albert, though Albert rarely came to town. Albert kept Miles and the coach simply so he wouldn’t have to take a hansom from the train whenever he did arrive in London.
Steven would arrange for the transportation from now on, he’d said. He’d slipped Miles a handful of banknotes, saying they were compensation for Miles putting Steven up for the night and feeding him in the morning. Miles had been touched, Rose could see.
“The entail is very clear,” Mr. Collins was saying. “Albert Ridgley, the new Duke of Southdown, of course inherits the title, house, and land, and all moneys and goods tied to the house. The new duke has no legal obligation to give you anything, Your Grace, except what was specified in the marriage settlements, or put into trust for you by your own family—but Mr. McBride has told me that your family was gone before you married and left you with little.”
“That is true,” Rose said. “My father had nothing to leave.” She stopped, her grief for her charming but rather feckless father never far away.
Mr. Collins made noise rustling papers, as though giving her time to compose herself. Steven was watching Rose, though, his gray gaze taking in her grief with understanding.
“The new duke is blocking the settlements on you, claiming . . .” Mr. Collins kept leafing through papers Rose had no idea where she’d obtained. “Here it is. Claiming that your marriage to the duke wasn’t quite legal.”
Rose nodded. “I know he is. But I don’t know how he can say that. My marriage to Charles was perfectly all right—Albert attended the ceremony himself. The banns were read the requisite number of weeks before the wedding day, a bishop conducted the service, and we signed a register, everything done properly. We didn’t elope clandestinely in the middle of the night or anything like that.” She waved her hand. “It was a perfectly aboveboard service, Mr. Collins. I remember it well.” Rose flashed him a smile. “I was there.”
Mr. Collins flushed and moved uncomfortably. “Yes, I’m certain you were, Your Grace. But the new duke’s solicitor showed me the evidence he had when I went to him to challenge him. The new duke is putting forth that the marriage isn’t legal because—my apologies, Your Grace—because you were already married at the time.”
His voice died away, and Rose shot to her feet, eyes wide. “Rubbish.”
Steven was up next to her, a hand on her arm. “What the devil are you talking about, Collins?”
Collins went as red as his hair, but he rose politely and held out a piece of paper. “I’m afraid it’s here.”
Rose’s breath was warm, her body a soft bit of heaven. Her lips parted as Steven lifted away from her, her eyes half-closed with the stirrings of desire.
No wonder Rose was followed about, no wonder her every move filled the scandal sheets. Every man in London must be falling over his feet to have her, their pursuit giving the scribblers plenty to write about. Now they’d write about Steven as well, and his privilege of kissing this beautiful woman.
Rose blinked a little, no doubt wanting to tell him to go to the devil, but she kept up the pretense and gave him a little smile instead. No one passing would believe anything but that Rose was happily engaged to Steven. He tightened his arm around Rose and led her on up the stairs.
Steven’s lips burned from the brief contact, firing him from the inside out. If he got out of this little charade alive, it would be a bloody miracle.
***
“A tricky problem,” the solicitor said.
Steven and Rose sat in comfortable chairs in the parlor of Rose’s suite at the hotel that afternoon, the solicitor, Mr. Collins, facing them. Mr. Collins was surprisingly young—Rose surmised he couldn’t have been more than his early thirties. But he came highly recommended by both the Duke of Kilmorgan and Steven’s barrister brother, Sinclair McBride. Mr. Collins had a shock of bright red hair, a tastefully trimmed moustache, and a neat black suit. Everything correct.
Steven had changed out of his regimentals and had donned a McBride plaid kilt, plain white shirt and waistcoat, and a black frock coat. He wore thick wool socks that emphasized his strong calves, and low leather shoes. Rose could not help surreptitiously running her gaze over him, more than once. More than twice. He made a delectable picture.
The suite he’d procured for her was one of the most elegant in the hotel. The parlor had a cluster of velvet-cushioned sofas and chairs drawn near a marble fireplace, with a heavily carved dining table and matching chairs on the other side of the room. A gas chandelier above them stretched out gilded arms ending in etched globes to soften the harsh light. Tall, draped windows graced the other side of the room, the lace curtains letting in patterns of sunshine.
The bedroom was still more elegant, with a large carved bed heaped generously with pillows, the dressing table more vast than the one she’d had in her dressing room at Sittford House, the Duke of Southdown’s estate. Everything Rose needed for a comfortable stay had been provided, including a maid to look after her.
Captain McBride was giving all this to her. When Rose had tried again to ask him why, he’d shrugged and said of course he’d take care of his betrothed. He’d told Miles to go home to his wife—Miles still technically worked for Albert, though Albert rarely came to town. Albert kept Miles and the coach simply so he wouldn’t have to take a hansom from the train whenever he did arrive in London.
Steven would arrange for the transportation from now on, he’d said. He’d slipped Miles a handful of banknotes, saying they were compensation for Miles putting Steven up for the night and feeding him in the morning. Miles had been touched, Rose could see.
“The entail is very clear,” Mr. Collins was saying. “Albert Ridgley, the new Duke of Southdown, of course inherits the title, house, and land, and all moneys and goods tied to the house. The new duke has no legal obligation to give you anything, Your Grace, except what was specified in the marriage settlements, or put into trust for you by your own family—but Mr. McBride has told me that your family was gone before you married and left you with little.”
“That is true,” Rose said. “My father had nothing to leave.” She stopped, her grief for her charming but rather feckless father never far away.
Mr. Collins made noise rustling papers, as though giving her time to compose herself. Steven was watching Rose, though, his gray gaze taking in her grief with understanding.
“The new duke is blocking the settlements on you, claiming . . .” Mr. Collins kept leafing through papers Rose had no idea where she’d obtained. “Here it is. Claiming that your marriage to the duke wasn’t quite legal.”
Rose nodded. “I know he is. But I don’t know how he can say that. My marriage to Charles was perfectly all right—Albert attended the ceremony himself. The banns were read the requisite number of weeks before the wedding day, a bishop conducted the service, and we signed a register, everything done properly. We didn’t elope clandestinely in the middle of the night or anything like that.” She waved her hand. “It was a perfectly aboveboard service, Mr. Collins. I remember it well.” Rose flashed him a smile. “I was there.”
Mr. Collins flushed and moved uncomfortably. “Yes, I’m certain you were, Your Grace. But the new duke’s solicitor showed me the evidence he had when I went to him to challenge him. The new duke is putting forth that the marriage isn’t legal because—my apologies, Your Grace—because you were already married at the time.”
His voice died away, and Rose shot to her feet, eyes wide. “Rubbish.”
Steven was up next to her, a hand on her arm. “What the devil are you talking about, Collins?”
Collins went as red as his hair, but he rose politely and held out a piece of paper. “I’m afraid it’s here.”
