Scandal And The Duchess (MacKenzies & McBrides #6.5)(3)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

The man saw her gaze and tucked the sheet under his arms, hiding most of his chest. But he didn’t stammer or apologize for his nakedness in front of a lady, nor did he try to burrow back under the bedclothes. He simply reached for the tray that she’d frozen to, pried it out of her hands, and settled it across his lap.

“Where are my clothes?” he demanded.

“Pardon?” Rose blinked, tearing her gaze from the play of his thick-muscled arms as he uncovered the toast and poured tea.

“Clothes,” he repeated. “I’m not wearing any. Where are they?”

The bareness of him went all the way down, Rose realized. She clenched her hands, since she didn’t have anything else to hold. “Miles took your uniform away to be cleaned. It was dirty from the streets.”

“London streets will do that.” The man took a long drink of tea, and another, and another. The liquid had to be scalding, but he gulped it down and poured another cup. “You still haven’t told me why a duchess is living with her coachman,” the man said, lifting the first piece of toast. “And her coachman’s wife.” He put away the half slice in two bites and reached for another.

“I’m a duchess, because I married a duke,” Rose said. “I was plain Miss Barclay before that, but my family is all gone now.” The sorrow of that tore at her, and it always would. “I’m stopping with my coachman, because I’m skint. I had been staying with a friend, but she asked me to leave last night—or, rather, hinted strongly that I should go. Can’t blame her, really. Journalists follow me about, waiting for me to do something scandalous, which happens all the time, unfortunately. I’m telling you this to warn you, because I’m certain the story of you coming home with me is all over London this morning. If you keep your head down, I think you’ll be all right.”

“Probably too bloody late for that,” the man said. He downed two more half slices of toast. “Why is a duchess skint? Some aristos are impoverished these days, but dukes seem to do pretty well, overall. What about your widow’s portion? Your dower house? Your jewels?”

All very good questions. “Ah, well, you see, much of my fortune is dependent upon the current duke, my late husband’s son by his first marriage,” Rose said. “My stepson is one of these modern men—he’d been rushing about being something in the City before he came into the title last year, and he learned all about profits and losses, turning land to the best use, investments and capital, and so forth. The wife of a former duke isn’t much of an investment, is she?” Rose shrugged, pretending that the soldier’s blatant masculinity didn’t unnerve her.

At the same time, Rose found it easy to talk to him. The man kept eating—she hadn’t seen such a healthy appetite in years—and he watched her, listening to every word. Rose wasn’t used to someone who truly listened, not anymore.

“You must have settlements,” he said between bites. “A widow’s portion. Use of a house for your lifetime.”

Rose nodded. “If all were well, I would. But my stepson is trying his best to prove that the settlements aren’t valid. I have a solicitor to fight him, but he hasn’t made much progress. I can’t pay him much, you see, and my husband’s solicitor now works for the new duke.”

The man finished the toast and ate the sausages in about four bites. “You said your family was gone.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Papa never had much but his connections, and he left me penniless. I’d been contemplating advertising for a post as a companion or governess when I met Charles . . . the duke. Soon after that, I became the second Duchess of Southdown.” Rose let her thoughts go back to the fairy-tale glory of the wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square, the lavish entertainments afterward. Rose had been so happy that day. She was glad she hadn’t known what was to come.

The man finished the last bite of sausage. “What happened?”

He sounded so interested that Rose peered at him. “You’re not another journalist are you? Worming your way into my confidence with false pretenses?”

“Good God, no.” The man laughed. When he did, he changed from hard-bitten soldier to a man of startling handsomeness, despite his unshaved face, sun-browned body, and shorn hair. “I’m only a grateful sinner, lass, glad of a warm bed and bit of breakfast.”

His accent sent pleasant tingles down Rose’s spine. “Not that it would matter. There is nothing about my life that hasn’t been splashed across the newspapers. A young second wife is always food for gossip. I knew things would be difficult when I accepted Charles’s proposal, but I never knew how vicious it could become.”

“Gossips are all malicious,” he said around the last swallow of tea. “Especially about beautiful women.”

The flattery was delivered so even-handedly that Rose’s face heated. She cleared her throat. “Now, I’ve told you my life story—what is yours? May I have a guess? Served your regiment faithfully for years, then they discharged you with nothing to live on? A common tale, I’m afraid. One of the charities my husband supported helps soldiers shunted unceremoniously back to England. They might be able to do something for you.”

The man leaned back, breakfast over, and ran one hand through his shorn hair. “My story is that, in the regiment, I’m an honorable man. Outside it, I drink too much, gamble too much, and too much like . . .” He made a vague gesture, his cheekbones going red.

Rose broke into a grin. “Ah, the ladies. The downfall of many a man, as Charles used to say.”

The man’s gaze roved her, as though he tried to decide what to make of her. His look was thorough, that was certain. He would see a young woman in black, buttoned up to her chin, her only jewelry a mourning broach and a string of onyx beads. Rose should really be in half mourning now or even out entirely, because Charles had been gone a year, but she couldn’t afford to change her wardrobe. She’d likely be in black the rest of her life.

“You’ve been kind,” the man said. “If you’ll bring me my clothes, I’ll leave you in peace.”

Disappointment bit Rose, surprisingly so. She’d been enjoying speaking to him, pouring out things to him she’d been bottling up for nearly a year. Her girlhood friends, though they tried to be kind, didn’t really want to talk. Not about things that mattered.