by Lauren Royal
She could tell when a man was aiming to kiss her. After all, it had happened before. In truth, she’d lost count of the number of men who’d contrived to press their lips to hers. She supposed it wasn’t surprising, given she was comely and not nearly as proper as her sisters. And they were only kisses, for heaven’s sake—it wasn’t as though she allowed men to take further liberties.
So she’d been kissed before, and she knew what to expect. But she had a sad secret.
She didn’t much care for kissing.
“Gabriel,” she whispered when he turned her to face him. “May I call you Gabriel?”
“But of course, sweet Rose.” His voice had deepened, and he raised a hand and skimmed her cheek. Then it curled around the back of her neck as he drew her closer, and before she could say anything further—before she could attempt to slow him down, to possibly suggest they get to know each other better before sharing this intimacy—he lowered his head.
His other arm went around her, and his hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against his body. As the flower dropped from her fingers, his mouth crushed down on hers.
She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips coaxed hers open, and his tongue pushed into her mouth, wet and frantic. Just like she’d expected, she thought with a mental groan. Most men seemed to prefer this kind of kiss, and the duke was apparently no exception.
Gabriel let out an amorous little moan and shifted her in his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Faced with such honest passion, she tried to relax and participate, tried to learn to enjoy this kiss. But try as she might, it didn’t feel as wondrous as it was supposed to. In fact, it didn’t feel like much at all beyond a messy mashing of mouths.
She was relieved when he pulled away—and even more relieved when her mother’s distinctive soft laughter floated to her on the night air.
She turned and stepped back onto the terrace. “Mum! And…you,” she added rather ungraciously as her gaze shifted to her mother’s right.
There stood Kit Martyn, looking impossibly handsome. A commoner had no right to look so good. She felt those champagne bubbles again, and she hadn’t even been drinking spirits.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him.
“Building a new dining room for the king. What have you been doing here?” he asked in a way that made it clear he thought he knew.
Rose felt herself turning red. For once, she appreciated the dark.
“She’s with me,” the duke said, sounding rather possessive. “Though what business is it of yours, I wonder?”
Picturing these two in a fistfight, Rose feared Kit might win. “Your grace,” she said quickly, “may I present Mr. Christopher Martyn. Kit, the Duke of Bridgewater.” She looked up at Gabriel. “He’s a friend of the family,” she added, feeling it necessary to explain.
“And I asked Kit to help me search for you,” her mother put in. “I felt it unsafe, as a woman, to be out in the dark alone.”
“Indeed, it wouldn’t have been wise.” Kit held Gabriel’s gaze until the man looked away. “I’m glad to have been of service, but I must be off. I’ve much to accomplish before tomorrow. Lady Trentingham, Lady Rose.” He nodded toward them both, then addressed the duke with an elegant bow. “Your grace.”
Slightly disconcerted, Rose watched him walk away.
“We should return as well,” her mother told her. “I’m grateful to have found you in such safe hands.”
If Chrystabel’s voice held a bit of warning, Rose chose to ignore it.
On their way back to the drawing room, she smiled up at Gabriel. She’d liked the way he’d made it clear she was there with him. He truly was perfect.
It wasn’t his fault she didn’t enjoy his kisses.
She’d listened, jealous beyond belief, while her sisters rhapsodized about the sensual kisses they enjoyed with the men who were now their husbands. But kisses had never been like that for her. In all honesty, she found them more than a mite disgusting.
Of course, she’d never told her sisters that, so she sometimes wondered if they, too, were hiding their distaste. But she thought not. Both her sisters were honest to a fault. How they could enjoy men mauling their mouths was beyond her, but apparently they did.
Though she wished it could be the same for her, experience had convinced her otherwise. She could only hope that the rest of what happened between men and women wasn’t nearly as repugnant.
ELEVEN
“I’M PLEASED.” King Charles nodded thoughtfully, his dark eyes skimming the dining room again with approval. “And I’m satisfied with your explanation, Mr. Martyn. Do be certain, however, to complete this project per schedule.”
“I can assure Your Majesty that will not prove a problem.” Kit walked with Charles toward the double doors and threw them wide. “I thank you for taking the time to visit.”
Kit smiled as he watched the king make his way through the vestibule, several of the man’s ever-present spaniels yipping after him. After pulling the doors shut, he unfolded some tarpaulins and laid them near the side of the chamber that was supported by scaffolding. Then he strode through a door at the other end, along a corridor, and into Brick Court. “Come along, now! Beams, lumber—move!”
Dazed, he stepped aside to let the workmen through with the first of the new materials he’d ordered.
If it wouldn’t be such a bad example, he’d slump against the wall.
He’d passed.
He wandered back along the corridor and into the dining room, keeping out of his crew’s way. He’d been up all night—supervising, reevaluating, working with his own hands—while his men secured the damaged area and hauled away all evidence of the mishap. He’d attached countless strips of decorative molding, polished all the oak paneling, stripped off the tarpaulins and polished the new floor, too. All in hopes of charming the king’s eye.
He’d passed.
