by Lauren Royal
And no matter that it was fashionable, he had no intention of living a separate life from his wife.
He heard her swallow. “Are you not happy, Kit?”
She sounded like she cared. He hoped it was as more than a friend. More than like a brother, but better. “I’m happy right now,” he said, licking his fingers.
“And Ellen is happy now.”
“I don’t want to think about Ellen.”
“But you must.” They’d reached the end of the gallery. She lit the last candle and set the one she’d carried on top of a headless statue. “I know you’re angry with her, with what she did. But you cannot remain estranged, you cannot remain silent—”
“I’m not angry. Disappointed, yes, but not angry.” He took her arm, turning her to stroll back the direction they’d come. “And I’m not the one who isn’t talking.”
“You cannot really mean to keep all that money—”
“Will you be quiet, Rose?” he asked and then turned her toward him to quiet her with a kiss.
She wound her arms around his neck and cooperated fully. She tasted of Rose and oranges, a flavor uniquely hers. A flavor he wanted to make his.
He backed her against one of the walls between two windows. Above their heads, a haughty Roman emperor gazed down from a terra-cotta medallion—a souvenir of earlier times. Kit only wanted to make new times with Rose. A new life, a happy life—a life full of the vitality he’d been missing.
He licked a bit of sweet stickiness from the corner of her mouth, then kissed that corner, then her chin. Bending his head, he tasted her long, slender throat, the pulse that beat in the hollow, that precious place where shoulder met neck. He parted the top of her dressing gown, baring the smooth, fragrant skin where her night rail had come untied at the collar.
That small triangle of flesh glowed in the dancing candlelight. Her eyes slid closed. “Kit,” she breathed, and he couldn’t tell whether the single word was a protest or an entreaty. But she didn’t push him away, and he wouldn’t stop tasting her voluntarily.
When she moved closer, he reached for the sash that secured her dressing gown and slowly drew one end until the bow came undone. The garment fell open, and then there was nothing between his hands and mouth and her body but the gossamer fabric of her night rail. No stomacher, no laces, no stays.
Only one thin barrier to the floral-scented softness that was Rose.
Kissing her, he teased her breasts through the delicate cloth, his pulse leaping when a little moan escaped her lips. His breath quickened as he felt the crests peak and harden beneath his fingers. He wanted to tear off her night rail and rip open his robe and bury himself inside her.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t scare her away, and he couldn’t risk getting to the point where he mindlessly took her too far. He couldn’t take her at all. Not until she was his, until she shared his name, until she wore his ring on her finger.
But Lord Almighty, he wanted her.
He lowered his head and suckled her through the filmy material. She arched, and his arms clenched tighter to support her. She smelled of roses and passion, a heady scent that almost had him breaking his promise to her mother and asking for more.
Then she was asking for more.
“More,” she murmured as she had in the square. “More.”
How could he resist such a sweet plea? Easing down the neckline of her night rail, he licked at a breast, nibbling greedily. She thrust herself closer to his mouth, responding to his attentions with an eagerness no other woman ever had.
That innate responsiveness, that unschooled sensuality, was one of the things he loved about her. One of the many, many things.
She pressed herself against his body until he feared he’d lose his mind. She worked her hands into the front of his robe, hesitating a moment when she realized he wore nothing beneath it.
“Gemini,” she whispered. Warm and smooth, her fingers maneuvered their way around him. His muscles jumped in response to her brazen exploration. When her arms completely encircled him, her hands flat on his back, she moved closer, molding her curves to fit him. “You feel entirely too good.”
“So do you, sweetheart,” he murmured.
“Touch me,” she said.
His breath lodged in his chest. “I don’t think—”
“Please.” She slid a hand from under his robe, grasped one of his, and guided it to that place he wanted to touch more than anything.
Through her night rail, he felt her heat. Searing heat.
“Touch me,” she repeated, her voice a husky rasp.
It took a stronger man than Kit to refuse such a heartfelt request. He inched up the fabric, thinking he’d never get enough of this enchanting, forward creature. Steeling himself to maintain control, he slipped his hand beneath the hem and skimmed the warm smoothness of a bare thigh. Gritting his teeth, he teased circles on her delicate, silky skin.
“Touch me,” Rose breathed. “Please touch me. Please.”
And finally, finally, he did.
When Kit cupped her like he had in the square, Rose surged against his hand, quivering with need. She thought, for one fleeting instant, that it was madness asking for this. But oh, the madness was sweet.
“More,” she begged. “More.”
For a moment he kept still. She held her breath, waiting, waiting, waiting…
“More,” she whispered again.
And he moved his hand.
A gentle slide of fingers, a tantalizing thrill. And again, tormenting, making her squirm against him. Again, and her dampness became an exquisite slickness. Again, and desire spiraled through her.
The heat built; her skin prickled.
Then he slipped a finger inside her, and her world tilted.
Sensation flooded her being, stealing her breath, making the blood surge through her veins and pound insistently in her ears. He drew out of her and plunged back in, again and again, playing her body until she teetered on the edge of awareness…until suddenly she shattered, shuddering both without and within with pleasure she’d never known.
