Rose

by Lauren Royal

  She blew out a shaky breath as Kit and Ellen barged in.

  “I’m entitled to live my own life,” Ellen said, continuing their argument as though Rose weren’t there. “And you had no right having me fetched from the pawnshop as though I were your property.”

  “You are my property,” Kit ground out. “Until you’re wed—”

  “Let me wed, then, and we’ll both be happier.”

  “Not if you wed him.”

  “Him?” Rose asked.

  They both turned to look at her, fire and surprise in their matching eyes.

  “Thomas Whittingham.” Ellen tossed her head of long jet hair.

  “A pawnbroker,” Kit spat.

  Rose set down Kit’s sketch and stood. “I’m Rose Ashcroft,” she said to Ellen. “Tell me about this pawnbroker.”

  “My apologies for not introducing you.” Kit’s gaze nervously snapped between Rose’s face and the drawing he’d done of her. He took a deep breath. “Lady Rose, this is my sister, Ellen. Ellen—”

  “Lady Rose,” Ellen drawled before her brother could complete the belated introduction. “Do you not think, Kit, that you’re aiming a bit out of your range?”

  “We’re just friends,” Rose rushed to clarify.

  Surprisingly, she really did feel Kit was a friend. The pleasant afternoon had changed her view of him entirely.

  But she wanted to be Ellen’s friend, too. With her sisters both married and moved away, and the women at court giving her the cold shoulder, she desperately needed a female friend. And she sensed Ellen could be one. She liked this forthright woman.

  She sat again and patted the cushion beside her. “Tell me about this pawnbroker,” she repeated.

  Ellen slid onto the settle and folded her hands in her lap, a female version of Kit dressed in an innocent tone of yellow. “He’s kind and generous and handsome, and I love him.”

  “She wants to marry him,” Kit said derisively. He swept the sketch board off the table and crossed the room to place it facedown on the desk. “I won’t see her wed to a pawnbroker. To go from this”—he waved a hand, indicating the house, the life he’d built for the two of them—“to live above a pawnshop, is—”

  “—what I want,” Ellen rushed to finish for him. Then she met Rose’s eyes, her own pleading.

  Apparently they were friends already.

  “How old are you?” Rose asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  Rose had fancied herself in love at eighteen, too. But she knew now, having seen her sisters find love, that she’d been wrong. She knew now that she’d never been in love at all.

  Even once.

  “You’re young yet,” she said gently. “Can you not wait a while? Perhaps you’ll find—”

  “I love him. Kit has no right to dictate my life.”

  Ellen was wrong; legally, Kit had every right. But Rose was torn between that truth and the fact that she believed, truly believed, that women should be allowed to make these decisions for themselves. She knew her own parents were considered odd for permitting it, but she’d also listened to hours upon hours of her sister Violet spouting all her radical philosophy.

  Violet thought she never paid attention, but that simply wasn’t true.

  And yet…she looked to Kit, who spread his hands and shrugged an exasperated shoulder. And back to Ellen, who looked so much like her brother. Just as hot-tempered too, from all indications. They probably butted heads precisely because they were so much alike.

  But Ellen was young yet. And Rose had never before felt so old.

  “Do you know, Ellen,” she said carefully, “it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.”

  “Oh!” Ellen cried. “You don’t understand!” Tears sprang to her eyes as she jumped up and ran from the room.

  Rose and Kit listened to his sister’s footsteps until they faded up the stairs. “She likes you,” he finally said.

  “And our navy will conquer the Dutch tomorrow.” Rose sighed. “I think I’d best return home.”

  SIXTEEN

  “HOME” RIGHT now for Rose was Windsor Castle. That was what Kit wanted for Ellen: the rank that would give her the security of feeling at home in a royal castle. Or anywhere. The rank that would assure she’d never again be left behind.

  And yet, when Rose had supported his position, he’d found himself not grateful, but vexed.

  Her voice still echoed in his ears, so measured and reasonable: It’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.

