Steven looked through the drawings again, then flipped the pages over. A few notes had been made on the back of each, in the original hand, describing upholstery or inlay. One had a tiny drawing, made by a pencil invented long after the Napoleonic period, of a single, full-blown rose.
Steven held it up to her, his thumb on the flower. “A message for you, I think.”
He saw the swallow move down Rose’s throat as she realized that her late husband must have sketched the flower. She turned the drawing over again and forced a smile. “On the ugly settee, no less.”
Steven ran his fingertips along the satinwood of the cabinet. “He knew you’d want this cabinet, because you raved about it. Maybe he left these pictures in it for you to find, guiding you to the settee as the second piece you were to take.”
“Possibly,” Rose said, sounding dubious. “Perhaps he wanted to give me one thing I’d love and one thing I could sell.” Her eyes were moist when she looked up at Steven. “If you can find someone to sell the settee for me, you could have a commission on the sale . . . a small one only, I’m afraid.” Rose smiled with the lush lips Steven wanted to kiss again.
“Keep your money.” He heard the tightness in his voice. “I don’t need it.”
Rose’s smile died. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean any insult—”
Steven stopped her words by threading his fingers through her loosened hair and giving her a too-brief kiss. “Not to worry, Rosie, I’ll scare up a buyer for you. Right now, in fact.”
“Right now?”
The disappointment in her eyes made Steven’s heart pound, but he stiffened his resolve. If he didn’t leave this room, the hardness of his c**k would win over good intentions. “Sooner it’s done, the better.” And the sooner he went, the better for his sanity.
“I see.” Rose relinquished the sketches when he reached for them. “We’ll have to return to Sittford and look for the settee before Albert thinks to get rid of it. Tomorrow, if the weather holds.”
Steven shook his head. “Not tomorrow. I have another appointment.” One he’d give anything to miss, but at the same time, he knew he had to face it.
Rose looked curious and again disappointed, but she was too well-bred to ask for details. “I won’t bother you then. I can go to Sittford myself.”
“No.” The word was sharp. “Not alone. I don’t want you at that house without me. I don’t trust Albert at all.”
Rose grimaced. “Truth to tell, I’d feel better with you there.” Her worried look vanished, and she gave Steven an encouraging smile. “You go on then, and we’ll plan the trip later. If you’re going out, wrap up warm. It’s nippy out there.”
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.”