Scandal And The Duchess (11 page)

One stroke there made Rose half-rise. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you pleasure, love. I was a bit hasty, but you had me too eager.”

Hasty? It had been full, wondrous. Steven brushed two fingers over her opening, and Rose jumped again, realizing they weren’t yet finished. “I never knew . . .”

Steven chuckled, a warm sound. “There are many avenues of pleasure between men and women. Fortunately, I know most of them.”

He knew this one, that was for certain. A few more strokes, and Rose was arching up, her thoughts scattering, as they had when he’d put his mouth to her. She knew she was behaving shamelessly, but she had no intention of stopping herself.

Steven caressed and rubbed her, then thrust a finger inside her. Rose’s world narrowed to that feeling—his finger was nowhere near as thick as his hardness, but the small movement made her choke back a cry.

A second finger joined the first, and then a third. All the while, he brushed his thumb over the tightness of her, until Rose bucked against his hand, begging him—for what, she didn’t know.

“Hush now, sweet Rose,” she heard him say. “I’m only giving you what you gave me.”

Rose’s cries continued, incoherent, and she couldn’t stifle them. Steven laughed again and covered her mouth with a kiss.

When the world went dark, nothing existing but Steven against her, and his hand pressed firmly to her, Rose ceased trying to stop herself. She let the pleasure wash over her, her joy at being here with Steven become her only thought.

Just when she knew she’d die of this feeling, Steven took away his hand, rolled her into the mattress among their jumble of clothes, and entered her again.

He thrust into her faster this time, pushing them both down into the bed, his kisses hard. They moved as one, body to body, solidly joined. Their breaths came quickly, gazes holding each other’s, both too far gone now even for kisses.

Steven groaned as he lost his seed for the second time. He was holding Rose’s hand, his fingers squeezing hers, his face relaxing with his release.

Rose touched his cheek, kissing his lips with her swollen ones, and marveled at what they’d done this day.

***

Steven lay beside Rose long into the afternoon, not leaving her even as the window darkened with the end of the short day. They’d nestled down under the covers, the blankets heavy with their clothes. Steven had pulled his plaid up over the quilts, adding another layer of warmth.

Rose slept for a while, Steven dozing with her. When she’d awakened, she’d smiled at him, a little shy, but betraying no shame. Steven had touched her, savoring her, before his needy cock had him entering her one more time.

After that they both slept, then awoke and spoke in low voices. About nothing. About everything. Steven heard himself telling her stories about his childhood, how he’d run wild in Scotland with his sister, Ainsley, until their three older brothers dragged them home again. He spoke of the army, his friendships there, his adventures. Rose told him of her life in Edinburgh with her father, her sorrow when he died, her astonishment when a lofty duke asked her to be his wife.

They talked of dreams they had for now and later, and laughed about things they’d seen together. They had only a few memories, two days of them, but it gave them so much to talk about.

Steven could talk to her forever.

The coachman and his wife left them alone. The two downstairs had to know what the two upstairs were doing, and yet, they gave them their privacy. Miles and his wife must have recognized that Steven had come to take care of Rose, and they were letting him get on with it.

“Sittford House tomorrow,” Steven said, kissing her shoulder. “I want your legacy in your hands—I don’t trust Albert not to sell everything sellable before we can go through it.”

“You’re still determined to help me win against him?”

Steven noted the surprise and faint worry in her eyes. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Our bargain will soon be at an end,” Rose said wistfully.

“Endings are sad.” Steven brushed his fingertips along the softness of her breasts. “I don’t like them. Beginnings sometimes can be good. But the middle of the story is always the best part. I like middles.”

Rose laughed. “I like the middle of this one.”

“That’s because all the villains are leaving us in peace.” He pressed his palm against hers, their splayed fingers touching. “So are our friends. I’m enjoying it.”

The look in Rose’s eyes said she was enjoying it too. “We’ll have to go back to the real world sooner or later.”

“Later,” Steven said. “Not right now. Right now is for . . .” He released her hand and slid over her again. “Right now is for loving you. I’m going to do it for as long as I can.”

“Good,” Rose said with a smile.

That was all Steven needed. He was already aching for her again, a pain that eased only slightly as he eased himself inside her one more time.

***

The bloody settee was nowhere in the house.

Steven sat on a dusty couch in one of the attics—the be-damned mansion had five—and looked with disgust at the furniture crammed into it. Couches, divans, chairs, tables, bedsteads, most of it rickety and broken. Nowhere had they found an Egyptian-style settee in ebony and gold, decorated with sphinxlike heads.

Rose stood, dejected, near the dusty window. She’d resumed her black clothes, which hid every inch of her. All very proper, but Steven would never look at her the same way again.

