Scandal And The Duchess by Jennifer Ashley

says nothing.”
    “He really is a very good footman,” Rose said protectively. “I was never very strict with the servants, which gained me more disapproval from my stepson, unfortunately.”
    Steven flushed. “Forgive me, Rosie. My head has me growling like a bear this morning.” He gazed up the stairs and its seeming miles of railings. “Two pieces of furniture . . . in all
this
?”
    Rose understood his dismay. They’d paused on the first landing, which gave them a view of the ground floor below and the first floor above. Both halls were filled with graceful furniture—lowboys and highboys, console and demi-lune tables, straight-backed chairs and Bergère chairs, candle stands and candelabras, cushioned benches and settees. The furniture was valuable, Charles had said, ranging in period from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, through the Regency and to the manufactured styles early in Queen Victoria’s reign. After that came the cleaner styles of William Morris and his ilk, and the hand-carved, rather sinuous French chairs Charles had purchased in Paris a few years ago.
    And these were only the landings. Sittford House had one hundred rooms—exactly—and each was fully furnished.
    “Charles was no fool,” Rose said. “He knew Albert was exacting and didn’t like his father spending any money he might inherit. Charles must have had something specific for me in mind. But what?”
    Steven sank to the top stair of the landing, his hand to his head. Rose seated herself next to him, concerned. “You all right?”
    Steven rubbed his temples. “My brain is melting, but nothing to worry about. Let us sit here quietly and think about this, my Rose. Instead of tearing all over the house searching every cabinet, we should make a plan. Was there something in particular you admired? That the duke knew you liked?”
    “I’ve been trying to think. But the last year or so is such a jumble, it’s difficult.”
    Steven lounged back on his elbows and looked up at her. “You were fond of your husband.”
    Rose nodded. “Indeed I was. Charles was a good man.”
    Steven stretched out his legs, and Rose’s heart beat faster in confusion. Steven was a sinfully beautiful sight—a hard-bodied man in a kilt, his reclining position stretching his coat open over his broad chest. Gentlemen didn’t lie down in the presence of ladies, unless they had something intimate in mind, but sitting here beside Steven seemed so natural. Rose wasn’t afraid, even though they were quite alone, the staff unlikely to come upstairs. Steven was a strong man; he might do anything, and yet, Rose felt comfortable with him, as she’d felt with no one else since Charles.
    But here they were, on the floor in the house of a man she’d admired and respected. Though the world had assumed Charles had taken a young second wife to have something pretty on his arm, Rose and Charles had liked each other very much. They’d been able to talk, share jokes and opinions, and laughter. Charles had also not been reluctant where bed had been concerned. The fact that his heart had dangerously weakened had surprised them both.
    Steven’s touch jolted her back to the present. He closed his hand around hers, his strength coming to her through his grip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize how hard this would be for you.”
    Rose hadn’t either. Tears stung her eyes. Steven squeezed her fingers, then he released her and let out a groan. “Och, my bloody head.”
    “Let me.” Rose moved until she sat behind him, and she cradled his head in her lap. She removed her gloves and touched her fingers to Steven’s temples.
    A mistake, she realized as soon as skin contacted skin. His pulse throbbed beneath her fingertips, his lifeblood. Steven had so much warmth in him, so much
life.
    He closed his eyes as Rose began to massage his forehead, which was a good thing. His gray eyes, even tinged red from his hangover, unnerved her. She didn’t tell him