by Lauren Royal
“I believe I saw my mother head in that direction,” she said, indicating the portion of the castle that was under construction—an area she suspected the fastidious duke would have no wish to enter. “I thank you for the dances.”
Without looking back, she hurried away, hoping he wouldn’t follow and heaving a sigh of relief when she made it into the unfinished vestibule without hearing any footsteps behind her. Thinking to hide herself even better, she slipped into the half-built dining room and sagged against an exquisitely carved wall.
This late at night, she’d expected the room to be deserted, but it wasn’t. Across the chamber, Kit and Ellen were having words again.
Did the man never sleep?
“Let me see it,” he said, reaching toward his sister. “Why should it be a secret?”
“It’s mine,” Ellen shot back, clutching a book to her chest. “Why do you have to stick your nose into everything that’s mine?”
Dazed, Rose just watched. It struck her that in his fine but plain suit, with his gleaming black hair free instead of tucked beneath a wig, Kit looked anything but aristocratic. His skin was browned from working outdoors, and he carried his lean, rangy body with easy authority, not the controlled movements necessary to carry off the weight of layers of heavy fabric and ribbons.
In an odd way, she found the lack of fussiness appealing. But she wanted an aristocratic husband.
It was a good thing he was just a friend.
“Rose!” Ellen exclaimed, spotting her and abandoning Kit to hurry over. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”
“Were you?” Rose asked.
“I brought a book I’d like you to translate.”
“Did you?” Her gaze still fastened on Kit, Rose seemed to be reduced to two-word responses.
“Will you try?” Grabbing Rose by the arm, Ellen pulled her down the length of the chamber. “I’m dying to find some fresh air—this place is filled with sawdust.”
Before Rose could protest, Ellen had propelled her out a door at the end of the chamber. As it shut behind them, Rose sneaked another glance at Kit. The last she saw of him was those wicked green-brown eyes.
It should be a crime for a commoner to be so attractive.
TWENTY-TWO
ELLEN LED ROSE down a long back corridor, around a corner, and out into a small brick courtyard. Unlike Horn Court with its uniformed guards and staircase to the king’s chambers, this area was lit by a single torch and held nothing but stacks of building supplies and a weathered wooden table with two chairs. Rose gratefully dropped onto one of them, amused to hear assorted bangs, scrapes, and curses coming from the building to her right.
“We’re nearly back where we started, aren’t we?”
Ellen took the second chair. “The dining room is on the other side of that new wall, yes.”
Despite the sounds of construction, the courtyard seemed private enough. “So…why wouldn’t you show Kit the book?”
“He wouldn’t like it. I fear he’d make certain I never saw Thomas again.”
“Oh?” Though Rose felt drained, her curiosity was stronger. “May I see it?”
“In a minute.” Ellen laid the book on the table and ran a finger over the gold lettering that gleamed in the torchlight. “Kit drew a picture of you.”
“I know. I saw it. It was very well done. I had no idea he was an artist.”
“He’s not. Or not anymore. He used to draw all the time, and paint, too.” Ellen’s voice was so melancholy, Rose’s throat tightened just hearing it. “Da used to bring extra wood home from his work—he’d spend hours sanding it smooth and cutting it to size so Kit could paint on it. And Mama would bring home leftover paints. The lady she worked for painted landscapes as a hobby.”
“They sound like they were very devoted parents.”
Ellen nodded, still absently tracing the gilt title. “They were. But Kit hasn’t painted since they died. Not anything. He says he’s too busy, but I’m not sure I believe him.”
“He does seem very busy,” Rose said gently.
Ellen’s eyes, so like Kit’s, went from sad to furious in a heartbeat. Brown to green. “All he wants to do,” she said between gritted teeth, “is make money and add it to my dowry. He thinks he can buy me a titled husband. I don’t want a titled husband. I want Thomas.”
Rose had never been afraid to ask questions when she wanted answers. “How much is your dowry?”
“He adds to it constantly. Half of every penny that comes his way. Last I heard, it was up to eleven thousand.”
“Pounds?”
“Pounds.”
“Gemini,” Rose breathed, stunned. “Mine is only three thousand.” Hardly a pittance—three thousand pounds was ten years’ income for a gentleman. “I have another ten from my grandfather, but that money is mine to control.”