“More,” Kit murmured, borrowing her word, wanting more than anything to give her more than she’d ever dreamed. Nothing would make him happier than to make her happy day and night. He wanted her so badly, the need was a physical ache, a heaviness in his chest. “More,” he whispered again.
And she gave him more, making his heart soar. He’d never seen anything as lovely as his Rose writhing in ecstasy. A true thing of beauty.
As her tremors abated, he kissed her, taking her long, sweet languid sigh into his mouth. “A thing of beauty,” she whispered, echoing his thoughts.
Has she refused your proposal? Rand had asked.
No, and Kit couldn’t imagine her doing so now.
When her eyes fluttered open, looking dazed, he gave her a gentle smile. “I love you, Rose.” Watching her lips curve in response to those words, he drew a shaky breath. “Will you marry me?”
“Marry you?” Her eyes filled with pain and confusion, the pleasure turning to panic. “No. I…no. Good God, what have I done?” She shoved her night rail down and closed her dressing gown, fumbling with the sash before giving up and hugging herself miserably. “I’m sorry. I must go.”
She pushed past him and ran from the chamber, her bare footfalls pattering all down its long length. At the other end, he heard the door slam shut.
And then he was alone with the flickering candles and his tight throat and his pensive thoughts.
And his aching heart.
He’d known all along that she’d refuse him, so why was he so crushed and demoralized? And why had he taken things so far? Never mind that her mother had tacitly given permission, it had been wrong. He cursed himself roundly. He’d been weak. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
Damn Lady Trentingham for encouraging him. He’d always known that, as matters stood, he wouldn’t be considered good enough for an earl’s daughter.
Not by the dau
ghter herself, in any case.
And just his luck, he’d chosen the one woman in England whose parents let her choose her own husband.
The candlelight that had seemed so intimate earlier now seemed too bright, too revealing. He slowly moved to douse the many small flames. He burned to tell Rose of his pending knighthood, but with his project deadlines approaching and all the problems, he was no longer confident of his chances. And for all he knew, a knighthood might not be enough for her, anyway. The Deputy Surveyor post was only a first step—it could be years before he raised himself further.
By then it would be too late for him and Rose.
Too, too late.
Forty-Six
ROSE SPENT A restless, tormented night. When she awakened, the note she found slipped beneath her door did nothing to ease her distress. ROSE, it said in the neat, all-caps printing she’d seen on Kit’s architectural renderings:
Must check progress at Hampton Court. Please give your family my thanks and assure your father that the greenhouse will proceed on schedule as planned.
-K
There was nothing more. No “Dearest Rose.” No “I love you, Kit,” or even just “Love, Kit.”
Did he hate her now? Had she lost his friendship along with her innocence?
True, she was still a virgin, but her entire body heated when she remembered the liberties she’d allowed Kit last night. A hot, tingling ache spread, centered in that place between her legs where he’d touched her. Where he’d made her feel things she’d never felt. Never even imagined.
She washed and slowly dressed without help, so lost in her thoughts she couldn’t bear conversation with Harriet. I love you. She supposed she had no right to expect Kit to declare so in a letter when he’d said the words out loud and been met with her silence. And then gone so far as to propose and been met with a no.
Her first proposal.
The look on his face had nearly killed her. His words had taken her completely by surprise. She supposed, on reflection, that they shouldn’t have…
But she’d been expecting her first proposal to come from a duke.
Confusion was a weight in her chest. Did she love Kit? In the heat of the moment, it had been on the tip of her tongue to echo those three words. But she hadn’t, because she wasn’t sure, and in any case it wouldn’t matter.
He wasn’t the right man for her.
He’d had no right to expect a different answer. She might have reached the advanced age of one-and-twenty, but she wasn’t yet desperate enough to marry a commoner. She’d be a fool to do that when Bridgewater, a lofty peer of the realm, was likely to offer for her hand. She squared her shoulders as she headed down to the dining room for breakfast.
Happy as bees in a bed of flowers, her sisters and their families were already eating, having risen early to prepare for their journeys home. The elder Ashcrofts were conspicuously absent; after a homecoming, they often slept late. Rowan and Jewel chatted cheerfully, so focused on each other the rest of the room might as well have been empty.
Everyone in this house—everyone but Rose—was in love.
The conversation died as she scraped back a chair and plopped onto it. A footman offered a cup of chocolate, and she clenched it so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Where is Kit?” Lily asked.
Rose felt her jaw tightening. “What makes you think I should know?” she gritted out, suddenly visualizing herself biting her sister’s head off. She gulped the hot liquid, scalding her tongue. “He left a note. It seems he’s gone on to Hampton Court.”
“Oh,” Lily said.
“Did you hear a ghost last night?” Rowan asked.
Rose imagined biting his head off, too. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Rose is right,” Ford put in.
He could live.
“I heard tapping,” Rowan insisted.
“Me, too,” Jewel said, gazing at him worshipfully.
That pixie-faced girl had fallen in love at six. Six! Off with her pixie head.
