by Lauren Royal
“She’s well,” the man replied blithely. He inclined his head toward the left, where Rose saw a woman half entwined with a man who had to be a decade her junior. “Like most here at court, we have an understanding.”
Rose was half tempted to bash him over the head with his own walking stick, but before she could react, Charles appeared by her side. He bowed and held out a hand. “My lady?”
Rosslyn’s eyes widened, making Rose feel rather triumphant as she joined the king on the dance floor.
It was a country dance, performed in two lines, one of women, one of men. When it was her turn to parade down the center with Charles, their joined hands held high, Rose felt the eyes of the entire chamber on her.
The king’s eyes were on her as well. Dark and glinting, they captured hers quite effectively. The fabled Stuart charm. “It’s a pleasure to have a new face at court, my lady. Especially one as lovely as yours.” Charles danced superbly, very graceful for so tall a man. His voice was just as smooth. “Why have you never graced us with your presence before, my lady?”
She blushed—becomingly, she hoped. “My father thought me too young.”
“Young?” he echoed, sounding puzzled.
And then they had to return to their respective lines.
As she executed the simple steps, she furtively glanced around. There were ladies of her mother’s age, certainly, but there were also girls of fifteen and sixteen. Or perhaps she should think of them as women, since they hung on the arms of grown men, flirting madly.
Clearly, she wasn’t too young.
The next time she met up with the king to parade down the center, she had a more plausible reason. “I’ve come to court to find a husband.”
“Ah.” His dark eyes glittered speculatively. “Interesting choice of word, my lady. Husbands we have, although many are already wed.” He smiled at his own jest. “Take me, for example—”
“I won’t be,” she interrupted archly.
Though she immediately worried that he might be offended, he only laughed. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he conceded good-naturedly.
Among this social circle filled with promiscuous spouses, her parents were known as uncommonly devoted.
When the dance came to an end, the king raised her hand to his mouth, pressing warm lips to the back. “It was a pleasure, my lady. I wish you every success here at court.”
For a moment, while he still held her hand, Rose found herself suffused with wonder. Here she was, in the King’s Drawing Room at Windsor Castle, with none other than Charles himself. An experience like this could go to a woman’s head, she thought giddily.
Then he led her from the dance floor, and she watched him go straight to a girl of no more than seventeen and kiss her soundly on the lips. Rose couldn’t help but notice his queen was studiously gazing elsewhere, resignation etched on her small, foreign-looking face.
Apparently all was not lightness and fun here at the castle.
But this was Rose’s first evening at court, not a night to shoulder the worries of the world. She looked away, determined to enjoy the spectacle that was Charles’s court. Courtiers wore every color of the rainbow. Gentlemen walked with swaggering, elegant movements while ladies fluttered exquisitely painted fans.
“May I claim the pleasure of a dance?”
Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome man. “Absolutely, my lord…?”
“Bridgewater. The Duke of Bridgewater,” he clarified with a warm smile and a smart bow.
Rose was pleased to see he wasn’t carrying one of those foppish ribbon-topped walking sticks. And he was a duke! Not only a duke, but a youngish duke—of an age, Rose guessed, not above thirty.
Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old men of forty or more.
As he swept her into the dance, her heart skittered with excitement. Already she was dancing with exactly the sort of man she’d come here hoping to meet.
“My given name is Gabriel, and my family name is Fox,” he informed her quite pleasantly. “You’re Trentingham’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Rose Ashcroft,” she said, gazing up at him—for he was tall. Tall enough to make her feel nearly as petite as her sister Lily. Her gaze skimmed from the top of his very-English blond head, past blue eyes, and down a patrician nose to his smiling mouth, each detail making her even happier.
He was perfect!
She was certain she was falling in love already.
“My dear Rose—may I call you Rose?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction.”
He was not only a duke, but a gentleman as well.
She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. “To be sure, your grace.” Imagine being called your grace—her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. “My mother brought me here to meet gentlemen like you.” Men exactly like you, she revised silently, thrilled to have the attention of such a great catch.
And she did have his attention. His hands gripped hers a little tighter than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary—his rapt attention made a little thrill run through her.
Court was wonderful. Even while dancing with Gabriel—for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn’t help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeoman, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.
That observation prompted her to check out Gabriel’s jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swinging a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds, and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.
Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!
When the dance came to an end, Rose felt deflated. One never danced with the same man two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.
No sooner had he straightened than another man rushed over and begged the honor of a dance. And after that, another. And another and another until the evening grew late and the men all blended in her head.
Marquesses and earls and barons, light-haired and dark-haired and handsome and plain, short and tall and in between. She gave each and every one of them a fair appraisal.
Truly, she did.
But she knew—she just knew—that none of them was as perfect for her as the absolutely perfect Duke of Bridgewater.
