“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “It’s no bother, and as I said, Miles can find you things to do, so you can have some coin to take with you.”
He rubbed a hand along his jaw. “What I’d truly like is a razor.”
“That can be supplied. I’ll ask Mrs. Miles.”
Rose reached for the tray. In the confinement of the room, leaning down put her close to him, and she found his face a few inches away. His eyes were stormy gray, a beautiful color.
He did smell a little of whiskey, but the overall scent of him was warm, with a bite of spice. A man a woman would want to curl up with. No wonder ladies got him into trouble—he must attract them by the score.
“What is your name?” she asked, her voice barely working. “If you don’t mind telling me.”
“Steven,” he said. The rumble flowed over her. “McBride. Captain, Twenty-Second Fusiliers.”
Rose couldn’t move. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
His gaze moved to her lips, lingered there for a moment, almost as though he wanted to kiss her. Rose imagined it—his mouth would be strong, Captain McBride kissing her because he wanted to, not asking nicely for it. No politeness. Just desire, a man and a woman, and winter sunshine.
Rose dragged in a breath. She tried to make herself straighten up, but she couldn’t. Captain McBride had a virile handsomeness behind the rough whiskers, not to mention a dangerous and compelling way about him.
Run away with me, Rose wanted to say. She longed to flee the constraints her life, the narrow confinement of mourning and shame, the rabid hunger of the journalists. She imagined herself roving the world with this man, both of them free and laughing, sleeping rough, snuggled together.
Poor and starving, shunned by gentlefolk, and prodded by constables. Ah yes, such a golden land she pictured.
Steven’s expression changed, softening suddenly, and Rose realized she’d smiled at him. The hardness left his face, making him look so tender that Rose nearly dropped the tray.
He lifted one finger and brushed it across her cheek.
Compared to the way he’d clutched her last night, burying his face in first Rose’s bosom then her stomach, the touch was nothing. But fire arced from his fingertips and shot swiftly down her body, lighting every feminine place.
Captain McBride slid his fingertip to her lips. Then his breath, warm and smelling of tea, touched her mouth.
“You’d better find me that razor,” he said, his Scottish voice soft.
“What?” Rose blinked. “Oh. Yes. Of course. At once.”
She made herself straighten up, the tray pressed hard to her stomach. Captain McBride kept his gaze on her, as palpable as his touch, as she backed away from the bed.
Rose forgot the room was so tiny, and she stumbled into the wall. She righted herself with a laugh, her onyx beads bumping her chest, and she swung away.
Now her skirt got caught on the bedpost. Rose tugged at it, but she couldn’t grab it and hold the tray at the same time.
Captain McBride came halfway out of the bed, the covers sliding down to bare his chest, his side, the curve of his hip. Rose stilled, her eyes widening as he reached for the trapped skirt. She’d only seen a body like his in classic statues she was not supposed to look at. But cold marble had nothing on the living flesh of Steven McBride.
Steven tugged her skirt loose and sat back down, unselfconscious. Rose was free now, but she couldn’t make herself cease staring at him. He noticed of course, but he said nothing, only met her gaze with a challenging one of his own.
Rose at last forced herself to turn away and open the door, but again, she had to juggle the tray to navigate the door handle.
A brown hand came around her and pressed the old-fashioned door handle down for her, Steven’s strong arm pulling the door open. Rose had no breath. She knew she shouldn’t dare peek behind her and look at him, but she couldn’t help herself.
He’d managed to bring the quilt with him, wrapped around his waist. Even so, most of his upper body was bare, the heat of it pouring at Rose through her clothes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Steven smiled, a devastating, knock-a-lady-down smile that had nothing feeble about it. Captain McBride knew Rose liked looking at him, and he didn’t mind one bit.
She drew a stifling breath, yanked herself away from him, and scuttled out the door. Rose was halfway down the stairs when she heard his deep and satisfying laughter.
***
The duchess was scintillating. Not an adjective Steven used much in his life, but Rose Southdown was a lovely, lively woman. Her sad story, delivered with an oh-well-things-could-be-worse briskness tugged at his heart.
The coachman’s wife, a plump and pink-cheeked woman, brought up the hot water and razor, and also the pile of Steven’s clothes, brushed out and mostly clean. Steven was disappointed Rose hadn’t delivered them herself, but he’d probably scared her away, coming out of the bed like that.
She’d been married, yes, but to a middle-aged man. Steven remembered meeting the Duke of Southdown once at a soiree at Hart Mackenzie’s mansion. Southdown had been a pleasant enough chap in the English country gentleman sort of way. Hounds, horses, and farming had been his world. Though Southdown was a duke, the highest of the aristocracy, Steven couldn’t help feeling the man would have been more at home talking in the pigsty with his steward about animal husbandry than making pleasantries in a Mayfair drawing room.
Rose’s marriage meant she’d shared a bed with a man, but her shyness with Steven had been deep. Likely Southdown hadn’t removed all his clothes when he came to his wife, only enough of them to do the business.
Or, perhaps Steven wronged the man. Who wouldn’t look at that angel and not fling off his nightshirt and bear her down to the bed?
Mrs. Miles filled the basin, deposited Steven’s cleaned and brushed uniform, gave him a cheery smile, and left him to carry on. Steven filmed his face with soap and carefully shaved his face. Felt good to wash away the stains of travel, too much whiskey, and whatever he’d fallen into out in the street.
He knew he was putting off the inevitable lingering here, but the inevitable was going to be difficult. He couldn’t accomplish the task today anyway, he already knew that. So why shouldn’t Steven take his comfort with the pretty and intriguing widow, cushioning himself against what was to come?
He was closing up the clasps on his uniform jacket when someone knocked on the door. To his “Come,” the plain paneled door swung open to reveal Rose once more.