“Off with you,” the footman growled at Steven. The constable came faster, his tall helmet bobbing out of the gloom and making Steven laugh harder.
Laughter and the footman’s heavy hands made Steven slide down the woman’s body. He found the hard street beneath his knees, his face buried in her abdomen, the black bombazine of her gown smooth against his nose.
She smelled wonderful. The perfume didn’t come from a bottle. It was her—soap and the scent of fabric, warmth and woman. Steven pressed a his face to her belly, wanting to take his ease with her.
“Sir.” Her hands were on his hair. Steven snuggled in closer. If they’d been alone and without so many clothes, this would be the perfect way to finish the night.
She leaned to him, his angel, and whispered, “What on earth are you doing?”
“Loving you,” Steven said. “You deserve every bit of loving a man can give you.”
“Oh,” she said. “You are very drunk, I believe. Perhaps the nice constable will see you home.”
“No home.” His home was a tent in Africa, under huge sky, in blessed warmth. “I have no home.”
“Dear me, that’s sad. Do you need money? Perhaps a meal?”
Steven’s laughter returned. She thought him a homeless, helpless sot, and maybe he was.
The journalists surged forward. More people seemed to be on the street, and someone threw a stone. “Tart!” a woman yelled. “Be off with ye.”
The coachman growled. He flung open the door of the coach and more or less hoisted the woman inside. Steven grabbed the door as it swung shut, hanging on to it to keep him upright. The coachman started to wrench him away, but the journalists pushed in, as did the sudden crowd. London loved a riot—best way to keep warm in the winter, Steven mused—any excuse to begin one.
“Miles, let him in. He’ll get trampled.”
Steven heard her voice, felt himself be hauled up under the arms by a man of amazing strength, and then he met the floor of the carriage. The door slammed, bumping Steven’s booted foot. After a moment, the carriage jerked forward, and things splattered against it—the denizens making good use of the handy horse apples in the street.
The angel seemed to be speaking to him. Steven heard her clear voice but no words. He laid his head on her skirt, blissfully warm, and drifted off to sleep.
***
When Steven cracked open his eyes, it was daylight; at least as much daylight that could filter through the narrow, dirty window on a London winter day.
The narrow window went with the narrow room, wide enough only for a single bed and a corner washstand. That was all. No curtain or blind, no bureau, no cheerful fire, only a brick chimney that went up through the room and gave off a modicum of heat.
Where the hell was he? The last thing Steven remembered was a card game . . .
No, a cold London street, someone throwing things . . .
Green eyes, red lips curving into a little smile, and a scent like roses. Deep red roses, heady and intense.
Had Steven dreamed her? If so, he wanted to go back to sleep.
But the cold, Steven’s pounding head, and details of the night were knocking for attention. He should climb out of bed, dress, and face his problems like a Scotsman and a soldier.
The bed was warm, and raising his head hurt like hell. Steven laid it back down.
He must have slept again, because when he opened his eyes again, the room was brighter. The door swung open, and in came his angel with a wooden tray heaped with crockery.
“Good morning,” she said brightly. “Would you like some tea?”
Chapter Two
The unknown man stared at her over the bedcovers with bloodshot, sunken eyes, and a face covered with stubble. Rose reminded herself he was a pathetic creature, a war veteran, likely in need of charity.
The former soldiers she’d seen eking out a living on the streets weren’t nearly as handsome as this one, though. Winter sunlight burnished his short hair golden, his whiskers too. His hard face was the bronze color of someone who’d spent time in a climate hotter than England’s. Rose had thought him older on the street, but she could see now that he was a fairly young man, battered and suntanned from his profession.
The man’s eyes, other than being bloodshot, were a profound gray. He pinned her with that gray gaze as though she were an enemy soldier, not a kind young woman come to bring him breakfast.
“They called you duchess,” he said in a voice strong despite his obvious hangover.
“Briefly,” Rose said, carrying the tray toward him. The tray had small legs and was designed to go over the breakfaster’s lap, much like one her mother had owned. The lady of the house always took breakfast in bed, her mother had told the child Rose, the privilege of a wife. What had become of that tray Rose sadly didn’t know. “I was Duchess of Southdown,” Rose said. “Still am, really—the dowager duchess now. What do they call you?”
The man ignored her question, his gaze becoming more focused. “What I mean is, if you’re a duchess, why are you carrying trays to hungover officers in your garret? If this is a garret. Where the devil am I?”
He had a pleasant Scots accent and a nice rumbling baritone to go with it. A lady could listen to his voice all day and not tire of it.
“This is Miles’s house,” Rose said. “He didn’t know where else to bring you. Or me. Miles is my coachman. Well, he was my coachman. I’m staying with him at the moment.”
“Your coachman.”
“That’s right.” Rose gave him an encouraging smile. “Now I have tea here, and plenty of toast with jam and butter, and a bit of sausage. Mrs. Miles makes a wonderful breakfast. Perhaps Miles can find a few odd jobs for you to do for a bit of coin before you go. Would you like that?”
The man’s look turned to a glare—perhaps Rose shouldn’t have mentioned the work; his pride was obviously intact. He didn’t soften his gaze, but he struggled to sit up, his nostrils widening at the scent of the hot food. He was hungry, poor lamb.
The man’s bare torso emerged from the blankets, and Rose swallowed and tightened her hold on the tray. His shoulders and chest were broad and sunbaked, his chest dusted with golden curls. The hard planes of his torso made her remember him falling against her, how she’d felt the steel of muscle beneath his soiled uniform coat.
This man had honed his body, had fought with it, if the scarred fingers, healed from breaks, told her anything. She could imagine women running their fingers down his chest, finding the hollows and planes of it, touching the dark areola that slid above the sheet.