Dropping onto a fresh stack of wood and using it as a chair, he flipped blindly through a book of architectural renderings. He should go home; he was exhausted and needed to check in with his sister. Ellen had a habit of finding trouble when he wasn’t around.
The drawings before him blurred.
He’d passed.
All was not lost.
When the double doors reopened, his heart seized as he wondered wildly whether the king had some complaint, after all. When two women entered instead, he sagged with relief. Then sat straight when he recognized them.
Rose and her mother, both dressed in bright, cheerful colors. Surely a sight for tired eyes.
“Oh!” Lady Trentingham exclaimed, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
He wouldn’t wager on that.
“I just wanted to show Rose this beautiful chamber,” she added.
Kit shut his book. “I was about to leave, anyway. It’s time I went home.”
“Home? Surely you’re not finished here. It looks wonderful, but—”
“It’s stunning, Mum! Even better than you described.” Rose gazed up at the ceiling. “Beauty and whimsy all rolled into one. I am not overly fond of the decoration here at Windsor. Overdone, if you ask me. But this room doesn’t take itself as seriously as the others.”
“Thank you,” Kit said. Relishing the admiration in her voice, he watched her wander the chamber, touching a carved panel, the white marble mantel, a bit of grooved wainscoting. Smiling, he turned to her mother. “The project is well in hand for the moment; I’m not abandoning it, I assure you. I live right here in Windsor. Not a ten minute walk.”
“Is that so? I imagine your home must be lovely.”
He knew a hint when he heard one. “Would you like to see it?”
“Mum, I don’t think—”
“We’d love to,” Lady Trentingham cut in. “Weren’t you just saying, dear, how tedious it is here in the daytime?”
TWELVE
KIT LED THEM on the easy walk from the castle down the hill to the Thames. Rose dec
ided it felt good to be out in the fresh air. And there truly was nothing to do at Windsor Castle in the daytime…with the exception of the palace staff, it seemed everyone was still abed, sleeping off the excesses of the night before.
When Rose had hit her pillow after midnight, court had still been in full swing. She would have to adjust her country hours and perhaps take a nap this evening before court got underway. They had just begun setting up gaming tables when she left. Although she’d never gambled, she imagined it was much fun. She wanted to see if she could win enough money for a new gown.
The steep, curved street followed the castle wall. Across the road, townspeople were going about their business, entering and exiting rows of gabled shops with living accommodations above. Women carried baskets over their arms, gathering purchases as children and dogs played tag in the cobbled street.
No dirt road here, in this bustling town where the king kept a household.
“Look,” she said as they reached the bottom of the hill. “A bookshop.”
“John Young, Bookseller,” Mum read off the old, cracked wooden sign.
Rose was always looking for new books to help practice her skills. “I wonder if they might have any books written in foreign languages.”
“They do,” Kit put in. “I found this there.” He raised the book tucked under his arm. “It’s Latin.”
“You read Latin?”
“Hell, no,” he said with a smile, not surprising her in the least. He hadn’t understood her family’s Latin motto, after all. “I bought it to examine the drawings.” He opened the book and held it up as they walked. “See? Classical architecture.”
“But there are words,” Mum pointed out. “Explanations.”
“True.” He sighed as he closed the cover. “I believe, actually, that this book is meant to teach one how to accurately draw buildings. But I enjoy studying the pictures.”
“Rose can read Latin,” Mum said.
Rose avoided her mother’s gaze, instead looking longingly inside the bookshop as they passed. “May we stop here on the way back, Mum?”
“Perhaps.”
“We can stop now, if you wish,” Kit offered, pleasantly surprising Rose. She thought fleetingly that were it the Duke of Bridgewater walking beside her, she wouldn’t have dared show an interest in books.
It was freeing to be with a man she didn’t care about.
“Later,” Mum said. “I’m anxious to see the house.”
At last they came to the end of the street. On the bucolic River Thames, swans glided majestically. Rose gazed across the Windsor Bridge toward the charming town of Eton. “Where do you live?” she asked Kit.
“Right here,” he said, gesturing toward an imposing redbrick house that sat beside the river.
No, not a house. A mansion.
She consciously closed her gaping jaw. “It looks like Rand’s house.”
Her mother smiled. “Rand’s house is white, not brick.”
“But the style in which it’s built…” Rose looked toward Kit, knowing he’d understand what she meant. “It looks nothing like Windsor’s dining room.”
“The dining room reflects Charles’s preferences, not my own.”
“I like yours much better,” she murmured as he led them under a small columned portico and into the house.
She paused on the threshold, admiring the clean, modern lines of the entry hall. The black marble floor was studded with small white marble diamonds. Smooth, pale stone walls were set off by classic dark oak molding. A high ceiling led to a corridor beyond, where Rose glimpsed a series of archways that vaguely reminded her of a vaulted cathedral.
As she’d said, it reminded her of the house Kit had built for Rand in Oxford. But better. Not to mention at least twice the size.
Kit Martyn was quite obviously a wealthy man.
“Mr. Martyn.” A butler dressed in dark blue rushed to meet him. “Welcome home.” His inquisitive pale blue gaze swept Rose and her mother. “Shall I have Mrs. Potts prepare dinner for three?”
“Thank you, Graves, but I don’t believe the ladies are staying long.”
