Scandal and the Duchess

by Jennifer Ashley

  There was more of her body to enjoy. Steven licked between her breasts again, then kissed his way down to her abdomen. He sank to his knees as he went, touching a kiss to her firm belly. The tight lines of it told him Rose had never borne a child, which accounted for some of the sadness in her eyes. Her marriage should have given her that gift.

  Steven teased her navel with his tongue, and Rose laughed. She didn’t ask what he was doing, didn’t try to push him away. She only ran a hand over his head and took another breath as he kissed the swirl of hair between her thighs.

  Golden and beautiful. Rose made a faint noise in her throat as Steven leaned forward, nudged her thighs apart a little, and closed his mouth over her opening.

  With my body, I thee worship. Steven had always liked the titillating words of the marriage ceremony. I worship you, Rose. I treasure you.

  He slid his tongue into her, tasting her delights, wondering that he’d waited so long. He’d wanted to fall upon her the very night he’d . . . well, fallen upon her. Or that morning, when he’d lain in this very room, unclothed, and she’d leaned over him to gather up his breakfast tray . . .

  As Steven rested his fingertips on her thighs and drank her in, he let himself imagine how that would have gone. The tray on the floor, the dishes smashing. Rose on his bed, clothes coming away. The covers pushed aside, she straddling him. Her head back, her breasts moving softly in the rhythm of what they did.

  Steven closed hands on her, his tongue doing what he’d wanted to that first morning. Rose made sounds of feminine pleasure, her fingers gripping his hair, but he didn’t mind the pain. Steven flicked his tongue over the tight part of her, smiling as she started, her body meeting the wall with a quiet slap.

  He couldn’t wait any longer. Steven gave her one final lick, then he rose up the length of her, in contact with her all the way, his skin already slick with sweat in spite of the cold.

  Rose started to laugh as Steven lifted her, giving him a look of surprise from her languid eyes that he wasn’t carrying her to the bed. But Steven was in too much of a hurry for something so tame.

  Her laughter changed to a gasp when Steven parted her legs and slid straight up into her.

  ***

  Rose clutched at Steven as he pressed her open, filling her, finding spaces inside her she didn’t know existed. He was hard and hot, and she was wet from what he’d done with his mouth and hands. No man had ever touched her as Steven had today—she hadn’t even realized men and women did such things.

  But his mouth on her had wiped away all rational thought, erasing propriety and the need for self-control. Rose had fallen against the wall, her legs parting for him, the fires he’d started when he’d drunk her incinerating her from the inside out.

  Just when she thought she’d roll away on a wave of incoherence, Steven had risen, the look in his gray eyes intense, and had lifted her into his strong arms.

  Her body welcomed him.

  “Rosie,” he said, a smile spreading over his face. “Ye feel as beautiful as you are.”

  His accent had deepened, anything civilized stripped away from him. This was raw and basic, nothing to do with civilization.

  The world thought Rose a scandalous woman, and now here she was in the heart of scandal. And what a wonderful place it is, to be sure.

  Rose laid her head back against the wall, amazed that she had this man around her, in her.

  She’d never made love like this before. She’d thought they’d be on the bed, Steven on her, his weight warming her. Not this primal coupling, with him holding her, thrusting up into her. He was high inside her, making her ache and feel wonderful at the same time.

  All Rose could say was his name. It came out of her mouth again and again, as the rain beat on the window and rushed across the sill. If someone could look in from the outside, Rose imagined they’d see a blur of bodies against the white of the wall and the red brick of the chimney. The rain would run the colors like together like a beautiful painting that had been tipped while still wet.

  The plaster was hard and cool at her back, the warmth from the chimney touching her side. Steven’s body in contrast was hot, living flesh, but every bit as hard as the wall behind her. She could see his that his tan ended out where his waistband would be, then started up again on his lower legs. That meant he ran about in his kilt and nothing else, or only the lower portion of his military uniform, perhaps with legs rolled up.

