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.

“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “It’s no bother, and as I said, Miles can find you things to do, so you can have some coin to take with you.”

He rubbed a hand along his jaw. “What I’d truly like is a razor.”

“That can be supplied. I’ll ask Mrs. Miles.”

Rose reached for the tray. In the confinement of the room, leaning down put her close to him, and she found his face a few inches away. His eyes were stormy gray, a beautiful color.

He did smell a little of whiskey, but the overall scent of him was warm, with a bite of spice. A man a woman would want to curl up with. No wonder ladies got him into trouble—he must attract them by the score.

“What is your name?” she asked, her voice barely working. “If you don’t mind telling me.”

“Steven,” he said. The rumble flowed over her. “McBride. Captain, Twenty-Second Fusiliers.”

Rose couldn’t move. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

His gaze moved to her lips, lingered there for a moment, almost as though he wanted to kiss her. Rose imagined it—his mouth would be strong, Captain McBride kissing her because he wanted to, not asking nicely for it. No politeness. Just desire, a man and a woman, and winter sunshine.

Rose dragged in a breath. She tried to make herself straighten up, but she couldn’t. Captain McBride had a virile handsomeness behind the rough whiskers, not to mention a dangerous and compelling way about him.

Run away with me, Rose wanted to say. She longed to flee the constraints her life, the narrow confinement of mourning and shame, the rabid hunger of the journalists. She imagined herself roving the world with this man, both of them free and laughing, sleeping rough, snuggled together.

Poor and starving, shunned by gentlefolk, and prodded by constables. Ah yes, such a golden land she pictured.

Steven’s expression changed, softening suddenly, and Rose realized she’d smiled at him. The hardness left his face, making him look so tender that Rose nearly dropped the tray.

He lifted one finger and brushed it across her cheek.

Compared to the way he’d clutched her last night, burying his face in first Rose’s bosom then her stomach, the touch was nothing. But fire arced from his fingertips and shot swiftly down her body, lighting every feminine place.

Captain McBride slid his fingertip to her lips. Then his breath, warm and smelling of tea, touched her mouth.