“As you say, sir.” The butler took himself off.
“You wanted to see the house?” Kit asked, directing the question to Chrystabel.
“We’d love to,” she assured him.
He led them through to a drawing room, all white paneled walls with a gray marble fireplace. The furniture was upholstered but not fussy, the windows large and tall, allowing sunshine to flood the room.
“I prefer natural light to candlelight,” he told them. “Would you care to sit?”
“No,” Rose said. “Show us the rest, please.”
He shared a smile with her mother.
Rose’s favorite room on the ground floor was the dining room, a complete contrast to King Charles’s in its simplicity. Other than wide crown molding, the ceiling was smooth and white—at night it would reflect the light of the single carved oak chandelier that hovered over the round table. The walls were covered with dark oak paneling, rich and simple except for a few ornately carved sections above the fireplace.
“Sixteenth century, all of it.” Kit waved the book he still held, indicating the wood that graced the walls. “I rescued it from a house I renovated—the owner wanted something more extravagant.”
Rose turned in a slow circle. “Something more like Windsor Castle’s decorations?”
“Very much.”
“That owner has no taste,” she declared.
Kit grinned. “Would you like to see upstairs?”
A small, exquisite stained-glass window threw colored light onto the curving staircase. “Another item I rescued,” Kit said, waving the book at it, too.
The bedchambers weren’t simply sleeping rooms; they were suites—and there were many. His sister’s was peacock blue with a lovely canopied bed, a sitting room with a settle, a desk, and a marble fireplace, and a mirrored dressing room that made Rose fairly seethe with jealousy. This suite was also the only cluttered area in the house, with pretty little items decorating every flat surface. Rose wondered what his sister was like.
Kit’s chamber boasted more classic oak paneling, a red-draped half-tester bed, and a beautiful sitting room surpassed only by the luxurious dressing room. It had the biggest bathtub Rose had ever seen—not a tub that the servants had dragged upstairs, but a permanent one positioned before a fireplace.
Rose could imagine herself in that tub, not to mention that bed. She hoped the Duke of Bridgewater lived half as nicely. Many of the estates she’d visited were much too old and drafty, and she’d met quite a few men who seemed more than happy living with their grandmothers’ choices in decor.
When the Ashcrofts had seen and admired everything, Kit led them downstairs. “Ellen isn’t here,” he muttered darkly as though to himself. “Anywhere.”
“Ellen?” Rose asked.
“My sister,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Graves!” he called. The butler reappeared. “Will you send someone to the pawnshop to seek out Ellen? Should she be there, I wish to see her directly.”
“Of course, sir.” The butler went off, presumably to fetch and instruct a footman.
“Well.” Kit set the book on a small marble-topped table in the entry. “I hope you enjoyed the grand tour.”
“I did.” In truth, Rose was overwhelmed. She’d never imagined a commoner would own such a lovely home. And Kit not only owned it, he’d designed it. He was responsible for the pleasing proportions of each room, the tasteful wall and window treatments, the spare but perfect accessories.
All it needed, she thought absurdly, was flowers. Yes, beautiful arrangements of flowers would be the crowning touch. Her fingers itched to design them. She’d use silver vases in simple classic shapes to match the house.
Chrystabel lifted the book. “It’s a shame you cannot read this.”
“Languages.” Kit flashed a self-deprecating smile. “The one subject I failed in school.”
“Rose could read it to you. Couldn’t you, dear?”
Rose was still planning her flower arrangements. Red, she thought, would suit this entry perfectly. The black-and-white floor called for something bold.
“I desperately need to lie down, but why don’t you stay here and translate this book for Kit? I’m certain he can find someone to escort me home.”
“Stay here?” Rose echoed, wrested from her vision of the multicolored arrangement she’d create for the lovely dining room.
“It’s early still, and you have nothing else to do until court this evening. It would be a kindness.”
She collected her thoughts and considered. Not only was Mum right, she was known for being hospitable. While Rose herself was known, she knew, for being selfish. Inside, she’d never felt like the woman others seemed to perceive her, and if she wished to alter those perceptions, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to follow in her mother’s hospitable footsteps.
And truth be told, she’d enjoy the challenge of translating a book about architecture. Although she generally hid her linguistic talents from men, Kit was just her brother-in-law’s friend and—now that he was building the greenhouse—her father’s hireling. She didn’t care if he thought she was too intelligent, since she wasn’t interested in marrying him.
“Rose?” her mother queried.
“Very well.”
Kit’s eyes lit, suddenly looking more green than brown. “Graves! It seems we’ll be requiring dinner, after all.”
THIRTEEN
BEFORE ROSE could change her mind, her mother had departed, and she and Kit were in the beautiful paneled dining room, a lovely dinner of beef in claret and carrot pudding set before them.
To her surprise, she found Kit very good company.
“It’s odd,” she realized in the middle of their meal. “You’re quite easy to talk to.”
A forkful of carrot pudding halfway to his mouth, he laughed. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”
“Usually.” Unless she was with a man she thought of as husband material; then she had to watch her words. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case here. “Do you not find it odd at all? After all, we hardly know each other.”