He’d seen her beauty. It glowed from her even now until it filled all the spaces in this dingy attic, and all the spaces inside Steven.

“It’s not here,” Rose said. She made her way carefully through the mess to Steven and sank down next to him. “Albert must have sold it. How could he have known?”

Steven shrugged. “We’ll find him and pound its whereabouts out of him.”

Rose did not look hopeful. She leaned into Steven, an intimate move, one she did unselfconsciously.

Steven turned his head and kissed her cheek, which led to a kiss on the lips. That kiss lingered, brightening the gloom around them.

They’d arrived while Albert had been finishing his midmorning tea. The man, it seemed, rarely left the estate—he’d told his housekeeper he’d be in London the day Rose and Steven had first come searching, only so the servants wouldn’t bother him.

The man was a fool, Steven thought in contempt. He obviously had no respect from his staff, or else he’d have told them he wasn’t to be disturbed, and they’d have obeyed. Steven knew that if servants didn’t like an employer, they could find plenty of little ways to irritate him without going so far as all-out rebellion. A man who had no control over his household was a sorry thing indeed.

Steven, brooking no argument from Albert, took Rose on a search of the house. Rose led Steven into every room on every floor, and they looked into every cabinet, cranny, closet, nook, and niche. They’d searched the cellars, rooms down there no one had opened for years. They’d even looked in Albert’s private rooms when Albert had gone off with his steward to the home farm.

The home farm would be next. Steven wouldn’t put it past Albert to try to hide a priceless antique in the garret of a leaky farmhouse.

The settee, however, was nowhere in sight. They did find the two Egyptian-style chairs depicted in the sketches from the cabinet, but that was all. Steven turned each chair upside down and stuck his hands under the upholstery but found no further clues inside them.

“You can always take one of these,” Steven said, motioning to the chairs, which were right side up again. “They’d bring something at a sale.”

“I know.” Rose eyed them disconsolately. “But I want to know why Charles pointed me to the settee. Why he wanted me to have
it
, in particular.”

Steven slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “No disrespect to your husband, Rose—he was a fine man—but I wish he’d written you a plain note that told you where he’d left you a cache of diamonds.”

“Albert would have found that, wouldn’t he?” Rose shook her head. “Charles had no illusions about his son.”

“Which is why I don’t understand why Charles didn’t make your settlements and what you received in the will more clear. Why he didn’t confound Albert before he began.”

Rose sighed. “I don’t know. Charles was fond of little jokes, but truth be told, they were jests child could see through. That’s because he had a kind heart, did Charles. Not a mean bone in him.”

Steven wondered if he could ever live up to the paragon Charles seemed to be. The man had been kind, yes—Steven had seen that in him, even on brief acquaintance—but Steven had also noted that Charles had not been advanced in intellect. Steven had often been praised for his quick wit and clever mind, but Rose valued softness of heart over cleverness.

Steven cupped her cheek as she looked up at him, and leaned down to kiss her again. He couldn’t help himself.

Rose tasted of sunshine and summer days. He’d never be cold with her next to him.

Someone cleared a throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”

Rose started, but Steven took his time lifting away from her. Let the staff of this house know Steven was looking after her now.

The young footman John stood in the shadows near the door, uncertain whether to advance into the room. Rose struggled to her feet, and Steven, trained to be a gentleman even if he forgot most of the time, stood up beside her.

“It’s all right, John,” Rose said, giving him an encouraging look. “What is it? Is Albert setting his dogs on us? Not that it matters. I rather like dogs, and they like me.”

John listened in perplexity, his handsome face drawn into a frown as he tried to work through this.

“Never mind,” Steven said. “Tell us what you came to say.”

John stood to attention. “Yes, sir. It’s this, sir. Housekeeper said you’d want to know, Your Grace, that His Grace—the duke that’s passed, I mean—had us shift a cartload of furniture out to the summerhouse in the months before he married you.”

Rose’s mouth popped open. “Did he? What on earth for?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace.” John truly must not know—he wouldn’t know how to lie about this or why he should.

“I see.” Rose looked thoughtful, and also a little sad, no doubt remembering her sunny wedding on a summer’s day. Steven decided not to take it as an omen that since he’d met Rose, the weather had been confounded awful.

“Housekeeper forgot, Your Grace,” John said apologetically. “We all did. But she remembered today when you were searching the house and couldn’t find what you were looking for. Whatever that is.”

They hadn’t said specifically, Steven not trusting Albert not to lay his hands on it and trundle it away.

“Thank you, John,” Rose said, looking a little more cheerful. “We’ll have a look in the summerhouse.”

John nodded and started patting his pockets. “Housekeeper said you’d want the key. Ah, here it is.” He pulled it out in triumph, stepped to them, and handed the key, not to Rose, but to Steven.

