Scandal And The Duchess by Jennifer Ashley

suggested we ask Eleanor,” Steven said without looking at her. “Hart Mackenzie’s wife. They have plenty of room and more money than God.”
    “Really? I wasn’t aware God had any money. A stash of gold bars in one of His back rooms, do you think?” Rose tried to smile, tried to joke, but she found it difficult even to breathe. “Probably comes in handy when He needs to repave His streets.”
    Steven flashed a grin over his shoulder. “I promise you, if God has a stash of gold bars, Hart lent them to Him.”
    “You’re ridiculous.”
    Steven held out his hand to her. Why did Rose not hesitate to walk to him and take it?
    “Keep the cabinet,” he said. Rose couldn’t hear much over the pounding of her heart, but that’s what she thought he said. “You love it, and if Collins is as good as he claims, you won’t need to sell it.”
    “I have to ask you again why you’re helping me, Steven.” The words were not the ones Rose wanted to come out of her mouth, but they did anyway.
    Steven switched his gaze to her, losing his smile. He stood too close to her—she could see the dark ring around his pale gray irises.
    “Did you want me to leave you hanging with the pesky newspapermen waiting to pounce?” he asked. “Journalists can shred a person, break them, ruin their lives, and then go home and pour tea. Congratulating themselves on a job well done. Rumor, gossip, scandal—they dish it out and don’t care who they leave in the gutter. I’m not letting that happen to
you
.”
    Steven’s brows were drawn, his anger raw. Rose watched him in surprise. She drew a breath to ask him if he spoke of an experience in particular, when Steven wrapped his arm around Rose and dragged her to him for a savage kiss.

Chapter Seven
    The breath she’d started to draw didn’t reach her lungs. Rose couldn’t move. Her world narrowed to Steven, his strength, his lips on hers.
    The kiss was fierce, not loving. He scraped her mouth open, invading. The room was hot, the fire stoked high, and Rose went hotter still.
    Steven tasted of anger, powerfully so, his hands on her back just as powerful. Rose knew she was surrendering to him, and she didn’t care one whit.
    Steven lifted her off her feet. As the kiss broke, he deposited her on the smooth top of the chest.
    Rose’s hands landed on the cool wood, her heart pounding. Steven’s knee pushed through her skirts, parting her legs, giving him room to step between them and against her. Rose’s throat went dry, her slippered feet sliding to Steven’s legs before she told them to
    She felt his arousal through the wool of his kilt, through her volume of skirts. He surrounded her with his warmth, with himself.
    He ran a strong hand through her hair, letting curls tumble free. “You should nae be all buttoned and pinned like this,” he said. “You were meant to have your hair down, your clothes loose. No reason to hide your beauty.”
    “But . . . I . . .” Only syllables came out, and those in a stammer.
    Steven’s fingers undid the first button under her chin. “You’re so beautiful, Rosie. Do as you like, and damn them all.”
    Rose should protest that she was a lady, a respectable widow, that she was buttoned up and prim to keep others from talking about her more than they already did.
    She couldn’t say anything.
Do as you like, and damn them all.
    He was tempting her. She shouldn’t let him. Rose should be adamant, become the prudish, haughty duchess and tell him what she thought of his liberties.
    She could only sit still while Steven unfastened another button, and another. His fingers were hot, his fingertips rough. The backs of his hands were crisscrossed with scars, and each of his fingers had been broken at some time and healed—a fighting man’s hands.
    Steven left off with the buttons and traced her now-exposed throat. “You have the sweetest skin, my Rose. I want to kiss it.” He leaned closer. “I want to kiss every inch of it.”
    Please