Ellen pushed back her unruly dark hair. “Kit doesn’t let me control anything.”
“He just wants what’s best for you.” Rose was sure of it. She was also sure Kit was going about it in a typical male, pigheaded way, but she wouldn’t say that, at least not now. “He took responsibility for you so young,” she said instead. “Only sixteen, wasn’t he?”
“And I was six.”
“Well, then, of course he couldn’t let you make your own decisions.”
“But I’m older now. Why can’t he see that I’ve grown up? I hate being at odds with him. I hate the harsh words. I love him—but I love Thomas, too.” Ellen fought to hold back tears. “Will you help me persuade him?”
“Me?” Rose blinked. “Why should Kit listen to me?”
“He drew you,” Ellen reminded her. “He hasn’t drawn anything but buildings in twelve long years.”
And he’d kissed her, too, but Rose wouldn’t be telling Ellen that. “I suppose I can try,” she promised her. “But I’m not at all sure I can make any difference.”
Pigheaded. That was Kit. But Rose also thought he was right—at least where Thomas was concerned.
A pawnbroker, for heaven’s sake!
“Do you know, Ellen,” she ventured carefully, “it might be a good idea for you to kiss Thomas before you decide you want to marry him.”
“Kiss him?” Dashing away the tears, Ellen burst out laughing. “Mercy me, that’s precious.”
For a moment Rose was confused, but then she just felt like a fool. Of course Ellen had kissed her love. The girl was eighteen, and Rose had contrived to be kissed long before that.
She just hadn’t enjoyed it.
“Show me the book,” she said.
Sobering, Ellen pushed it slowly across the table. “I’d like to read it together with Thomas,” she said, for the first time sounding a bit shy. “But it’s not English.”
“Yes, you said so.” Rose looked at the title. “‘I Sonetti Lussuriosi di Pietro Aretino,’” she read aloud. “It’s Italian.”
“Ah. I was wondering.” Ellen scooted closer. “What does it mean?”
“It’s authored by a man named Pietro Aretino, and it’s called The Licentious Sonnets,” Rose translated with some relish. This sounded good, maybe as good as Aristotle’s Master-piece. She flipped open the book—and stared.
There, above the first sonnet, was an engraving of two people.
Naked people. On a bed.
She leaned forward to study it closer, wishing for more than the flickering torchlight. The man and woman were embracing, both lying on their sides, their legs entwined. Most of the woman’s body was artfully hidden behind the man, but the man’s bare bottom was there for the world to see in all its well-muscled glory.
So this was how people made love! Gemini. This was even better than the Master-piece. Much more instructive—the pictures made all the difference.
A small smile flirted on Ellen’s mouth as she gazed at the picture, too. “He’s a fine specimen of a man, isn’t he?” she asked conspiratorially.
Rose wouldn’t know—she didn’t have anything to compare him with. But Ellen obv
iously did…
Suddenly, instead of feeling like the older, wiser woman of twenty-one compared to Ellen’s eighteen, Rose felt about five years old.
Ellen wanted this book translated. Ellen wanted to read it with her love.
No, her lover.
“No wonder you laughed when I counseled you to kiss Thomas!”
Ellen didn’t even blush. “We’re in love,” she said in an impassioned tone, as though that explained everything.
And maybe it did.
“What does the sonnet say?” Ellen asked.
“‘Fottiamci anima mia, fottiamci presto; Poi che tutti per fotter nati siamo.’ Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love.” She looked up. “That’s nice, don’t you think?”
Ellen looked disappointed. “I thought it would be…you know, more racy, to match the pictures.”
“The picture isn’t all that racy.” Now that she’d recovered from the shock of seeing naked people on the page, Rose decided the engraving was rather pleasing. “It’s tasteful enough, all considered.” She turned the page. “Oh…”
Not quite so tasteful, the woman was now on her back, half reclined against the headboard, while the man knelt between her spread knees, his body meeting hers in exactly the right place.
“Oh,” she said again.
“Look at the next one.” Ellen reached to flip the page.
“Oh!” Rose tilted her head, then turned the book sideways. There seemed to be so many arms and legs, she really couldn’t tell what was going on.
Could people actually do that? She’d never imagined—
“And the one after that.”
