Chapter Nine

Beth was delighted with the ruse. In an elegant box that belonged to the Duke of Kilmorgan, she clasped her hands and laughed at Steven’s tale of meeting Rose and his decision to begin the pretense. Rose listened with some trepidation, but Beth appeared to find nothing wrong with their behavior.

“Marvelous,” Beth said. “That stopped a few wagging tongues, I imagine.”

“Now they’re wagging about this betrothal,” Rose said. “Wagging very hard, it seems. Steven wouldn’t bring a newspaper upstairs today.”

“I didn’t want you worrying, Rosie.” Steven laced his fingers through Rose’s. “You have enough to think on already.”

Beth watched him kiss Rose’s fingers and raised her brows. “Are you certain it’s only a ruse?”

Steven winked at her. “For now.” Rose tried to pretend it was all part of the game, but her face went hot.

Ian appeared to have lost interest in the entire conversation. His attention was fixed now on a silk ribbon attached to Beth’s sleeve, which he’d untied from its ornamental bow. Now he wrapped one end around his large finger, rubbed his thumb over it, unwound it, and started the process over again. He sat very close to Beth, his thigh overlapping into her chair as he continued to caress her ribbon.

He was an unusual man, certainly. Odd, even. But watching him, Rose saw how gentle he was with Beth, and how he couldn’t stay far from her. He liked watching her too, his gaze softening when she smiled at him, while with Steven and Rose he was still a bit stiff. Shy, Rose thought, though this seemed more than simple shyness.

Beth possessed an openness her husband lacked. She engaged Rose in conversation without stiltedness, neither awed by the fact that Rose was a duchess or put off by the rumors about her. Beth spoke to Rose as though they were already friends, and Rose, for the first time in years, had an enjoyable evening.

Rose now understood Steven’s insistence that they watch the play with the Mackenzies from this box. Plenty of lorgnettes and opera glasses trained on them from other boxes and the stalls below, and plenty of heads moved together to discuss it. No one paid much attention to the play. But this box belonged to Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan, Lord Ian’s brother. None of the staring people would accost them here.

When the drama onstage was over, and they rose to leave, Steven suggested they all go to the Albion for a light meal before they retired. Ian said absolutely nothing, but annoyance flickered in his eyes.

He wanted to be alone with his wife, Rose saw. Sitting with a stranger and even with Steven had difficult for him, she understood. In any other man, Rose might take this for rudeness, but having watched him all evening, Rose saw that Ian’s oddities made him different, and he knew it. He tried to blend in, but he knew.

Rose saw too that Beth loved him. The little glances she’d given her husband to make sure he was all right and the secret looks they exchanged told Rose that theirs was a special bond indeed.

She couldn’t help wishing for one exactly like it.

“Perhaps not,” Rose said, while Steven waited for Beth’s answer. “I am rather tired. It’s been a wonderful evening, but we had a long day, and I’m weary.”

Steven took her hand and stepped against her, looking down into her eyes. “Of course, love.”

For a single moment, as Steven’s gray gaze fixed on her and her alone, nothing else existed. The noise of the emptying theatre went away, the draft that came into the box as a footman held open the door, Beth’s low voice as she spoke to Ian. Only Steven filled Rose’s world, his smile, the warmth in his eyes, his voice wrapping around her as he said, Of course, love.

She wanted to save the moment, and never let it go.

Then Steven kissed her hand, released it, and turned to fetch her coat.

As they exited the box, Steven and Beth talking easily again, Ian moved in front of Rose and stopped, facing her. His tall body filled the doorway, blocking her way out. As Rose started to politely ask him to let her pass, Ian leaned to her, pitching his voice low.

“He needs it to be real.”

Rose blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Ian waited for a few seconds of silence, as though thinking through his words. “He needs it to be real,” he repeated slowly. “With you.”

The words were simple, yet something caught in Rose’s heart. She cleared her throat. “Captain McBride is helping me. That is all.”