“Good on you, lad,” Steven said. “Give the housekeeper our thanks.”

John beamed like a puppy who’d been praised. He bowed to Rose, mumbled a thanks, and scooted off.

“Curious,” Rose said, her excitement returning. “Shall we adjourn to the summerhouse?”

Steven glanced through the high window, which showed nothing but rain and clouds. “The weather is wretched. Why don’t you sit in a comfortable room with the housekeeper bringing you tea and cakes, and I’ll tramp through the mud and search the summerhouse?”

“No, indeed.” Rose leaned to him and closed her fingers around the key. “I’ll not sit here, trembling and nervous, waiting for your return. I’m going with you, and that is that.”

***

Rose regretted her eagerness a bit when they were halfway to the summerhouse, the wind biting them and bringing tears to her eyes. The summerhouse lay on the far end of the huge formal garden, right on the edge of the estate, a lengthy tramp along paths that had become overgrown and rough.

Rose, bundled up warmly, walked with Steven, arm in arm, their heads down into the wind. One of the dogs that had come back to the house with the steward and Albert—a black bird dog with a lolling tongue—followed them, and nothing could dissuade him from it.

Rose had never been to the summerhouse. According to Charles, they’d stopped using it years ago. It was an old thing, apparently, built at the beginning of the century, when every gentleman had to have a summerhouse or folly to simulate Roman or Greek ruins.

This summerhouse was reached by a narrow path beyond a gate at the end of the garden, and up a rather steep hill. The small building was round, imitating a rotunda, with pseudo Roman columns encircling it. It looked as though it had once been painted warm yellow, but years of wind, rain, fallen leaves, and English damp had rendered it a streaked gray, with the original stones showing through. A true ruin, instead of a false one.

Steven inserted the large key into the rusting lock of the summerhouse’s door. He had to put all his strength into turning it, grunting with the effort. Just as Rose feared the key itself would break, the lock screeched, the tumblers moving.

“No one’s oiled this lately, that’s for certain,” Steven said.

He pulled at the door—which nearly fell on top of him. The hinges were weak, rust flaking from them as they pulled partway out of the wall.

Steven started to laugh. “I see I needn’t have bothered wrestling with the lock. Careful, Rosie.”

He propped the door open, took Rose’s arm and steered her inside. The dog, who’d sat down patiently while Steven had fought the lock, pushed past Rose, his head up, nose working.

The interior of the summerhouse was dank and dim. The rotunda floor had once been paved with fine marble, but now the blocks were chipped and loose. Light came from windows high above to show them dirt and bird droppings, niches containing now-empty pedestals, and a jumble of furniture, covered with overlapping sheets, in the middle of the floor.

The dog sniffed around this pile curiously, then sat down and wagged his tail as Steven reached for the sheets.

“Hold your breath,” Steven advised.

Rose backed away, grabbing the dog by its scruff and dragging him with her.

Steven started pulling the old sheets away. He gathered them into his arms, trying to mitigate the cloud of dust that rose from them, but he lost the battle. Rose sneezed, pressing her finger under her nose. The dog sneezed as well, throwing droplets of moisture through the air. His entire body rippled as he drew another breath and sneezed again.

The dust settled over Steven, coating his black coat a light gray. He ruffled his hair, sending up another cloud of dust, and tossed the sheets aside.

The furniture beneath didn’t look like much. Odds and ends, much of it broken.

Rose started to express disappointment, then she wiped her streaming eyes and pointed. “What’s that?”

Steven waded among the chairs with no seats, the canted table with a broken leg, and lifted a shell of a bookcase out of his way.

Buried beneath the jetsam of mahogany and walnut was a hint of black and a gleam of gold. Steven started throwing aside the broken furniture, which shattered to the floor like so much firewood.

“This is it,” he said, then he stopped. “Dear God, what a mess.”

Rose hurried to him. The dog, caught up in the excitement, dove under the wrecked furniture, emerging with a large stick that once belonged to a spindle-backed chair. The dog presented it to Rose, wagging his tail faster.

Rose absently took the stick and tossed it for the dog to chase. “It’s ruined,” she said dispiritedly.

Steven pushed more furniture aside, revealing what once had been a finely crafted, if ugly, settee. “No wonder it was brought out here with the discards.”

Rose had seen the piece before her marriage to Charles, when he’d brought her to the house to show her where she’d live. The settee had rested in an unused parlor high in the house, given pride of place under wide window and flanked by tall, ebony and gilt candelabras.

After the wedding, Rose had been caught up in preparations for her new life and then Charles’s death. She’d never noticed the settee had gone from the house, hadn’t much thought about it until now.

