Page 34 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Steele finally exhaled. “It’s getting late.

Better to address it in the morning.” He nodded toward the window, where sheets of rain battered the glass.

“Still coming down in torrents. Crossing Grosvenor Square will be wretched.” Then he turned his gaze to me, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Pity you can’t stay the night.”

I let out a laugh. “In my own room, of course.”

“With a sturdy lock on the door, should you feel the need to bar it against me.” His grin was wickedly crooked.

A serious Steele was appealing—but this teasing version? Positively devastating. “That would be quite improper,” I said, still smiling.

“Scandalous,” he agreed with mock solemnity.

“I can only imagine what the gossips would say.”

His smile lingered, but something shifted in his eyes—intensity replacing levity, though the corners of his mouth still curved. “Would you care to inspect the bedchambers?”

“What?”

“That’s what Petunia did last month when she came for tea.”

“She didn’t.” But of course she had. Petunia had no concept of boundaries.

“She absolutely did. Chose one too, for after you and I marry.”

Heat flared in my cheeks. He said it so easily, so casually—as if our future together was already settled.

“I disavowed her of that notion, Steele. And gave her a firm lecture about the impropriety of dropping in uninvited.”

He raised a brow, eyes twinkling. “Didn’t take, did it?”

“No. It didn’t,” I admitted, grinning at the memory of her most recent, entirely unannounced visit. “Petunia marches to the beat of her own drum. I should be stricter with her, but?—”

“You’d crush her spirit.”

He understood. Not just her willfulness, but her fragility, too. How rare it was—for a man to see that, to truly grasp how precious she was.

“Well.” He extended his hand. “Shall we go inspect?”

There were a hundred reasons I ought to decline. But only one that truly mattered: I wanted to. And that reason overruled all the rest.

I placed my palm in his. “Yes, let’s.”

The hush of night pressed close around us as we stepped into the dim corridor. Near the servants’ stairs, he retrieved a lantern from its hook and struck a match with a practiced flick. Once the flame flared, he reached for my hand once more. “This way.”

The stairwell curved upward—narrow, steep, unfamiliar. I gathered my skirts as we climbed, the other he held firmly in his. Halfway up, my slipper caught on the edge of a riser, and I stumbled—only to be caught by him.

His arm circled my waist in an instant, drawing me close as the lantern swung in his other hand. With my chest pressed to his, I felt his breath catch.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice rougher now. “These stairs are treacherous.”

So was my heart. Foolish thing that it was.

The lantern’s light flickered between us, gilding the sharp line of his jaw, the intent in his eyes. And then—slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world—he lowered his head.

His mouth met mine in a kiss that was not hurried, not stolen, but offered and claimed in the same breath. His hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me closer, anchoring me to him.

The stone stairwell vanished. The rain beyond the walls ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of him, the press of his body, the firm, possessive way his mouth moved over mine as if he’d been waiting years—centuries—for this.

My fingers curled into the lapel of his coat, the rough wool grounding me even as my knees threatened to give way. He deepened the kiss, and the spark of it burned through me, its flame rippling through every nerve, scattering every thought.

The tension that had hovered between us for weeks surged forward, no longer restrained, no longer masked by banter or circumstance.

It was real. It was him. And it was me, kissing him back with everything I didn’t dare say aloud.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathless—and not from the climb. “I think I’ve lost my footing again,” I whispered.

He smiled, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “Then you’d better hold on to me.”

The moment shattered as the door at the top of the stairs creaked open.

“There you are, Your Grace. We’ve been searching all over for you.”

Milford. Of course. Steele’s ever-faithful butler.

“We?” Steele asked.

“Mr. Honeycutt and I. He’s arrived with the Rosehaven carriage to escort Lady Rosalynd home.”

“Of course he has,” Steele muttered under his breath. “Impeccable timing, as always.”

I fought hard not to laugh.

Like errant schoolchildren caught doing something naughty—which let’s face it, we had been—we climbed the remaining steps to meet them, then proceeded to the family staircase.

“How exactly did you conduct your search, Milford?” Steele asked in a mild tone, as we descended.

“I began in the drawing room, Your Grace, then your study,” Milford replied evenly. “And then we went on from there.”

Honeycutt sniffed. “A veritable tour of the house. I daresay we explored every room but the wine cellar.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Clearly, Milford had taken the scenic route.

“Apologies,” Steele said blandly. “I’ll have a map drawn up for you next time.”

Honeycutt was not amused.

Once we reached the entrance hall, Milford handed my outer garments—not to me, but to Steele.

He helped me slip them on—fingers careful at my shoulders, gentle at the fastening of my cloak. He even tied the ribbon of my bonnet beneath my chin.

“We’ll speak again tomorrow?” I asked.

“I’m at your disposal, Lady Rosalynd. Just say when.”

I bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace. For tonight.”

“My pleasure.” His deep voice strummed through every inch of me.

“This way, milady,” Honeycutt interjected, his expression solemn and unyielding, a clear disapproval of Steele’s actions.

But the duke was not to be bested. He lifted my hand and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to it, never once looking away. The message was clear.

We’d crossed a threshold, he and I—and there was no going back.