by Lauren Royal
“Tell us,” a feminine voice demanded.
“Yes, do tell!” came a veritable chorus.
Wondering just how many ladies were crowded into the attiring room, Rose stopped outside the door and listened.
“I took His Majesty to a bawdy house,” Nell confided, “and encouraged him to run up a bill treating everyone to drink. Incognito, of course—it wasn’t the type of place his cronies frequent, you understand.” That was met with titters of laughter. “By and by, I took him up to a room and got him undressed—then I ran away with his clothes.”
“You’re a bold one, Nelly Gywn,” someone chortled out. “What happened after that?”
“Well, the brothel owner didn’t believe this man wrapped in a sheet was her sovereign—you cannot blame the poor fool, can you? He carried no money, so to pay his debt and for something to wear, he offered an emerald ring as security. It was all he had on him, you see.”
“And fair enough,” a lady pointed out.
“Well, the proprietor refused, claiming it was paste for certain. Our dear king nearly burst a vessel, he did, when fortunately someone recognized him and convinced the owner as to his identity. So all was well.”
“He must have been furious,” someone breathed.
“You don’t know my Charles,” Nell declared. “Once it was over, he thought it a fine jest indeed!”
Hoots of laughter greeted Rose when she stepped into the room. “Good evening, ladies.”
Her smile faded as the chamber fell silent and, one by one, the women shouldered their way past her and out the door.
Finally only Nell was left. She shrugged and made her way to Rose. “Don’t pay them no mind, milady.” Like a man, she held out a hand. “I’m Eleanor Gywn, Nell to my friends.”
“I know.” Nell’s hand felt small and warm for the moment Rose held it. “I’m Rose Ashcroft.”
“Lady Rose Ashcroft, I’ve been told.” Nell’s twinkling eyes almost closed when she smiled. “They’re only jealous of your beauty. And afraid you’ll steal their men.”
“Gemini!” Rose exclaimed. “Most of them are married!”
“Ah, a babe in the woods.” Nell gave a kindly sigh. “Here at court, that makes no difference. The women consider all male courtiers fair game, and the men hunt amongst the women just as freely. Fidelity went out with Cromwell,” she concluded, then wiped her tongue and spit, having uttered the hated name.
Rose slanted her an assessing glance. “You don’t seem to worry that I’ll help myself to a courtier or two.”
Nell’s infectious laughter poured forth. “Bloody hell, sweetheart, what do I need with the pompous fools? I bed with the king. It doesn’t get any better than that!”
Rose wondered if by better Nell meant that he was a great lover. Or was it a simple reference to Charles’s exalted status?
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when another lady barged in, her milk-white complexion mottled with angry red. Giving Nell a glare that said she wished her dead, she plopped onto a green baize bench with her back to them both, her dark ringlets shaking with barely controlled fury.
Nell snorted, then sailed out the door with Rose in tow. “Don’t pay no mind to her, either,” she said, none too quietly.
Rose waited until they were out of earshot to ask, “Who is she?”
“The high and mighty Louise de Kéroualle.”
“The Duchess of Portsmouth?” Another of Charles’s mistresses—this one, Rose knew, not nearly as popular with the people. Of course, that was due to her Catholicism rather than any fault of her personality, which, after all, the populace could hardly be acquainted with.
Nell, on the other hand, had been known to proudly proclaim herself “the Protestant whore.”
“Squintabella is in a snit,” Nell said now, “because she arrived today after a long journey from Bath, but although Charles took dinner with her, he didn’t invite her to stay the night, preferring my bed instead.”
“Squintabella?” Rose echoed weakly, her head spinning with all this delicious court gossip.
“Did you not notice the slight cast in the duchess’s eye? I was here at court before her, and I’ll be here long after she’s gone. She’s managed to send Barbara running across the Channel, but she won’t do away with me so easily.”
“Barbara has left England?” The news was a shock. Barbara was Charles’s longest-standing mistress, having accompanied him home for his Restoration.
“She’s on the outs now, thanks to Louise. Living in Paris. But she’ll return—she always does. And no matter what she’s done, Charles always forgives her.”
“You must find that maddening,” Rose said.
“Hell, no. She’s had him wrapped around her finger for seventeen years. I know better than to expect that to change now.” Nell laughed as she bussed Rose on both cheeks, sang “Good luck, dearie!” and flitted back into the drawing room.
No sooner had she left than Louise came out the door. “Enjoying court, Lady Rose?”
Still reeling, Rose turned to her in surprise. “Very much,” she told the gorgeous woman. Baby-faced with almond-shaped eyes, full red lips, and enough jewelry hanging all over her to stock a small shop, Louise made Rose feel plain in comparison.
But the duchess’s demeanor wasn’t so beautiful. “You’d do best,” she advised haughtily, “not to fraternize with such as she.”
“Could you mean Nell?” Bristling, Rose couldn’t help but notice that small squint Nell had mentioned. “Whyever not? Charles seems to think her good enough.”
“I cannot credit that he’s taken with such a coarse, common orange wench.” As a young girl, before she’d stepped on stage at the Theatre Royal, Nell had been employed there selling oranges. “She calls him her Charles the Third, you know.”
