Scandal And The Duchess

She’d steadied him with gentle hands the night he’d fallen drunkenly into her, and Steven wanted her to steady him the rest of his life. He needed her. No—it went beyond need.

He loved her.

Steven had been telling her the past few days, in a light tone, that he considered them engaged in truth, and that they’d marry soon. Rose had laughed with him as though she thought him joking.

It was no joke. Steven spoke that way because he didn’t know how to be serious. Feared it.

When he found Rose, he would put her over his shoulder and run out of here with her. Then he’d shake a special license out of someone and marry her. Tonight.

She was the only woman he’d consider continuing his existence with.

“Rosie!” he yelled, his words echoing hollowly. “Answer me, damn it.”

“What’s that?” the boy behind him asked.

Steven halted. The boy darted around him, disobeying, as boys did, and pointed ahead of them. Steven flashed his lantern and saw nothing, but then the boy shielded the light and pointed again.

Steven saw it then, a dim outline of something square. A door?

“Behind me,” Steven said sternly as the boy started forward. The lad sighed and let Steven take the lead again.

The outline grew sharper as they neared it, and the air coming to them turned colder and less dank.

Steven could move swiftly even bent double, having had to run and stay within cover on many occasions in his career. He made it to the dim light to find it was indeed a door, or at least a set of boards nailed together to simulate one.

Steven shoved it open to nearly trip on stone steps on the other side. He hurried up these, finding at the top, in the mud, the precise pointed-toe print of one of Rose’s high-heeled boots.

But where had she gone after that? “Rose!” he shouted.

Barking answered him, faint and far away. Logically Steven knew it could be any dog, not necessarily the one from the Southdown estate, but he turned his steps toward the sound without pausing to think.

He shouted again, continuing his path toward the answering bark. Steven pushed through bramble and undergrowth beneath tall trees, the branches tearing at his coat. The boy surged on ahead, unafraid now, but it struck Steven that the lad wasn’t worried because he knew exactly where they were.

“What’s over there?” Steven asked him. His heart was in his throat as he waited for the answer. An old well? A pit? A cliff?

“Come on, sir,” the boy said, running nimbly through the trees. Steven hurried to catch up with him.

The woods opened out into a large clearing so suddenly that Steven staggered to a halt. He dropped his lantern which had already extinguished in the wind, his hand now too numb to hold it.

What was in the clearing had caused him to drop it. First he saw Rose. Second, he saw what Rose stood before—a house.

Not a house. A fairy castle. That was the only explanation. They’d run through the tunnel and emerged in cloud-cuckoo land, where miniature sugar-spun palaces dotted the landscape.

The house was small but done in such exacting detail it was as though someone had built a mansion and then shrunk it. It was two stories, the ground floor filled with many-paned windows, columns, and pediments over the windows and the double front door. The second floor was covered with a mansard roof, with scalloped gray-slate tiles. Dormer windows with curved peaks broke out from the roofline. Half of the cottage was covered with vines with dark green leaves, which would bloom a riot of colors in the late spring and summer. Roses.

The columns on either side of the door had been carved with the same kind of vines, except these were covered with carved and painted roses—red, pink, yellow, and white. The roses met in the plaster molding above the door, twining together into a heart.

A garden had been planted around it, barren now for winter, but the bushes were full and would be fuller in the growing season. It was neat and sculpted, again as though someone had taken the gardens of Versailles and given them a good rinsing until they were small enough to fit here.

Rose stood in the middle of this garden, wind buffeting her coat and hatless hair, staring at the door and its rose motif. She might have been caught in a spell, frozen here to stare at this house for eternity, or until her lover kissed her and woke her.

“Rose!” Steven called.

Rose turned around and saw him. So did the dog. Steven realized that with the wind rushing and roaring in the trees as it was, she’d not been able to hear his cries. She waved to him as the black dog loped to him, then Rose went back to studying the house.

“Isn’t this—” she began. Then “Oop!” as Steven barreled into her and dragged her off her feet. He spun around with her once, then set her back down and began kissing her.

Rose was all that was warmth and spice. Her mouth was a point of heat in the cold, her face sweetly smooth, flushed from the wind. Her body fit nicely into Steven’s arms. After her first start, she flowed against him, holding him as he held her.

She was alive, and whole, and well. Steven hugged her harder, pressing her to him, kissing her again and again. Rose laughed, and he kissed her smile, taking the whole of her into himself.

He was vaguely aware of the boy, who’d reached the house, patiently waiting with the dog until they finished the uninteresting bit.

Rose tried to push away from Steven, but he held her fast. “Rosie,” he breathed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I was waiting for you,” she said. Magical words in this magical place.