Ian shook his head, his brows lowering. “No. You are helping him.”

He turned away, moving to where Beth and Steven waited in the hall. Steven gave Rose an inquiring look, but Ian turned to Beth, the rest of the world forgotten as he absorbed himself in her.

***

Rose pondered what Ian had said on the silent ride back to the hotel. Steven said little, his laughter gone as he looked moodily out the window to the dark night.

He needs it to be real.

Needed what to be real? The betrothal? The affection Rose was developing for him? More than affection . . .

Steven McBride did not need her. He was a good-natured, attractive, entertainment-seeking bachelor who liked to play cards and imbibe a little too much—although he’d been quite moderate in his drink tonight. He came from a respectable Scottish family and had highborn friends and connections like the Mackenzies. His fellow officers apparently thought well of him. Why would Steven need a betrothal to a scandalous woman like Rose?

She had no idea, and no idea why Steven became moodier and more abrupt when they reached the hotel. It was late enough that not many people were about, but couples in evening finery still watched as the two of them ascended the stairs together.

Outside their suites of rooms, Rose started to say good night, but Steven stopped and tugged her hand out of the crook of his arm.

“I can’t do it, Rosie.”

Rose faced him, raising her brows to hide the rapid beating of her heart. “Can’t do what?”

“Stay here and go tamely to bed, knowing you’re—”

He broke off, took her key from her and unlocked her door. He opened it and guided her inside, hand on her elbow. The parlor of Rose’s suite was still lit, a coal fire dancing on the hearth in anticipation of her return.

“Knowing I’m what?” Rose asked.

Steven closed the door. “Knowing you’re in here.” The words were almost a snarl. “On the other side of the wall, while I try to be a gentleman and stay away from you.” He cupped her cheek with his warm hand. “It’s too damned hard.”

It was hard for Rose too. She touched his fingers. “The world already thinks it, Steven,” she said softly, hearing the tremble in the words. “In spite of our separate rooms. You know they do.”

Heat flared in Steven’s eyes, then his look turned self-deprecating. “I’m trying to help you win back your good name, not tarnish it more.” He laced his fingers through hers and lifted her hand to his lips. “I can’t stay in the hotel, lass. I’ll never sleep if I do, and I have an appointment to keep tomorrow. I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”

Rose gripped his hand when he tried to withdraw it. “Don’t.”

“No choice, love.” Steven kissed the tip of her nose but held himself stiffly away from her. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Rose said faintly, letting him go.

She watched him move across the room, taking up the hat he’d dropped to a table. “Steven,” she called.

He turned back at the door, impatient to be away.

“Be careful,” Rose said. “You’ve been . . . ill the last two mornings . . .”

“From overindulging?” His smile was wry. “Don’t worry, love. The appointment tomorrow is too important for me to arrive hungover. Sweet dreams.” Steven swung away and said nothing more as he disappeared out the door.

An important appointment with a grieving widow. Whoever she might be.

Steven had dropped the silk scarf he’d worn tonight around his neck. Rose lifted it, debated running after him with it, then lifted it to her lips instead. The soft fabric still held his warmth, but it didn’t ease the ache in Rose’s heart.

***

Steven was packing up the effects of one Captain Ronald Ellis the next morning when Rose tapped on the door of Steven’s parlor and entered to his grunted, “Come in.”

Rose stopped in surprise upon seeing the valise and the red uniform being laid inside. “Gracious, are you leaving?”

The note in her voice was one of dismay and alarm, which warmed Steven’s heart unexpectedly. She hadn’t asked with polite disinterest but with worry that he was going.

Steven smoothed out the uniform. “This isn’t mine. I’m taking it to the widowed Mrs. Ellis.”

“Oh.” He saw Rose readjust her thoughts. “The woman who tried to call on you yesterday?”

“The very one.”