Rose could feel jealous venom spewing from this bitter woman. “Charles the Third?”
“Her earlier lovers included Charles Hart—a common actor—who then passed her to Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. She called him her Charles the Second, and now the king has become Charles the Third.”
Rose’s lips twitched.
“It’s not amusing,” Louise said with a sniff. “His Majesty deserves respect—not least from one such as her.”
Louise de Kéroualle, daughter of a Breton family of ancient and distinguished lineage, quite obviously considered herself much above Nell Gwyn. But Rose couldn’t help liking the “coarse orange wench” better. Louise was rumored to be a French spy, which Rose suddenly had little difficulty believing.
Pretty is as pretty does, her mother had always told her three girls. Rose was imagining Louise’s lovely face transforming into that of a hag when Gabriel appeared and laid a hand on her arm.
“Did you not promise me the next dance?” he asked, although she hadn’t. Before Rose could answer, he nodded toward Louise. “Your grace.”
The pale beauty nodded back, a smile curving those blood-red lips. “Your grace,” she echoed, her voice as sweet and smooth as honey.
The woman, Rose realized, was a natural-born predator. Although she knew tongues would wag when the duke led her off toward the dance floor yet again, she went more than willingly.
As she took her place across from him, her heart pounded with the thrill of it all. She’d always said it was as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, and the Duke of Bridgewater certainly had a title worth falling for.
The dance was a branle, and all the running, gliding, and skipping rendered her breathless. Or maybe it was the duke…she couldn’t be sure. She only knew that when he took her by the arm and drew her toward an exterior door, her heart gave a little lurch.
“We shouldn’t—” she started.
“Whyever not?” His smile looked innocent enough. “Aren’t you heated after that dance? I certainly feel overwarm…” One pale, arched brow rose, and his tone implied the heat resulted from more than just exertion.
Well, she shouldn’t refuse him, should she? Afte
r all, it was only a walk outside. She glanced toward her mother, but Chrystabel was engaged in conversation across the room. The men at court had wicked reputations, but if Mum were concerned, surely she’d be watching more closely.
In any case, it hardly mattered, since while Rose was dithering, the duke had managed to steer her from the room.
She’d never liked the dark, so she was relieved to see a few torches. It was a mild evening, but no one else seemed to be outdoors enjoying the favorable weather. “Should we be out here?” she asked nervously.
“It’s open to the public. Charles expanded this terrace recently, and he’s invited the townspeople to enjoy the views. Enormous as it is, it’s crowded as hell in the daytime.”
She’d bet it was—and for some reason, she found herself wishing all those people were here now. But when the duke took her hand and began walking, her fleeting unease was replaced by a sense of wonder. Her first time at court—how amazing that she should find such a perfect man so quickly! She should have come to court years earlier.
“How long have you been here at Windsor?” he asked.
“We just arrived today.”
“I guessed as much—or I would surely have spotted you before now.”
They fell quiet as Gabriel guided her toward the edge of the terrace and stopped by the rail. This castle, like most, was built on high land, and the terrace afforded magnificent views. Beneath the castle wall, parkland gave way to a few twinkling lights and the moon reflecting off the Thames in the distance. Stars winked in the heavens above.
“It’s a lovely night,” Rose said to fill the silence.
“Yes, it is.” He smiled down at her, his face lit by the moon. “And made more so with such lovely company.”
Rose liked what she was hearing.
Surely there was no reason to feel uneasy…
NINE
KIT HAD SIX men erecting scaffolding, two chipping off the ruined plaster, and another two hauling away the debris. At the same time, he had a team dispatched to London to fetch the quality materials that had been figured into his original specifications. With any luck, they’d return on the morrow, or at worst, the day after that.
Construction work generally halted at dusk. There were no chandeliers in the room as yet, so the men worked by the light of torches and candelabrum. If Kit could persuade the rest of his crew to remain on the job twenty-four hours a day, he would. But of course they were snug in their beds while he fretted. Artists, especially, were temperamental creatures.
“Careful!” he warned, one eye on the late-night crew while he reworked the schedule again in his head, planning contingencies in case the new materials arrived late. “We’re strapped for time, but I won’t have injuries. Or a fire.”
“Pardon me!” a musical voice exclaimed. He turned to see the swish of peach-colored skirts as Lady Trentingham swiveled away, narrowly missing being whacked in the head by three men carrying a beam. “I’ve apparently stumbled into the wrong room.”
Emerging from the shadows, Kit strode toward her, his footfalls muffled by the protective tarpaulins on the new oak flooring. “It’s perfectly all right, Lady Trentingham.” Taking her arm, he drew her over to a safe corner.
“Mr. Martyn!” she said warmly. “I was searching for my daughter—”
“Lady Rose? I thought I glimpsed her earlier. What a surprise to find you both here.”
She turned slowly, inspecting the chamber. “I’ve brought her to court to find a husband.”
He should have guessed. A woman as beautiful and bright as Rose would be snapped up here within days—if she wasn’t debauched first. Absurdly, disappointment tightened his chest as he watched Lady Trentingham scan the room and saw her pretty brown eyes—so like Rose’s—widen with appreciation.
