Scandal And The Duchess Read Online Free Page A

out as she donned her Sunday best. The gown was black bombazine and quite plain, but looked well enough. Rose settled its small bustle and put the matching hat on her head.
    Downstairs she walked out of the coach house and through the passage to the main house. The interior was dark and musty-smelling—Albert wasn’t in residence, and rarely opened the place even when he was in Town. Charles would be so unhappy; he’d loved this house.
    Rose swung open the front door, which had already been unbolted, and walked out, head high, to face the mob.
    Most were journalists in black suits and hats, with three or four female scribblers in their midst. The women who followed Rose tended to be even harder on her than the men—the men at least could sometimes remember to be gentlemen. The women always let Rose have the worst of their opinions.
    The crowd surged forward, intent upon her, but Rose remained firmly on the doorstep, glancing about for her carriage as though she didn’t notice the scandalmongers. The coach was coming, driven by Miles, and when it stopped at the door, Steven got out of it.
    Seeing him resplendent in his clean and brushed red uniform, the gold braid gleaming in the winter sunshine, Rose wondered how she’d ever though him a pathetic castaway of the streets. Darkness, grime, and the rife smell of drink had convinced her, but there was no trace of dirt and alcohol now.
    Steven stood tall and strong, his hatless head the color of sunshine. His hair was cropped close, as some military men’s were, and he was clean-shaven, young gentlemen nowadays eschewing the heavy moustaches, beards, and mutton-chops of the older generation.
    The journalists watched, agog, as Steven walked through them, took Rose by the arm, and led her to the carriage. At the carriage door, he lifted her hand to his lips, pressed a warm kiss to her glove, then helped her inside.
    He jumped onto the carriage step, turning to beam a smile at the collected journalists. “Congratulate us,” he said, then he sprang inside, snapped the door closed, and rapped on the roof to signal Miles to go on.
    The coach jerked forward, the horses moving into a trot on this relatively empty street. A few intrepid scribblers jogged after them but gave up as the carriage turned a corner and was swallowed by thicker traffic.
    “Congratulate us on what?” Rose asked as Steven settled into the seat opposite her.
    Steven’s grin beamed out, his eyes sparkling with merriment. “Our betrothal,” he said.

Chapter Three
    “Our . . .” Rose’s words died as she clutched the velvet-cushioned seat. “I beg your pardon—our
what
?”
    Steven’s grin had faded, but he sat forward, animated, light glinting on the bright buttons of his uniform coat.
    “Hear me out, love. If we tell the journalists we’ve been engaged all this time, they’ll have to eat what they’ve been printing about you. Always entertaining, watching scandal-sheet scribblers backpedal.”
    “But . . .” Rose struggled for breath. Was he insane? She couldn’t pretend to be engaged to him. She’d only just met him.
    And yet . . . The camaraderie she’d sensed with Captain McBride was still between them. He was smiling, encouraging her, wanting her to dare to do this.
    And why not? The journalists liked to print stories about Rose—from how much her wedding gown had cost to the shocking fact that the first duchess’s jewels had been around her neck when she’d walked down the aisle. They hadn’t, in fact, been jewels Charles had purchased for his first wife, but ones that had belonged to his mother. The first duchess had never worn those, preferring more modern pieces.
    If the journalists were going to print stories, why not make certain they wrote about what Rose wanted them to? As Steven said, turn the tables on them?
    She’d not had the courage to face them before. But with Steven beside her, Rose was again finding the playfulness she’d had when Charles had courted