Rose came to him and studied the pile inside the valise then reached in and started pulling things out to refold. Steven relinquished the task to her. As a soldier, he’d learned to pack efficiently, but the ability had deserted him this morning.

“Why does she not wish you to come?” Rose asked, shaking out and folding the red uniform coat. “I would think she’d want her husband’s things returned.”

“She wants the things,” Steven said. “Not me.” He let out a breath. “But I need to go. To finish this.”

Steven had no wish to face Laura Ellis this morning, but he owed it to Ronald. Laura would hate him, and that was fine. He’d go to her, let her take out her grief on him, and that would be all. He’d promised Ronald.

Rose was watching him out of the corner of her eye as she packed. She had no idea what this was all about, but she wasn’t impatient or demanding him to explain. Steven folded his arms and let her warmth drift over him, closing his eyes to it. He wasn’t hungover this morning, but somehow he’d prefer a pounding headache and brassy throat to the remorse in his heart.

“Would you like me to go with you?” Rose was asking.

Steven popped his eyes open. “There’s no need . . .” He trailed off. Rose’s gaze was full of compassion, a softness for Steven. She’d had that even the first night he’d met her and fallen so cravenly into her bosom.

“Yes,” he said. “Please. Come with me, Rosie.”

***

Ellis had inherited a house north of Oxford Street, near Cavendish Square. Rose had asked Miles her former coachman to drive them, saying that such an errand should not be made in a hired hack. If Albert found out, he’d have to lump it, she said decidedly. Steven was torn between laughter at her resolve and dread of his errand.

Rain had started coming down in earnest. The London streets were soaked, mist rising from the pavements. Miles drove slowly, the roads slippery, but all too soon, he pulled up in front of the house in Mortimer Street.

Steven had dressed in his regimentals for this errand, and rain fell on his bare head as he descended. Rose started to come out after him, but Steven forestalled her.

“No need for that. You stay cozy in here.” He took the valise she handed him and gave her hand a caress. “Knowing you’re out here waiting for me will be enough to sustain me.”

“Please give Mrs. Ellis my condolences,” Rose said. “I know how difficult this is for her.”

Because Rose herself had lost a beloved husband, she meant. But she didn’t understand the half of it, unfortunately. “Thanks, love. Stay warm, now.”

Steven squared his shoulders, hefted the valise, stepped to the door, and knocked upon it.

***

“Steven.” Laura rose from where she sat at a writing table as her maid admitted him. The maid had tried to tell him that Mrs. Ellis wasn’t receiving, but Steven overrode her. “I asked for you not to come.”

“I know.” Steven set the valise on a table and opened it. “But I know you’d regret ever after if I didn’t. Here it is.”

Laura stared at the valise as though it held a snake. She took one step, two, and peered inside.

“He wanted you to have it,” Steven said, gentling his voice. “I couldn’t not bring it.”

Laura ran her hand over the uniform coat inside, fingers catching on the buttons and braid. Her shoulders sagged.

“And this.” Steven removed a locket and chain from his pocket and pressed it into her hands.

Laura stared down at it, anguish on her face. “What do we do now? Tell me, Steven. What do I do?”

“We remember him. And honor him.”

“Yes. Yes, I . . .” Her voice broke, and as Steven had feared, Laura burst into sobs. “I can’t. I loved him. I’ll never, ever love anyone like that again.”

Her cries were heartbreaking. She rushed at Steven, reaching for him, needing him.

Steven had come here intending to be firm with her, even callous if he needed to be, but he saw now that Laura was truly suffering. He pulled her into his arms, and Laura clung to him, weeping into his shoulder.

The weeping was more than grief, Steven knew. It was guilt for her part in the affair, guilt at cuckolding Steven, fear that she’d driven Ronald to his death. Steven carried his own share of guilt.

The door of the room creaked open, and a breath of air entered the stifling room. “Is everything all right?” Rose asked in her voice like soothing rain. “Can I help?”