“This ceiling is going to be exquisite,” she commented, gazing up at the half-painted details on the older portion of the room—the part that wasn’t ruined. “A banquet of the gods, am I right? Fish and fowl…and look, a lobster! How very charming.”
“I’m pleased you think so. I envisioned it both exquisite and somewhat amusing.” He hoped the king would be even half as impressed as she. “I hired Antonio Verrio to paint it. You may have heard of him?”
“Heavens, yes. The Duke of Montagu brought him from Paris, didn’t he? I arranged his marriage. The duke’s, not the artist’s.” She ran a hand down the intricate oak carving on the wall beside her, a melange of fruit and vegetables. “And who is responsible for this?”
“Grinling Gibbons, assisted by Henry Phillips.”
She nodded approvingly, still looking around. “The cornice is his work as well, if I’m not mistaken. Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. Martyn?”
He blinked at the rapid change of subject. Not to mention the subject itself. “Lady Rose is indeed interesting,” he replied cautiously. “And please, call me Kit.”
“Kit.” She dropped her gaze to meet his. “That isn’t the sort of interest I was enquiring about, and”—a small smile curved her lips—“I suspect you know it. Do you want Rose?”
He wished there were furniture in the unfinished room, so he could sit down. “Do I want…”
“I don’t mean in a carnal sense,” she clarified, then her eyes twinkled. “Well, of course that’s part of it…but do you want her as a wife?”
“A wife?” Furniture or no, if this line of questioning continued, he was going to have to sit. The floor was looking mighty tempting. His knees felt weaker than the plaster that was crumbling overhead.
And he hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of reply Lady Trentingham was seeking. He rubbed the back of his neck.
Do you want her as a wife?
Only in his most ludicrous dreams.
If he answered yes, would Lady Trentingham berate him for aspiring far above his station? If he answered no, would she take offense on her daughter’s behalf?
Thankfully, she saved him from answering at all. “You would make me a fine son-in-law, but if you wish for that to happen, you’d do best to hide my approval from my daughter.”
Kit could hardly believe his ears. Elation sang through his veins, tempered by a rush of confusion. “I…” He paused for a deep breath. “Doesn’t it bother you that I’m not of noble birth?”
Lady Trentingham graced him with a soft smile. “I know a good man when I see one, and a title rarely has much to do with it. In my opinion, that is. I wish I could say my Rose felt the same way.” Her voice was laden with warning. “If you wish to pursue her, I’m afraid you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
He wondered if he was up to the task. But with the approval of Rose’s mother, he was damn well willing to try. “She told me she’s allowed to choose her own husband.”
“Yes, she is. And furthermore, she’s determined not to wed anyone of my choosing. I’m rather known as a matchmaker,” she added, but it wasn’t a boast, rather an honest nugget of information. “Like my other daughters, she wants no part of any marriage I arrange.”
“I see.”
She cracked a smile. “Nevertheless—and unbeknownst to my children—I chose both Violet’s and Lily’s husbands. And I aim to make it three for three. How’s that for an impressive accounting?”
“My lady, I wish you every success in attaining that goal.” He’d never spoken more earnest words, since her success would mean his as well.
“I’m pleased to hear you agree. One more thing.” She placed her hand on his arm, commanding his gaze. “My daughter is an innocent…and I expect her to remain one until the day she’s wed. I’m well aware of the goings-on here at court—”
“I’m no courtier,” he rushed to assure her. He waved an arm, encompassing the half-finished chamber. “I’m only the hired help.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She smoothed down her skirt. “Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who is a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I persuade you to accompany me in my searc
h?”
TEN
AS ROSE AND Gabriel walked, she found herself mentally bouncing back and forth between trying to be her most charming and marveling that the Duke of Bridgewater was choosing to spend so much time with her. As a result, she feared their conversation had been a bit stilted.
But that was only to be expected, wasn’t it? After all, they hardly knew each other. Still, her family had always been rather vocal, discussing anything and everything with great enthusiasm, so the awkward silences made her uncomfortable.
“What do you think,” she asked after a particularly long gap in their dialogue, “of the maritime agreement we’ve just signed with France?”
“Maritime agreement?” The duke’s perfect brow creased in puzzlement.
Did people not discuss these matters at court? Didn’t he read The London Gazette? She plucked a yellow bloom off a potted hollyhock plant. “English ships will now be permitted to carry Dutch cargoes without fear of French interference.”
A little chuckle burst from his lips. “What would a woman know about that?”
She forced a laugh in return. “Oh, just something I heard,” she said and cursed herself silently.
Though she wasn’t a student of history or prone to philosophical musings, she’d always been interested in what currently went on in the world. But how could she have forgotten her own rule to dazzle men without revealing her intelligence?
She sniffed the flower daintily. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what the agreement might mean to us here in England.” When he gave her a blank look, she worried that he might no longer like her. “The significance of such an action escapes me,” she lied in a desperate effort to redeem herself.
“That’s quite all right, my dear.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
Did he still like her, then? she wondered.
But then he drew her between a turret and a potted tree, and she knew.
He still liked her.
In fact, he was going to kiss her.