“We heard tapping and scratching,” Rand said. “Lily and I both.”
“And I heard a terrible scraping noise.” Violet turned to Rose. “Did you not hear anything at all?”
A whoosh. But she’d never admit it. She didn’t believe in ghosts.
Or marrying beneath her expectations, either.
Forty-Seven
THE SUN WAS setting upon Hampton Court’s red brick when Rose and her mother arrived three days later. As they stood in one of Base Court’s covered galleries waiting for a palace warden to open their lodging, a woman came out of the apartments next door.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, one hand to the pillowy bosom revealed in the low neckline of her orange brocade gown. Rose couldn’t recall her name, but she remembered seeing her in the ladies’ attiring room at Windsor. “Lady Rose! I’m so glad you’ve followed us. I hope we’ll be seeing you at court this evening.”
“Yes, you will,” Rose said, pleased. Court was going to be so much more pleasant now that the women here liked her.
“And will you be bringing the translations?”
“Gemini!” With all the turmoil surrounding Ellen, she’d completely forgotten to work on any more of them. “I’ve done two,” she hedged, not mentioning she didn’t have them with her.
“Excellent,” the lady said before walking off, the train on her fur-trimmed cloak dragging behind her.
“What translations?” Chrystabel asked.
“Some poetry. Italian. Nothing important.”
“Oh, I see,” Chrystabel said as though she didn’t see at all. “Come along, then, let’s ready ourselves.”
Their lodging was again just a sitting room and one bedchamber, no fancier than the one they’d been assigned at Windsor Castle. But at least the rooms were larger. In no time at all, Chrystabel was settled at a creaky wooden dressing table with Anne working on her hair, while Harriet helped Rose into the new emerald gown she’d chosen to wear.
When a knock came at the door, Harriet went to answer and came back with a vase full of colorful fall flowers. “For you, Lady Rose.”
Rose rushed to take them. “Lovely!” She rearranged the greenery more evenly and moved a yellow bloom from the right side to the left before reaching for the card. “They must be from the duke.”
But they weren’t.
For dear Lady Rose, the card said in a heavy, dark hand. I wished for red roses to match your lips, but alas, they are not in season. Please accept this small token of my affection with my hopes of spending some time in your company this evening. Yours, Lord Somerville.
“How did he know I was here?” she wondered.
“News travels swiftly at court,” her mother said.
Harriet’s pale green eyes looked wistful in her freckled face. “Oh,” she said with a heartfelt sigh. “How I would love for a man to send me flowers.”
She’d barely finished lacing the back of Rose’s gown when another knock came at the door. This time she returned with a small wooden box. Inside was a dainty pearl bracelet.
“It goes well with my earrings,” Rose said, wondering if she should wear the rubies tonight even though they didn’t match her green dress. “How very thoughtful of Gabriel.”
But the bracelet wasn’t from him, either. The creamy sheet of vellum that had arrived with the box was lettered neatly in fine black ink. For Lady Rose, though pearls cannot match the luster in your eyes. Passionately, Baron Fortescue.
“Passionately?” Rose held out her wrist so Harriet could fasten the bracelet’s clasp. “I barely remember the man.”
“Oh,” Harriet said, “how I would love for a man to give me jewelry.”
A third knock on the door brought a platter of delicate sweetmeats and another note: No sugar can match the sweetness of your demeanor.
No one had ever called Rose sweet. “I vow and swear,” she declared, popping a marzipan swan into her mouth, “I’ve never heard such ridiculous comparisons in my
life.”
Her mother moved to give her a turn at the dressing table. “They’re just trying to impress you, dear.”
“If any of them could kiss half decently, I would find that a lot more impressive.”
“Oh,” Harriet said, “how I would love for a man to kiss me.”
By the time Rose was ready for court, she had two new bracelets, a sapphire stomacher brooch, and four bouquets of flowers in addition to the half-eaten platter of sweets.
None of it was from Gabriel.
Hampton Court had no keeps, no crenelated curtain wall, nothing like the huge central mound of earth at Windsor with its tall Round Tower. Instead, the palace was a virtual rabbit warren of buildings surrounding courtyards large and small.
Rose walked from Base Court through Clock Court with her mother, the pearls on her beautiful new gown gleaming in the light from torches set on the walls at intervals. They climbed the Great Stairs. As they were crossing the cavernous blue-ceilinged great hall on their way to the Presence Chamber, a lord walking the other direction stopped and doffed his plumed hat.
“I hear you have a copy of I Sonetti, my lady.”
Rose couldn’t remember having met him, and the man had a distinct gleam in his eye; one that made her uneasy. “I do,” she told him cautiously.
“I should enjoy a private viewing.”
“I think not,” she said and swished past him.
“I Sonetti?” Chrystabel asked when they reached the other end of the chamber.
“The Sonnets. Italian poetry.”
“Why should you not want to show it to the man?”
“I don’t even know him!” Rose burst out, and then added in as calm a voice as possible, “Besides, I’m here to see the duke. If he has plans to make me his wife, I don’t think he’d appreciate me sharing any book with another man privately.”