  The thought of Steven wandering about in the sunshine, half-dressed, his golden hair burnished, flooded her with pure desire. Rose felt herself opening even more, embracing him, her body knowing what to do.

  Steven responded. His eyes were heavy, a gleam of gray from between his lids. A beautiful man, his face softened, the lines of care smoothed from it. His shoulders worked as he loved her, sweat gleaming on his skin.

  Rose touched his face, and Steven kissed her. The kiss was hot, opening her without the sweet touches of lips leading up to it. The flirtation was finished, and this was real.

  Steven abruptly pulled away from her mouth. “No,” he groaned, his brows drawing down.

  His thrusts increased. Steven’s fingers bit into her flesh, and at the same time, the wave that had dissipated slightly when he’d ceased drinking her, crashed over Rose again.

  She heard her voice ringing, crying his name, and his answering words, low and fierce. “Rosie, you’re beautiful, lass. Och, damn it.”

  He held her firmly against the wall, thrusting hard, his face set, while Rose moved with him, body rocking with her pleasure. Sweat beaded on Steven’s skin, and trickled from hers, the cold in the room no longer having meaning.

  Steven continued to thrust, but gentler now, slowing, his face easing from frustration to warm relaxation.

  “I didn’t stand a chance,” he said breathlessly. “Didn’t stand a chance against the completeness of you.”

  Rose didn’t have the speech to ask what he meant. She understood somehow.

  Steven kissed her, his mouth warm with what they’d done. He turned around with her as he did so, and lowered her onto the bed, sliding out of her.

  Rose lay alone, suddenly cold without him. Instead of joining her at once, Steven paused a moment and gazed down at her. He took her in with a slow glance, the brush of it tingling, as though he touched her.

  Steven then trailed his fingers down her body, tracing her nipples, sliding his touch over her soft belly to the join of her legs.

  Rose jerked when he touched her there, too sensitive. Steven smiled as though she’d done something pleasing, and slid himself onto the bed next to her. He lay on his side, propped up on his elbow, and moved his hand again to the join of her thighs.

  One stroke there made Rose half-rise. “What are you doing?”

  “Giving you pleasure, love. I was a bit hasty, but you had me too eager.”

  Hasty? It had been full, wondrous. Steven brushed two fingers over her opening, and Rose jumped again, realizing they weren’t yet finished. “I never knew . . .”

  Steven chuckled, a warm sound. “There are many avenues of pleasure between men and women. Fortunately, I know most of them.”

  He knew this one, that was for certain. A few more strokes, and Rose was arching up, her thoughts scattering, as they had when he’d put his mouth to her. She knew she was behaving shamelessly, but she had no intention of stopping herself.

  Steven caressed and rubbed her, then thrust a finger inside her. Rose’s world narrowed to that feeling—his finger was nowhere near as thick as his hardness, but the small movement made her choke back a cry.

  A second finger joined the first, and then a third. All the while, he brushed his thumb over the tightness of her, until Rose bucked against his hand, begging him—for what, she didn’t know.

  “Hush now, sweet Rose,” she heard him say. “I’m only giving you what you gave me.”

  Rose’s cries continued, incoherent, and she couldn’t stifle them. Steven laughed again and covered her mouth with a k
iss.

  When the world went dark, nothing existing but Steven against her, and his hand pressed firmly to her, Rose ceased trying to stop herself. She let the pleasure wash over her, her joy at being here with Steven become her only thought.

  Just when she knew she’d die of this feeling, Steven took away his hand, rolled her into the mattress among their jumble of clothes, and entered her again.

  He thrust into her faster this time, pushing them both down into the bed, his kisses hard. They moved as one, body to body, solidly joined. Their breaths came quickly, gazes holding each other’s, both too far gone now even for kisses.

  Steven groaned as he lost his seed for the second time. He was holding Rose’s hand, his fingers squeezing hers, his face relaxing with his release.