SEVEN
KIT WALKED briskly through the dark castle grounds toward Sir Christopher Wren’s apartments—the official apartments of the Surveyor General, apartments he hoped to own for himself someday. Not that he’d actually live there. He’d just put the finishing touches on his brand new house here in Windsor, situated on an enviable plot of land on the banks of the River Thames.
In fact, his sister, Ellen, was waiting for him there now. At least, he hoped she was waiting for him. She’d declared herself in love with a completely unsuitable man—a pawnbroker, for heaven’s sake—and he feared she might be off at his damned pawnshop.
Ellen never had been the type to pay heed to his brotherly concerns.
Arriving at his destination, he knocked twice on the old oak door and waited for Wren’s secretary to admit him. He was slightly startled when Wren himself answered, dressed in shirtsleeves. He’d obviously been working. He wore no periwig, and his long, dark hair was a mite disheveled, as though he’d been raking his hands through it.
Wren didn’t reside in the official Surveyor General’s apartments either, but instead used the
rooms as office space. Like Kit, Wren had recently built an impressive house for himself in town. But as the Dean of Windsor’s son, he’d been raised right here in the castle deanery, a playmate of the young Prince of Wales—now King Charles—and he and his monarch were still intimates. Kit was hoping their long-standing relationship would mean Wren could convince the king that Kit was the right man for the Deputy Surveyor post.
But the look on Wren’s face wasn’t reassuring.
“This new development does not bode well,” Wren said without preamble, motioning Kit inside. Perching one hip on a large drafting table strewn with copious drawings, he waved Kit toward a chair.
Like Charles, Wren was two decades Kit’s senior. But Kit had known him for years, ever since he’d found himself Wren’s student at Oxford. Professor and pupil had grown close, and although Kit knew Wren was also acquainted with his rival for the position, he knew as well that Wren had never held the man in high esteem. Gaylord Craig, now the Earl of Rosslyn, hadn’t been a stellar student—and Wren was a man who valued intelligence augmented by hard work.
Unfortunately, however, the decision wasn’t Wren’s alone. Charles owed many Royalist families for their support in the Civil War, and government appointments were less costly than most methods of repayment.
“Until this unfortunate occurrence,” Wren continued, “you were the front-runner for the appointment. But Charles hasn’t the patience for costly errors—the monarchy, I’m afraid, is as cash-strapped as ever.”
Kit rubbed the chunk of brick in his pocket. “The error wasn’t strictly mine—my foreman chose to use substandard materials. Not,” he rushed to add, “that I don’t take responsibility. Quite clearly I erred in hiring the man in the first place. I’ll cover the losses myself.”
Wren nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes sympathetic. “Regardless, I’m now under pressure to award the post to Rosslyn. Last I saw, however, the dining room was coming along beautifully—your design and eye to detail are impeccable. Charles plans to inspect it tomorrow, so if you can make certain the site is safe and any debris is cleared—”
“Of course.”
“—perhaps we can divert his attention to the impressive decoration.”
“I have everything under control,” Kit assured him.
If necessary, he would comb the town for extra hands and have the men work overnight. Sufficient scaffolding would be erected to assure no safety concerns, and the site would look pristine, whatever it took to make it that way. “What time have you scheduled the visit?”
“Noon.”
“Then I shall be ready by ten.”
“Make sure you are.” Though Wren’s words sounded serious, he tempered them with a small smile. “With any luck, we can pull this off.”
“I’ve never put much stock in luck. Hard work and perseverance have done well by me so far.” Kit returned the smile with a wry one of his own. “But I suppose a little luck wouldn’t come amiss just this once.”
Wren rose and opened the door, giving Kit a companionable slap on the back as he ushered him through it. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m counting on it,” Kit told him.
Hard work and perseverance. He’d always believed that with both, anything could be his.
He headed back to his site. The castle grounds were quiet this time of night, the Round Tower on its huge mound of earth looming tall and imposing between the Lower and Upper Wards. His footfalls echoed off the cobblestones as he skirted the circular structure and made his way to Horn Court.
Nodding a familiar greeting, the usher there opened the door to admit him to the King’s Staircase. Kit hurried up the steps and through the progression of chambers—rooms he didn’t belong in, if one went strictly by rank. But as one of the king’s architects, he had free access.
Someday he would have the rank, too.
His mind on his project and what he would have to accomplish tonight to assure its successful completion, he fairly ran through the Audience Chamber and into the King’s Drawing Room, where court was in full swing this evening. There, he stopped short.
Rose Ashcroft was on the dance floor.
His breath caught at the sight of her, a vision in wine-colored satin. The wide neckline bared her creamy shoulders. Her long sleeves were caught at intervals with jeweled clasps that left gaps, revealing tempting glances of a diaphanous chemise underneath.
He had no idea how she’d come to be here, but she was dancing with some lucky bastard who was tall, blond, and exceedingly aristocratic.
As she spun in the other man’s arms, Kit felt that punch in his gut again. And jealousy spurted through his veins. Which was absurd, aggravating, and unproductive.