  Never mind that it was exactly what Ellen needed to hear, Rose’s attitude didn’t bode well for his own suit.

  The sun was setting as he walked Rose back to the apartments she was sharing with her mother, the two of them chatting amiably. All the way past the Round Tower, into an Upper Ward building, and up a staircase, he listened to her amusing banter and watched her mobile lips.

  Lips that begged for a kiss.

  When she reached for the door latch, he stopped her with a hand over hers. She turned and looked up at him, her dark eyes questioning.

  “Thank you for a pleasant day,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over her face from the single torch that illuminated the deserted corridor. “And also for the translation. It was much appreciated.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she said, looking relieved. “I enjoyed myself.”

  When he felt her trying to draw her hand away, he held it tight in his. There was something between them, whether she knew it—or wanted it—or not.

  “I’m happy to hear that,” he told her.

  She gifted him with a tentative smile. “No, I mean I truly enjoyed myself. I can see why Rand is happy to count you as a friend. You’re the best—like a brother, but better.”

  Kit didn’t want to be Rose’s brother. Her mother had given him hope, but she’d warned that the decision was Rose’s—evidently for good reason.

  Like a brother.

  He had to respect that, didn’t he? Respect her. His heart heavy, he released her hand, then leaned to give her an innocent, brotherly thank-you kiss, a brush of lips against cheek.

  She smelled of roses, pure and heady. And he felt something—an involuntary sway of her body toward his, an indefinable spark—that made all his resolve simply melt away.

  His mouth slid across her satin skin, past one of the hidden dimples he’d wanted to kiss earlier, and met her lips in a sudden rush of heat. A consuming heat. His arms wound around her to draw her close. Locked against him, she was everything he’d dreamed of and more.

  And Rose’s world turned over.

  She didn’t like kisses, hadn’t wanted one, but Kit’s mouth seemed made to fit hers. Tender and urgent all at once, his kiss was a delicious sensation. Wantonly, she pressed herself closer, reveling in the feel of his hard body against her softness. An odd ripple shuddered through her, and her knees weakened.

  This dreamy intimacy felt nothing like the other kisses she’d experienced.

  She inhaled his woodsy scent, drawing his essence inside her. He nipped at her lips then traced the line between them, inciting shivers, making heat pool in her middle. Then his tongue delved inside to touch hers, but it didn’t feel intrusive. Her senses skidded and whirled. She returned the caress, and it turned into an exciting, tangled dance.

  All too soon, he drew away, leaving her shaking. And stunned. A sigh eased out between her still-parted lips.

  Kit’s kiss had been every bit as wondrous as those her sisters had described. A thing of beauty, she thought dizzily. But she didn’t say it aloud, because she feared he would take it the wrong way. Not to mention she felt incapable of saying anything at the moment.

  His eyes glittered green in the torchlight, his gaze piercing into her as though he could divine her scrambled thoughts.

  As she watched, his mouth curved into a faint smile that might have been smug.

  “Good night,” he said and walked away.

  SEVENTEEN

  ROSE
CLOSED the lodging’s door and leaned back against it, then released a long, long sigh. A sigh of relief.

  She didn’t dislike kissing after all!

  Kit, of course, had no business kissing her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry he’d done so. She’d watched him walk away, knowing she should call after him, berate him for having the nerve to take such a liberty, inform him that he was never to do so again.

  But she hadn’t found the strength to do that. She’d felt weak, boneless. And happy—so happy to find that nothing was wrong with her.

  She enjoyed kissing!

  And somehow, after experiencing Kit’s kiss, she knew that she would enjoy the other things that happened between a man and a woman. All the things that the marriage manual Aristotle’s Master-piece had described…those things she’d been so eager to try until she’d tried kissing and decided it wasn’t to her taste.

  Now she knew differently. How silly she’d been to jump to such a conclusion. Obviously a woman’s enjoyment of kissing depended on the skill of the man. How unlucky she’d been to kiss so many men and never find a talented one until now.

  “Dear? Are you out there?”