  Rose touched his cheek, kissing his lips with her swollen ones, and marveled at what they’d done this day.

  ***

  Steven lay beside Rose long into the afternoon, not leaving her even as the window darkened with the end of the short day. They’d nestled down under the covers, the blankets heavy with their clothes. Steven had pulled his plaid up over the quilts, adding another layer of warmth.

  Rose slept for a while, Steven dozing with her. When she’d awakened, she’d smiled at him, a little shy, but betraying no shame. Steven had touched her, savoring her, before his needy cock had him entering her one more time.

  After that they both slept, then awoke and spoke in low voices. About nothing. About everything. Steven heard himself telling her stories about his childhood, how he’d run wild in Scotland with his sister, Ainsley, until their three older brothers dragged them home again. He spoke of the army, his friendships there, his adventures. Rose told him of her life in Edinburgh with her father, her sorrow when he died, her astonishment when a lofty duke asked her to be his wife.

  They talked of dreams they had for now and later, and laughed about things they’d seen together. They had only a few memories, two days of them, but it gave them so much to talk about.

  Steven could talk to her forever.

  The coachman and his wife left them alone. The two downstairs had to know what the two upstairs were doing, and yet, they gave them their privacy. Miles and his wife must have recognized that Steven had come to take care of Rose, and they were letting him get on with it.

  “Sittford House tomorrow,” Steven said, kissing her shoulder. “I want your legacy in your hands—I don’t trust Albert not to sell everything sellable before we can go through it.”

  “You’re still determined to help me win against him?”

  Steven noted the surprise and faint worry in her eyes. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Our bargain will soon be at an end,” Rose said wistfully.

  “Endings are sad.” Steven brushed his fingertips along the softness of her breasts. “I don’t like them. Beginnings sometimes can be good. But the middle of the story is always the best part. I like middles.”

  Rose laughed. “I like the middle of this one.”

  “That’s because all the villains are leaving us in peace.” He pressed his palm against hers, their splayed fingers touching. “So are our friends. I’m enjoying it.”

  The look in Rose’s eyes said she was enjoying it too. “We’ll have to go back to the real world sooner or later.”

  “Later,” Steven said. “Not right now. Right now is for . . .” He released her hand and slid over her again. “Right now is for loving you. I’m going to do it for as long as I can.”

  “Good,” Rose said with a smile.

  That was all Steven needed. He was already aching for her again, a pain that eased only slightly as he eased himself inside her one more time.

  ***

  The bloody settee was nowhere in the house.

  Steven sat on a dusty couch in one of the attics—the be-damned mansion had five—and looked with disgust at the furniture crammed into it. Couches, divans, chairs, tables, bedsteads, most of it rickety and broken. Nowhere had they found an Egyptian-style settee in ebony and gold, decorated with sphinxlike heads.

  Rose stood, dejected, near the dusty window. She’d resumed her black clothes, which hid every inch of her. All very proper, but Steven would never look at her the same way again.

  He’d seen her beauty. It glowed from her even now until it filled all the spaces in this dingy attic, and all the spaces inside Steven.

  “It’s not here,” Rose said. She made her way carefully through the mess to Steven and sank down next to him. “Albert must have sold it. How could he have known?”

  Steven shrugged. “We’ll find him and pound its whereabouts out of him.”

  Rose did not look hopeful. She leaned into Steven, an intimate move, one she did unselfconsciously.

  Steven turned his head and kissed her cheek, which led to a kiss on the lips. That kiss lingered, brightening the gloom around them.

  They’d arrived while Albert had been finishing his midmorning tea. The man, it seemed, rarely left the estate—he’d told his housekeeper he’d be in London the day Rose and Steven had first come searching, only so the servants wouldn’t bother him.

  The man was a fool, Steven thought in contempt. He obviously had no respect from his staff, or else he’d have told them he wasn’t to be disturbed, and they’d have obeyed. Steven knew that if servants didn’t like an employer, they could find plenty of little ways to irritate him without going so far as all-out rebellion. A man who had no control over his household was a sorry thing indeed.