It had been placed out here for mice to nest in, it seemed, and for the wood to be split and ruined by damp. Only the inlay had survived, though it was covered in dirt and muck. Steven scraped at the patterns with his gloved fingers to reveal more gold.

“Someone painted over that,” Steven said. “What a bizarre thing to do.”

“Maybe hiding its worth?” Rose suggested. “Not that sitting out here for a year and a half hasn’t destroyed it. Why would Charles do such a thing? Or did the servants lug it away by mistake?”

Steven stepped back to survey the room and the settee’s position in it. “No, this was set here on purpose, buried under a pile of useless junk. Charles hid it, love.”

“But why would he?” Rose took the stick from the dog, who’d brought it back to her. He sat down and looked at Rose expectantly, so she tossed it for him again. “And why would he draw the rose on the back of the sketch? Not to mention hiding the sketches in the cabinet?”

“He was saving them for you,” Steven suggested. “He must have changed his will at the same time, to add you to it and leave you the furniture.”

“But he didn’t know he was going to die so soon,” Rose said. “How could he?”

Steven came to stand next to her, his warmth cutting the chill. “Maybe he did, love. Doctors might not have told him his heart would give out, but maybe he knew, deep down inside. Perhaps he didn’t expect it to happen as quickly as it did, but he must have known he’d have to leave you to Albert’s mercy.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Steven slid his arm around her, pulling her close. “A man doesn’t like to confess weakness to a lady, especially not one he loves. Trust me on this.”

“Poor Charles,” Rose said. Her heart ached for him.

She knew now, after these few days with Steven, that while she’d loved Charles, she’d loved him in a different way than she did Steven. Charles had been kindness, comfort, caring. Steven was passion, excitement, offering her a world behind her narrow confines. Steven was a man who felt deeply, never mind that he covered it up with joking, self-deprecation, and drink.

Steven held Rose close, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. He had such strength, such warmth, a pillar more solid than the columns of this summerhouse for her to lean on. Charles was like this ruined place—Rose’s past. Steven was whole and new—Rose’s life now. And her future? She couldn’t know.

Steven kissed Rose gently on the lips and wiped a tear from her face. “Whatever reason he stashed it out here, Charles wanted you to have this,” Steven said. “Let’s shift it, and get back to our cozy hotel.”

***

Rose helped Steven push the old furniture aside to release the settee. Its once bright seat cushion was a tattered mess, stuffing from nearly a hundred years ago hanging out of it in gray threads. Even the mice had abandoned it.

The dog tried to help, digging at the loose marble tiles around it. Finally Rose and Steven had cleared a path that allowed them to drag the settee to the door and out to the summerhouse’s porch.

Rain was falling steadily, coming on gusts of wind that spattered heavy droplets across the steps. Steven shoved the settee to the leeward side of the porch and dusted off his hands.

“I’ll go back to the house and tell Albert he is going to lend us transport,” he said. He looked out between the trees to the windswept garden beyond. “You can wait here, out of the rain, at least, though it’s bloody cold.”

“I’m resilient,” Rose said. “And I have a dog.”

Steven went to Rose and took her hands. It was never cold where he was—when Rose had woken this morning wrapped around him, she’d never been so happy.

“You are the most courageous woman I’ve ever had the fortune to know,” Steven said. “Thank you, Rose.”

She stared up at him. “For what?”

“For teaching me what courage means.” Steven leaned to her, his breath brushing her lips before he kissed her.

The kiss held all the heat of their loving night, and the light of new day.

Rose pulled Steven close, savoring him. If she had nothing else, she’d remember this, the two of them private in the cold, and the intimacy of waking up next to him in his bed. These were memories she’d hold to her for the rest of her life.

Steven flashed her a grin as he straightened up. “I’ll run all the way.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And then we’ll feast on hot tea and whiskey.”

His smile could change her world. Rose clung to his hands another moment, then she gave a little laugh and let him go.

Rose watched Steven dodge his way through the trees, his head down against the wind. He truly did run, moving so fast his wind-whipped greatcoat and kilt exposed his strong thighs.

Rose kept her gaze on him until the trees obscured him, then she shivered and moved back into the relative shelter of the summerhouse. The dog whined after Steven, but turned and entered the summerhouse with Rose.

Rose stood in the middle of the rotunda, looking over the wreck of the furniture, the dog warm against her legs. “If I had a match, I could built us a nice roaring fire,” she said, patting the dog’s side. He waged his tail and gazed up at her, his vitality coming through her gloved hands.

“Then I’d have the constables on you.” Albert’s voice floating in before his body blocked the open doorway. “When your paramour comes back for you, you go and stay out of my sight. I never want to see you here again, or I will have you arrested for trespass.”