  “Yes, Mum.” Rose took a deep, calming breath and crossed the small sitting room toward the even smaller bedchamber she and her mother were sharing.

  Chrystabel was seated at the heavy carved wood dressing table. While her maid Anne twisted the back section of her hair up into a bun, she tore a small sheet of red Spanish paper from a tiny booklet and rubbed it lightly on her cheeks. “Did you have a nice time, dear?”

  Feeling heat flare in her face, Rose was glad her mother was busy looking in the mirror. “It was a fine day,” she said carefully, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic.

  She certainly didn’t want her mother finding out she’d allowed Kit—a commoner!—to kiss her.

  Mum set down the Spanish paper and lifted a kohl pencil. “What did you do?” she asked, carefully rimming an eye.

  “Oh, we had dinner and then I translated part of the book.” The sound of an ungraceful snore drew Rose’s gaze to Harriet, dead to the world on a pallet laid out on the floor. Shaking her head, she crossed to her trunk and rummaged through it herself. “I met Kit’s sister, Ellen.”

  “Was she nice?”

  Rose held up a frosty pink gown and then rejected it; she was feeling much bolder than that. “I liked her. But she’s eighteen and fancies herself in love. With a pawnbroker.”

  “Perhaps she is in love. And in a bustling town like this, a pawnshop is likely to be a thriving business.”

  “Surely she can do much better than to live life above a pawnshop. Look at the house she’s living in now!”

  Chrystabel turned to her, raising one kohl-darkened brow. “You liked it, then.”

  “Kit’s house?” Rose shook out a bright red gown. Perfect. She laid it on the old canopied bed. “It was very impressive. It must be lovely to live right on the river like that and yet in a bustling town, too. And the house is beautifully designed.”

  Another thing of beauty, she thought, standing over her sleeping maid. “Harriet!” she called softly.

  The girl bolted upright. “Yes, milady.” She scrambled to her feet. “Forgive me, milady. I was tired.”

  Rose waved a dismissive hand, thinking she was a mite tired herself.

  “You like the house’s designer, too,” her mother said.

  “Kit? He’s a pleasant man.” Memories flashed: his smile, his laughter, his eyes…his kiss. Rose shivered, then made a show of rubbing her arms, moving closer to the fire on the grate. Curling tongs sat heating in the embers. “It’s cold in this stone building, don’t you think?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Her mother’s gaze was making her uncomfortable, so she turned to let Harriet unlace her gown. “I’ve been thinking, Mum…”

  Shifting back to the mirror, Chrystabel opened a little jar of pomade. “Yes?”

  “You’ve always cautioned us to kiss a man before we agree to marry him. I think that is excellent advice. I believe that if I see Ellen again, I shall tell her. Perhaps she’ll find she doesn’t love the pawnbroker, after all.”

  Chrystabel slicked the pomade on her lips, then stood and waved Rose toward the stool in her stead. “Love has to do with more than kisses, dear.”

  “Well, of course it does!” Rose settled herself, watching in the mirror as Harriet slid the pins from her hair. “But since a woman is expected to kiss her husband, she should at least make sure she likes his technique.”

  Leaning forward, Rose darkened her lashes with the end of a burnt cork while Harriet used the hot tongs to fashion perfect ringlets. What a pity the Duke of Bridgewater was such an abysmal kisser. He’d seemed so perfect.

  Well, there were other suitable, handsome men at court. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to kiss them all before she found one as talented as Kit.

  “Kisses,” Harriet murmured with a sigh.

  Chrystabel stepped into high Louis-heeled shoes fashioned of golden brocade to match her gown. “Have you met any men here at Windsor yet, Harriet?”

  The girl’s freckles went three shades darker. “Not yet.”

  “Harriet’s shy,” Anne put in.

  “Well.” Chrystabel straightened and gave her skirts a shake. “We shall have to see about an introduction.”

  Rose barely resisted an impulse to snort. Whoever heard of “introductions” for servants? Only her hopelessly romantic mother would even think of such a thing.