  Steven, brooking no argument from Albert, took Rose on a search of the house. Rose led Steven into every room on every floor, and they looked into every cabinet, cranny, closet, nook, and niche. They’d searched the cellars, rooms down there no one had opened for years. They’d even looked in Albert’s private rooms when Albert had gone off with his steward to the home farm.

  The home farm would be next. Steven wouldn’t put it past Albert to try to hide a priceless antique in the garret of a leaky farmhouse.

  The settee, however, was nowhere in sight. They did find the two Egyptian-style chairs depicted in the sketches from the cabinet, but that was all. Steven turned each chair upside down and stuck his hands under the upholstery but found no further clues inside them.

  “You can always take one of these,” Steven said, motioning to the chairs, which were right side up again. “They’d bring something at a sale.”

  “I know.” Rose eyed them disconsolately. “But I want to know why Charles pointed me to the settee. Why he wanted me to have it, in particular.”

  Steven slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “No disrespect to your husband, Rose—he was a fine man—but I wish he’d written you a plain note that told you where he’d left you a cache of diamonds.”

  “Albert would have found that, wouldn’t he?” Rose shook her head. “Charles had no illusions about his son.”

  “Which is why I don’t understand why Charles didn’t make your settlements and what you received in the will more clear. Why he didn’t confound Albert before he began.”

  Rose sighed. “I don’t know. Charles was fond of little jokes, but truth be told, they were jests child could see through. That’s because he had a kind heart, did Charles. Not a mean bone in him.”

  Steven wondered if he could ever live up to the paragon Charles seemed to be. The man had been kind, yes—Steven had seen that in him, even on brief acquaintance—but Steven had also noted that Charles had not been advanced in intellect. Steven had often been praised for his quick wit and clever mind, but Rose valued softness of heart over cleverness.

  Steven cupped her cheek as she looked up at him, and leaned down to kiss her again. He couldn’t help himself.

  Rose tasted of sunshine and summer days. He’d never be cold with her next to him.

  Someone cleared a throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rose started, but Steven took his time lifting away from her. Let the staff of this house know
Steven was looking after her now.

  The young footman John stood in the shadows near the door, uncertain whether to advance into the room. Rose struggled to her feet, and Steven, trained to be a gentleman even if he forgot most of the time, stood up beside her.

  “It’s all right, John,” Rose said, giving him an encouraging look. “What is it? Is Albert setting his dogs on us? Not that it matters. I rather like dogs, and they like me.”

  John listened in perplexity, his handsome face drawn into a frown as he tried to work through this.

  “Never mind,” Steven said. “Tell us what you came to say.”

  John stood to attention. “Yes, sir. It’s this, sir. Housekeeper said you’d want to know, Your Grace, that His Grace—the duke that’s passed, I mean—had us shift a cartload of furniture out to the summerhouse in the months before he married you.”

  Rose’s mouth popped open. “Did he? What on earth for?”

  “I don’t know, Your Grace.” John truly must not know—he wouldn’t know how to lie about this or why he should.

  “I see.” Rose looked thoughtful, and also a little sad, no doubt remembering her sunny wedding on a summer’s day. Steven decided not to take it as an omen that since he’d met Rose, the weather had been confounded awful.

  “Housekeeper forgot, Your Grace,” John said apologetically. “We all did. But she remembered today when you were searching the house and couldn’t find what you were looking for. Whatever that is.”

  They hadn’t said specifically, Steven not trusting Albert not to lay his hands on it and trundle it away.

  “Thank you, John,” Rose said, looking a little more cheerful. “We’ll have a look in the summerhouse.”

  John nodded and started patting his pockets. “Housekeeper said you’d want the key. Ah, here it is.” He pulled it out in triumph, stepped to them, and handed the key, not to Rose, but to Steven.

  “Good on you, lad,” Steven said. “Give the housekeeper our thanks.”