Chapter Three

“Our . . .” Rose’s words died as she clutched the velvet-cushioned seat. “I beg your pardon—our what?”

Steven’s grin had faded, but he sat forward, animated, light glinting on the bright buttons of his uniform coat.

“Hear me out, love. If we tell the journalists we’ve been engaged all this time, they’ll have to eat what they’ve been printing about you. Always entertaining, watching scandal-sheet scribblers backpedal.”

“But . . .” Rose struggled for breath. Was he insane? She couldn’t pretend to be engaged to him. She’d only just met him.

And yet . . . The camaraderie she’d sensed with Captain McBride was still between them. He was smiling, encouraging her, wanting her to dare to do this.

And why not? The journalists liked to print stories about Rose—from how much her wedding gown had cost to the shocking fact that the first duchess’s jewels had been around her neck when she’d walked down the aisle. They hadn’t, in fact, been jewels Charles had purchased for his first wife, but ones that had belonged to his mother. The first duchess had never worn those, preferring more modern pieces.

If the journalists were going to print stories, why not make certain they wrote about what Rose wanted them to? As Steven said, turn the tables on them?

She’d not had the courage to face them before. But with Steven beside her, Rose was again finding the playfulness she’d had when Charles had courted her—her willingness to ignore convention was one of the things that had attracted Charles to her. Lively, Charles had called her. And cheeky.

Rose sat forward to meet him, sunlight playing between them. “An enticing thought,” she said, wanting to laugh. “But what happens when the charade is at an end? If they believe I jilted you, they will lambaste me.”

“Not necessarily.” Steven’s gray eyes were alight, he looking less hungover by the minute. “I intend to make sure that by the time we are finished, you’ll have plenty of money and can go anywhere you like, do as you please, to hell with what anyone thinks. I have access to some of the best solicitors in London—in all of Britain, in fact—both through my barrister brother and my Mackenzie connections through my sister. Those solicitors could make your stepson cough up what is legally owed you as well as bring suit against the newspapers.”

Rose listened, excitement rising, while Steven rattled this off. “You thought of all this standing in your bedroom this morning, did you?”

Steven shrugged. “It came to me when you told me the vultures were lying in wait at the front door. I didn’t want to leave you to face them alone. With one stroke, you can foil all your enemies.” He slashed his hand down, brushing her knee in the process. Warmth blossomed there, and Rose wanted to both laugh and shiver.

It sounded like such fun—Steven was handing her a tendril of hope, one she wanted to grab and not let go.

She tried to make herself calm. “There is one catch in your plan, you know. If I am betrothed to you, my skinflint stepson will say he has no need to part with any brass at all. A husband takes care of a wife. I won’t get the settlements if he believes I’m ready to marry again.”

Steven gave her an admonishing look. “You leave that to me and the solicitors. Hart Mackenzie employs the best and most ruthless in the realm, and my brother Sinclair knows them all personally. The solicitors will work behind the scenes to bring you what you’re owed, while in front of them, you and I will work to restore your good name.” He lifted the window blind to look briefly out at the cold morning, then dropped it. “I’ve already sown the seeds, so you need to go along with it, don’t you?”

The smile he turned on her as he said the last words crumbled any kind of objections. Steven McBride could make anyone do anything he wanted with such a smile, she decided, which did strange things to her heart.

Rose sank back to the seat, fanning herself with her black-gloved hand. “Why on earth would you do all this for me? You don’t even know me.”

“I’ll say I’m repaying your kindness in taking me home when you thought I was a drunken vagrant. Most ladies would sweep their skirts aside or shout for the police. You felt sorry for me instead.”

“I showed you a kindness, so you wish to pretend to be engaged to me?”

He shrugged. “The ruse also gives me a beautiful lady to escort about. You must keep up your end of it and accompany me everywhere. There are certain . . . attentions I wish to avoid on this trip. A respectable young woman at my side will be just the thing.”

Rose shot him an amused look though she felt a twinge of envy. “The ladies again?” Women likely fell at his feet, and the fact that Steven had to stave them off meant they were many and determined. “Are you certain you wish to be hampered by a fiancée?”

Steven’s look softened, as it had earlier in his bedroom, the hard man becoming a gentle one. “No man could be hampered by you, Rose.”

Even the way he said her name, with a slight roll to the R, curled heat through her.

Rose cleared her throat. “We’ll be closely watched. If you do encounter a lady you wish to spend time with, you’ll have difficulty slipping away with all the journalists pressing against us.” She meant to tease, but Steven gave her a serious look.