  “Mum,” she started.

  “Yes, dear?”

  On the other hand…at least Mum didn’t seem to be foisting any men upon her.

  “Never mind,” she said lightly, thanking her lucky stars her mother had found someone else to bedevil.

  The last thing she needed was interference in her love life.

  Better Chrystabel busy herself matching Harriet.

  EIGHTEEN

  KIT LOOKED down the hill toward Ellen dragging along behind. “Come along, will you?” Walking backward, he squinted at her in the darkness. “What is that you’re carrying?”

  “A book.”

  “A book?” He stopped to wait for her to catch up. “Since when do you spend your time reading?”

  “Since you went stark raving mad and decided I had to spend half the night watching you work. Since then.”

  It was dark as hell, too dim to see her expression, but he could hear the pout in her voice.

  “Why won’t you let me stay home?” she added.

  “I’d let you stay home if you would stay home. But I know you, and you won’t. I’d return to find you’re at the pawnshop again.”

  “I love him,” she said for the hundredth time. Or maybe the millionth.

  “I want better for you,” he said for the millionth time, too.

  As they passed through the gate at Windsor, the drowsy old scarlet-uniformed guard snapped to attention. “Evening, Mr. Martyn.”

  “Evening, Richards.”

  The man narrowed his rheumy eyes. “Who goes with you?”

  “My sister.”

  “Pretty thing.” He smiled, displaying half a mouth of teeth. “Go on through.”

  “My thanks.” In the torchlight of the gateway, Kit glanced again at the book clutched to Ellen’s chest. “Where’d you get that? It’s not even English.”

  She clutched the book tighter, as though she were afraid he might snatch it from her hands. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Whittingham?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He’s a pawnbroker. Can he even read? Why would he give you a foreign book?”

  He thought perhaps she blushed, but they were still walking and had left the circle of torchlight, so he couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m hoping your friend Rose can translate it for me,” she said, neatly evading his question.

  “Rose isn’t my friend.” He didn’t want to be Rose’s friend. He didn’t want to be her brother
, either. He hoped he’d made that clear earlier this evening.

  “You drew a picture of her.”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  “It was good,” Ellen said grudgingly. “You should draw pictures more often. Of things besides buildings, I mean.”

  “I’m too busy trying to make you a good life.”

  Her reply to that was sullen silence.

  He sighed as they skirted the Round Tower. “You cannot see Rose tonight. You’ll be at my construction site. She’ll be at court.” He wouldn’t walk Ellen through the king’s chambers—they’d take the long way around. “Ellen Martyn doesn’t belong at court. Until, that is, she marries a title.”

  “I’m marrying a pawnbroker,” she said.

  NINETEEN

  ROSE HAD KISSED three men already—one behind the heavy velvet curtains in the huge bay window, one in the little unfinished vestibule, and one out on the terrace…and she’d loathed all three experiences.

  But at least her quest was getting easier. The first two men had been pleasantly shocked when she’d asked them for a kiss, but the third had come to her.

  And here came another, swaggering her way. Trying to appear casual, she leaned a hand on the solid silver table by the wall where she stood. It felt cold—and very expensive—beneath her fingers.

  “Lovely table, isn’t it?” the man asked, coming to a stop before her. She looked him up and down. Although he wasn’t any taller than she, he wasn’t shorter either, and he had a pleasing face.

  “The engraved top is nice,” she said, unable to summon yet another charming and flirtatious reply.

  Her face hurt from smiling so much.

  He tried again. “Louis the Fourteenth has silver furniture like this all over Versailles.”

  “Does he? Gemini, that palace must be even more overblown than this one.”

  The gentleman appeared nonplussed. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”

  She lazily waved her fan while she considered him. His hair was covered by a long, curled periwig, but she guessed from his fair complexion that it was blond. That was, if he wasn’t bald underneath—but she could hope not. His periwinkle suit wasn’t too ostentatious, adorned with just enough jewels to make known his wealth.