Rose blushed until she thought her face would scorch. “A business arrangement then,” she made herself say. “You help me win back my money and reputation, and I guard you from unwanted attention.”
“Exactly.” Steven held out his hand, his grin returning. “Shall we shake on it?”
“You enjoy shaking hands.” Rose held out her own. “We did this upstairs.”
Steven closed his fingers around hers, the warmth of him coming through his gloves. He exuded so much strength, so much competence, that it filled the her, bolstering her.
Rose could do this. If he was adamant about doing her a good turn, she could do him one when this was over. If Captain McBride managed to help Rose get the money Charles wanted her to have, she’d reward him well. Then she’d leave England and travel as she’d always wanted to. Hire a companion instead of being one, and go off to see the world.
The heat of his touch, however, made Rose’s pulse flutter as it never had before. A voice whispered inside her that every moment spent in the company of Steven McBride was a danger to her, and Rose believed it.
***
Memories of the previous day came to Steven as they rolled up to the Langham, a grand hotel situated where Regent Street transitioned to Portland Place. He had taken rooms here, but in his befuddled state of drink last night, Steven hadn’t recalled that.
He’d sought drink not in his usual pursuit of entertainment, but to bolster his courage. His reason for returning to England early for Christmas was a sad one, which he’d have to face soon. Helping Rose would be a way to help him assuage the sadness and perhaps make up for the man he hadn’t been able to save.
The hotel’s manager, a well-dressed gentleman with a voice more posh than any duke’s, came forward at Steven’s beckoning as the doorman helped Rose out of the carriage. “A suite for the lady?” the manager repeated Steven’s request. “Of course, sir. It is no trouble.”
The man had always been accommodating to Steven, liking Steven’s habit of tipping well, as well as liking his Mackenzie connections. The Mackenzies had been staying at the Langham for years, Cameron Mackenzie, Steven’s brother-in-law, practically living there for long stretches at a time. The Mackenzie family had plenty of money, the McBrides, plenty of respectability—a fine combination.
Rose had already attracted a crowd who pointed and whispered as she swept in—the scandalous Duchess of Southdown was in their midst—highly entertaining. Rose pretended not to notice as she spoke cheerfully to the doorman. She slipped a small coin to the very young footman trying to carry all her bags at once, winning an adoring look from him. Rose had nothing, and yet she spared others what little she could.
The manager, obviously having decided that if Rose was now engaged to Steven, Steven might be able to keep her under some sort of control, turned away to bark orders at his underlings.
Steven moved back to Rose, ready to begin his role. Wouldn’t be difficult, he thought as he neared her. She was a graceful and lovely woman, plump rather than painfully slender as fashion dictated. Ringlets of golden hair haloed Rose’s face under her mannish hat—a creation with the brim curled up on one side and a black veil drifting down her back.
When Rose turned to greet Steven, her face flushing with her smile, something twisted in Steven’s heart. She was speaking but he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t move his gaze from her. Couldn’t move his feet either, for that matter.
But Steven was practiced at verisimilitude, and he pasted a smile on his frozen mouth. “All right, darling?”
Rose’s eyes widened at the endearment, but she checked her surprise. Her voice when she answered was breathless, just as it would be when they were in bed, when they’d finished . . .
Stop. Hard-ons in the lobby of the Langham were frowned upon. Must be.
“Yes, of course,” Rose said. “Where shall I direct them to send my luggage?”
Steven forced the lump to leave his throat so he could answer smoothly. “The manager has it well in hand.” The obsequious man, indeed, had glided across the floor to give more orders to the footmen. “Shall we go up?”
Rose nodded and took Steven’s offered arm, her body warm at his side. Steven led her through the staring crowd toward the staircase. They could have taken the lift, which rested between the sweeping flight of stairs, but Steven wanted everyone to see, to notice, to report.
On the first landing, as though oblivious of the men and women around them, Steven twined his arm around Rose’s waist. He looked at her, only her, ignoring the rest of the world.
Easy to do, gazing into those beautiful green eyes, her face pink with excitement and a bit of guilt. Steven pulled Rose a little closer and brushed his lips across hers.
The tiniest kiss, that of a man unable to stop himself touching his beloved, but Steven’s body nearly exploded. Heat rushed from Rose’s soft mouth to burn through every nerve of him. Steven’s heart constricted again, and if there was a rule against full-blown hard-ons on the hotel’s main staircase, he was in trouble.
Rose’s breath was warm, her body a soft bit of heaven. Her lips parted as Steven lifted away from her, her eyes half-closed with the stirrings of desire.
No wonder Rose was followed about, no wonder her every move filled the scandal sheets. Every man in London must be falling over his feet to have her, their pursuit giving the scribblers plenty to write about. Now they’d write about Steven as well, and his privilege of kissing this beautiful woman.
Rose blinked a little, no doubt wanting to tell him to go to the devil, but she kept up the pretense and gave him a little smile instead. No one passing would believe anything but that Rose was happily engaged to Steven. He tightened his arm around Rose and led her on up the stairs.
Steven’s lips burned from the brief contact, firing him from the inside out. If he got out of this little charade alive, it would be a bloody miracle.
***
“A tricky problem,” the solicitor said.
Steven and Rose sat in comfortable chairs in the parlor of Rose’s suite at the hotel that afternoon, the solicitor, Mr. Collins, facing them. Mr. Collins was surprisingly young—Rose surmised he couldn’t have been more than his early thirties. But he came highly recommended by both the Duke of Kilmorgan and Steven’s barrister brother, Sinclair McBride. Mr. Collins had a shock of bright red hair, a tastefully trimmed moustache, and a neat black suit. Everything correct.
Steven had changed out of his regimentals and had donned a McBride plaid kilt, plain white shirt and waistcoat, and a black frock coat. He wore thick wool socks that emphasized his strong calves, and low leather shoes. Rose could not help surreptitiously running her gaze over him, more than once. More than twice. He made a delectable picture.