“Trust me, I’ll not want to. I’m on leave for two months, one of which I’ll spend in Scotland with my family. I’m not looking for frivolity.” Steven’s gaze moved down her tightly buttoned dress to the hips he’d clasped last night. “Though I can understand a gentleman wanting to be frivolous with you.”

Rose blushed until she thought her face would scorch. “A business arrangement then,” she made herself say. “You help me win back my money and reputation, and I guard you from unwanted attention.”

“Exactly.” Steven held out his hand, his grin returning. “Shall we shake on it?”

“You enjoy shaking hands.” Rose held out her own. “We did this upstairs.”

Steven closed his fingers around hers, the warmth of him coming through his gloves. He exuded so much strength, so much competence, that it filled her, bolstering her.

Rose could do this. If he was adamant about doing her a good turn, she could do him one when this was over. If Captain McBride managed to help Rose get the money Charles wanted her to have, she’d reward him well. Then she’d leave England and travel as she’d always wanted to. Hire a companion instead of being one, and go off to see the world.

The heat of his touch, however, made Rose’s pulse flutter as it never had before. A voice whispered inside her that every moment spent in the company of Steven McBride was a danger to her, and Rose believed it.

***

Memories of the previous day came to Steven as they rolled up to the Langham, a grand hotel situated where Regent Street transitioned to Portland Place. He had taken rooms here, but in his befuddled state of drink last night, Steven hadn’t recalled that.

He’d sought drink not in his usual pursuit of entertainment, but to bolster his courage. His reason for returning to England early for Christmas was a sad one, which he’d have to face soon. Helping Rose would be a way to help him assuage the sadness and perhaps make up for the man he hadn’t been able to save.

The hotel’s manager, a well-dressed gentleman with a voice more posh than any duke’s, came forward at Steven’s beckoning as the doorman helped Rose out of the carriage. “A suite for the lady?” the manager repeated Steven’s request. “Of course, sir. It is no trouble.”

The man had always been accommodating to Steven, liking Steven’s habit of tipping well, as well as liking his Mackenzie connections. The Mackenzies had been staying at the Langham for years, Cameron Mackenzie, Steven’s brother-in-law, practically living there for long stretches at a time. The Mackenzie family had plenty of money, the McBrides, plenty of respectability—a fine combination.

Rose had already attracted a crowd who pointed and whispered as she swept in—the scandalous Duchess of Southdown was in their midst—highly entertaining. Rose pretended not to notice as she spoke cheerfully to the doorman. She slipped a small coin to the very young footman trying to carry all her bags at once, winning an adoring look from him. Rose had nothing, and yet she spared others what little she could.

The manager, obviously having decided that if Rose was now engaged to Steven, Steven might be able to keep her under some sort of control, turned away to bark orders at his underlings.

Steven moved back to Rose, ready to begin his role. Wouldn’t be difficult, he thought as he neared her. She was a graceful and lovely woman, plump rather than painfully slender as fashion dictated. Ringlets of golden hair haloed Rose’s face under her mannish hat—a creation with the brim curled up on one side and a black veil drifting down her back.

When Rose turned to greet Steven, her face flushing with her smile, something twisted in Steven’s heart. She was speaking but he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t move his gaze from her. Couldn’t move his feet either, for that matter.

But Steven was practiced at verisimilitude, and he pasted a smile on his frozen mouth. “All right, darling?”

Rose’s eyes widened at the endearment, but she checked her surprise. Her voice when she answered was breathless, just as it would be when they were in bed, when they’d finished . . .

Stop. Hard-ons in the lobby of the Langham were frowned upon. Must be.

“Yes, of course,” Rose said. “Where shall I direct them to send my luggage?”

Steven forced the lump to leave his throat so he could answer smoothly. “The manager has it well in hand.” The obsequious man, indeed, had glided across the floor to give more orders to the footmen. “Shall we go up?”

Rose nodded and took Steven’s offered arm, her body warm at his side. Steven led her through the staring crowd toward the staircase. They could have taken the lift, which rested between the sweeping flight of stairs, but Steven wanted everyone to see, to notice, to report.

On the first landing, as though oblivious of the men and women around them, Steven twined his arm around Rose’s waist. He looked at her, only her, ignoring the rest of the world.

Easy to do, gazing into those beautiful green eyes, her face pink with excitement and a bit of guilt. Steven pulled Rose a little closer and brushed his lips across hers.

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 he’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.”

Steven snatched the paper from him as Rose clenched her fists. She liked that Steven came back to stand next to her, shoulder to shoulder, to look at the damning document with her.

It was a copy of a parish register from a church near Dundee in Scotland. On it was a plainly written entry:

Rose Elizabeth Barclay and Keith Erskin, married, June, 1880.