Mr. Christopher Martyn was still years away from gaining the title that could give him access to Lady Rose Ashcroft. Wren hadn’t been knighted until well after he’d become Surveyor General. Deputy Surveyor was just the first step.
Unless…
What if he managed to impress King Charles with his abilities as a master architect? Windsor’s new dining room would prove to be spectacular, of that he was certain. The renovations at Whitehall Palace and the new building at Hampton Court—apartments for Charles’s long-time mistress Barbara, whom he’d created the Duchess of Cleveland, and their five children—could prove to be Kit’s making.
Charles might be pleased enough to award him a knighthood along with the Deputy Surveyor post. That would speed along Kit’s plans, perhaps allowing him to win the stunning woman now gliding on the dance floor in the arms of another man.
His jaw set with determination, he tore his gaze from Rose and strode through the glittering assembly, exiting the drawing room into the small, as-yet-unrenovated vestibule that led to his project.
“Martyn.”
Kit turned to see the Earl of Rosslyn follow and close the heavy door behind him. After the hubbub of court, the vestibule seemed quiet, the music and voices muffled to a dull hum.
“Yes, Rosslyn?”
Slim, fair, and elegant in a vaguely effeminate way, Rosslyn shook his head sympathetically. “I was sorry to hear of your misfortune.”
Given that they were competing for the same post, Kit couldn’t help wondering if the man was sincere—but after all, they went back a long way. Oxford, of course, and before that, they’d both attended Westminster School. They’d never run in the same circles, since Kit was a King’s Scholar with his tuition paid by the Crown, while Rosslyn stuck to his wealthy crowd. But Kit had always got on well with everyone, and as it had become clear in the last few weeks that he and Rosslyn were the final candidates for Deputy Surveyor, he’d found himself a bit disconcerted to be competing for the post with a friend.
Not that that dimmed his determination to win. He’d been working toward this appointment all his life. Now he was so close.
He tried for a blithe smile. “What misfortune is that?”
“Your project here has suffered a setback, hasn’t it?”
Kit managed an unconcerned shrug. “Minor, I can assure you. I’ll finish within deadline as planned.”
“Excellent.” Rosslyn toyed with the ribbons that crowned his walking stick, his pale blue eyes speculative. “I must say I have mixed feelings about winning the Deputy Surveyor post over you. The last thing I need is more projects—I’m overwhelmed with commissions as it is.” One square-toed high-heeled shoe tapping, the earl eyed Kit’s plain suit with ill-concealed disdain. “And I certainly don’t need a knighthood.”
Apparently Rosslyn wasn’t feeling competitive, Kit thought with some relief. He grinned and held out a hand. “Well, then, for the sake of the kingdom, may the best man win.”
Rosslyn’s grip had always been of the limp variety, and this occasion was no exception. Kit knew he was the best man.
Now he just had to prove it.
EIGHT
AS THE EVENING wore on, Gabriel sought out Rose for a second dance and then a third. “People will talk,” she told him as he guided
her toward the dance floor once again.
“Do you care?” he asked.
“Not at all, your grace.” Rose’s attention was drawn by a spectacle that was already becoming familiar: King Charles crossing the chamber followed by a bevy of yipping spaniels. Amused, she smiled as she saw him stop before a short woman and slide an arm around her possessively. “Who is that?” she asked.
The duke barely spared the couple a glance. “Have you never met Nell Gwyn?”
“Is that Nell Gwyn? Gemini!” Rose knew of the woman, of course; she doubted there was a soul in England who hadn’t heard of the brothel-born actress who’d stolen His Majesty’s heart. But she’d expected Nell to be exquisite.
Although the woman enthusiastically kissing Charles was pretty, Rose wouldn’t call her beautiful. Her small body was lushly curvy, her hair a riot of red-brown curls. Rose’s eyes widened as Charles worked his mistress toward a chair and tumbled her onto his lap. Over the music, Nell’s delighted laughter mixed with the ever-present yaps of the king’s dogs.
“I had no idea she was allowed at court,” Rose mused. “Has Charles granted her a title?”
“Of course not.” Gabriel maneuvered her around to where she couldn’t stare. “But Charles made their young son the Earl of Burford, and Nell herself was appointed Lady of the Queen’s Bedchamber these two years past.”
Rose blinked. “And what does our dear queen think of that?”
“I don’t expect our dear queen was given a say in the matter.” The duke raised a brow as he looked down at her. “Wives usually aren’t.”
“Not all wives,” she said archly. “I’ll have you know my family’s motto is Interroga Conformationem.”
“Question Convention?” he translated, looking amused.
Rose smiled, pleased. On top of everything else wonderful about him, the man knew Latin.
After a few more dances with men who failed to measure up to the duke, Rose sneaked off toward the ladies’ attiring room, hoping for a rest. As she approached the small chamber, Nell Gwyn’s distinctive laughter drifted out. “Aye, my ladies, the tale is true.”
