Scandal And The Duchess

Steven flashed a grin over his shoulder. “I promise you, if God has a stash of gold bars, Hart lent them to Him.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Steven held out his hand to her. Why did Rose not hesitate to walk to him and take it?

“Keep the cabinet,” he said. Rose couldn’t hear much over the pounding of her heart, but that’s what she thought he said. “You love it, and if Collins is as good as he claims, you won’t need to sell it.”

“I have to ask you again why you’re helping me, Steven.” The words were not the ones Rose wanted to come out of her mouth, but they did anyway.

Steven switched his gaze to her, losing his smile. He stood too close to her—she could see the dark ring around his pale gray irises.

“Did you want me to leave you hanging with the pesky newspapermen waiting to pounce?” he asked. “Journalists can shred a person, break them, ruin their lives, and then go home and pour tea. Congratulating themselves on a job well done. Rumor, gossip, scandal—they dish it out and don’t care who they leave in the gutter. I’m not letting that happen to you.”

Steven’s brows were drawn, his anger raw. Rose watched him in surprise. She drew a breath to ask him if he spoke of an experience in particular, when Steven wrapped his arm around Rose and dragged her to him for a savage kiss.

Chapter Seven

The breath she’d started to draw didn’t reach her lungs. Rose couldn’t move. Her world narrowed to Steven, his strength, his lips on hers.

The kiss was fierce, not loving. He scraped her mouth open, invading. The room was hot, the fire stoked high, and Rose went hotter still.

Steven tasted of anger, powerfully so, his hands on her back just as powerful. Rose knew she was surrendering to him, and she didn’t care one whit.

Steven lifted her off her feet. As the kiss broke, he deposited her on the smooth top of the chest.

Rose’s hands landed on the cool wood, her heart pounding. Steven’s knee pushed through her skirts, parting her legs, giving him room to step between them and against her. Rose’s throat went dry, her slippered feet sliding to Steven’s legs before she told them to

She felt his arousal through the wool of his kilt, through her volume of skirts. He surrounded her with his warmth, with himself.

He ran a strong hand through her hair, letting curls tumble free. “You should nae be all buttoned and pinned like this,” he said. “You were meant to have your hair down, your clothes loose. No reason to hide your beauty.”

“But . . . I . . .” Only syllables came out, and those in a stammer.

Steven’s fingers undid the first button under her chin. “You’re so beautiful, Rosie. Do as you like, and damn them all.”

Rose should protest that she was a lady, a respectable widow, that she was buttoned up and prim to keep others from talking about her more than they already did.

She couldn’t say anything. Do as you like, and damn them all.

He was tempting her. She shouldn’t let him. Rose should be adamant, become the prudish, haughty duchess and tell him what she thought of his liberties.

She could only sit still while Steven unfastened another button, and another. His fingers were hot, his fingertips rough. The backs of his hands were crisscrossed with scars, and each of his fingers had been broken at some time and healed—a fighting man’s hands.

Steven left off with the buttons and traced her now-exposed throat. “You have the sweetest skin, my Rose. I want to kiss it.” He leaned closer. “I want to kiss every inch of it.”

Please do, she wanted to answer, but again, her words choked off.

Steven undid more buttons, then pulled her placket apart.

The top of Rose’s bodice opened, revealing her br**sts swelling over her corset. Rose thought her heart would be leaping out of her chest, but no, everything was whole and smooth, as it should be.

Steven’s gaze raked down her, his glance admiring. “I knew you’d be a beauty.”

Rose swallowed, and Steven traced the swallow with his fingertips to her br**sts. His touch was caressing, smoothing, but left streaks of fire in its wake.

Just as Rose thought she’d never breathe again, Steven took his fingers away, leaned down, and pressed his lips to where his touch had been.

Rose’s chest lifted with a sudden intake of air. Steven’s mouth was hot, wicked, teasing. She dragged in another breath as he pressed kisses to her exposed skin.

She stretched her legs, her feet flexing of their own accord, while Steven kissed between her br**sts, licked, played. He moved his hands down her back to her hips, cupping her there.

Rose was shameless, and she didn’t care. The world already thought her a fallen woman—what did she have to lose?

“Rosie,” Steven whispered, his Scots accent thick. “Ye taste like heaven. What are ye doing to me?”

His words burned against her skin. Rose felt a sharp pull on her flesh, the bite of Steven’s teeth.

He was suckling her, she realized, taking the soft skin of her breast into his mouth. The small pain set her ablaze. Rose hadn’t known her body could flush with such need, her ni**les tightening until they ached. She was surrounded by Steven’s warmth, strength, scent.

She wound her arms around him, holding him while he licked, kissed, suckled. His arousal pressed to the join of her legs, wanting undisguised.

Steven raised his head, his mouth wet, his short hair mussed. He brushed one finger over the mark he’d made on her breast. “You’re mine now, Rosie. I’ve claimed you.”