He stilled, startled, the papers and furniture forgotten. No woman in Steven’s history of women—and that history was a full one—had ever told him, concern in her eyes, to wrap up warm. Not one had mentioned the slightest concern for Steven’s well-being. They wanted him for what attention he could give them, and that was all.
Steven laid a hand on her shoulder, his heart full. “I will, lass. You rest now, and start making arrangements of your own.”
Rose didn’t reach to button her bodice, as many women would once they knew the encounter was over. She only sat, open and beautiful for Steven’s gaze.
“Arrangements for what? I should wait to see if we can find the settee first, shouldn’t I?”
Steven made himself step away from her, but it took every bit of his strength to do it. “Arrangements for our wedding,” he said, giving her a wink. “I’m marrying you, remember?”
As Rose gaped, Steven forced himself to turn around, walk across the room, pick up his greatcoat and hat, and wrench open the door. He deliberately did not glance at her one last time—if he did that, he’d never leave.
He heard her say, Good afternoon, still polite, though he’d more-or-less been ravishing her. Steven lifted his hand in acknowledgement but he strode out into the cool hall without looking back and shut the door.
Steven’s body thrummed with the heat of her all the way down the stairs and out of the hotel, and even the freezing winter rain slapping him in the face couldn’t cool him.
***
Steven stayed out the rest of the afternoon and into the darkness of evening. Rose couldn’t settle into any task—not mending or writing letters or reading. Steven hadn’t let the staff bring in any newspapers this morning, and it was just as well. No telling what the journalists had written about her since last night.
I’m marrying you, remember? The words Steven had shot at her before he’d gone rang in her head.
Had he been joking? Steven loved humor, she’d already come to know. He couldn’t really mean to marry her—he’d been teasing her, of course. That was what Steven did. He expected Rose to laugh along with him, and she would.
He’d been gone several hours when the maid who’d been waiting on Rose—Alice was her name—tapped on her door. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the middle-aged and straight-backed woman said. “There is a lady wishing to speak with Captain McBride. She wanted to come up with me, but the manager has kept her to a back parlor.”
“Is she a journalist?” Rose asked in alarm.
“She says not. Doesn’t have the look, Your Grace. More like a highborn lady, and a widow at that. She wouldn’t give her name, though.”
“Hmm.” If this lady was one of Steven’s friends, why wouldn’t she want her name sent up to him? “She was alone?”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, apart from her maid.”
A woman conscious of propriety then. Female journalists these days could be seen whisking about alone, which often caused more brow-raising than the stories they wrote, but a respectable lady went nowhere without at least one servant to escort her.
Rose’s curiosity wouldn’t let it lie. If the woman proved to be a journalist, masquerading as a lady, Rose would be sweet as sugar to her but send her off. If the lady truly was connected with Steven, Rose could at least pass on a message to him.
No, truth to be told, she simply wanted to lay eyes on a woman who would come boldly to a hotel and ask for Steven.
“Shall I tell her you are coming down?” Alice asked as Rose straightened her dress and smoothed her hair.
“No,” Rose said abruptly. “No . . . I’ll just go.”
Alice gave her a sage nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rose’s hair was still not right from Steven having pulled it out of its pins, no matter how much she struggled with it. She gave another curl a fierce push into place and left the room.
Chapter Eight
Alice accompanied Rose, rather like a guard dog. Rose let her lead the way to a small parlor buried deep inside the hotel’s ground floor. Alice opened the door before Rose could ask her to and announced in a rather grand voice, “The Duchess of Southdown. Ma’am.”
She curtseyed, and Rose went past her into the room.
The woman who rose from the curved sofa, giving Rose a look of confusion, was certainly no journalist. She wore black, as Rose did, widow’s weeds, but her mourning was fresh. Her black hat trailed crepe to her knees, and a thick black veil, which she’d lifted from her face, would cover her completely when down.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said in a cultured voice. “I am waiting for someone.”
“For Captain McBride,” Rose said. She closed the door behind her, but she was now uncertain she should have come down. “He is out. Is there any message I can deliver to him?”
The woman gave Rose a look as assessing and curious as the one Rose must be giving her. This lady could not have been reading newspapers either, because she showed no recognition of Rose’s name, or the fact that it was now coupled with Steven’s.
“Only this,” the widow said. “Captain McBride has no need to visit while he is in London. Please tell him that.” She paused a beat. “Your Grace.”
The title was delivered in a skeptical tone, as though she didn’t truly believe Rose a duchess of any kind. She thought Rose Steven’s paramour, Rose realized, just as Rose suspected this lady of being one herself.
Steven had told Rose the first morning that his vices were too much drink, too much gambling, and too much interest in the ladies. He’d kissed Rose with fire—any woman would be happy to melt beneath him. Had this one? A small pain entered Rose’s heart.
Practically speaking, however, though this lady might have been Steven’s paramour in the past, at the moment, her face was pale with grief, her eyes red-rimmed. She’d recently lost someone very close to her, and Rose was moved to compassion.
“I will tell him,” Rose said, gentling her voice. “My condolences on your loss.”
The woman’s face started to crumple, but she caught herself and raised a gloved hand to her lips. “Thank you.”
Rose went to her and laid a hand on her arm. “If there is anything I can do . . .”
The woman looked up at her, tears fleeing as she gave Rose a startled look. “No. Nothing. Thank you, Your Grace.” The honorific was delivered with more conviction this time.