In Posizione Quattro, Position Four, the woman and man were both seated, facing each other, she on the edge of a bed and he on a chair pulled close. Gazing at the picture, Rose felt a wave of heat ripple through her. The woman’s legs were spread wide. The man was touching her there. And the woman was touching his…yard, Aristotle’s Master-piece had called it.
Rose hadn’t heard the term yard before reading the Master-piece, but she guessed Ellen would already know that word—and probably more. Although Rose considered herself educated, she now realized the Master-piece had only explained how everything worked in clinical terms. The actual process of making love had remained somewhat of a mystery.
Until now.
A strange ache spread low in her middle as she tried to imagine herself as the woman in the engravings. The only problem was she couldn’t envision doing any of those things with anyone she’d ever met…except Kit.
That odd ache intensified, and she shut the book.
After taking a moment to collect herself, she drew a shaky breath. “Where did you get this?” she asked Ellen.
“I found it in Thomas’s shop.”
“Someone pawned this book?”
“People pawn everything. Jewels and pottery and pistols and swords…it’s like a treasure trove, I’m telling you. My favorite place in the world. You should pay a visit, Rose. The shop is right on the High Street.”
Rose had never thought she’d like a pawnshop—they were seedy places, from what she’d heard. Disreputable, along with their owners. “Does Thomas have other foreign books?”
“Not like this one.” Ellen laughed. “But yes, I’ve noticed other books that aren’t in English. This book was part of a whole library someone pawned; I don’t think Thomas ever looked through the titles to see what he had. He seemed surprised when I showed it to him.”
“I’ll bet he did.” Rose couldn’t imagine sharing this book with a man. Or rather, she could, but only one certain man—and she didn’t want to think about that.
“Can you translate the rest of the first poem?” Ellen asked.
Rose slowly reopened the book, grateful that the words, at least, didn’t seem disturbing. She would read those and try not to look at the pictures.
“Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love. And if you adore my…yard…”
Ellen nodded. She did know that word.
“…then I will love your…your…seat of womanly pleasure. Good God.” Rose felt her cheeks heat; in fact, she couldn’t remember blushing so much in her whole life as she’d done since coming to court. “This isn’t sounding at all sonnetlike, is it? I’ve never before attempted to translate a sonnet.”
“It’s fine,” Ellen assured her. “I am sure Thomas will enjoy hearing this.” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “I’ll never remember it, though. Let me try to find quill and paper so I can write it all down.”
Rose wasn’t at all certain she felt up to translating these sonnets aloud in a courtyard in the middle of Windsor Castle. Especially with Kit somewhere on the other side of that wall. For all she knew, he could be heading here to fetch nails or a beam any minute.
She’d never considered herself a prude, but a lady had her limits.
“Never mind,” she said when Ellen stood. “I shall take the book back to my apartments and write down the translations myself. That way I’ll be able to think about the wording. Perhaps I can make it more sonnetlike.”
“Oh, that’s a very kind offer. But don’t trouble yourself to work on the wording overmuch. Thomas is no devotee of sonnets.”
Rose was looking forward to meeting this Thomas. She couldn’t imagine he was a very refined man, but Ellen certainly didn’t seem to mind.
“When will you bring me the words?” Ellen asked. “Tomorrow morning, at the pawnshop?”
“It’s past midnight already.” Rose stood with a yawn. “How many sonnets are there?”
“Sixteen.”
All those engravings to study. She had a lot to learn…and that odd heat was building again already, just thinking about it. “I could translate one by the morning.” It was late, not to mention she’d like to keep this book for a while. “Will Kit allow you to go to the pawnshop?”
“He has to sleep sometime,” Ellen said with a mischievous smile. “And I imagine once he allows himself to succumb, he’ll sleep like the dead. I should be able to sneak out easily enough. When he wakes, though, he’ll surely come for me and drag me back here while he works all the day.”
“And half the night,” Rose agreed.
Kit was the hardest working man she’d ever met.
“Probably.” Ellen sighed. “Will you visit the pawnshop tomorrow, then? In the morning?”
“I’ll come,” Rose promised. She grabbed the book, and the two of them returned to the dining room.
Kit was up on a ladder inspecting something or other. He’d removed his surcoat and wore only shirtsleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. His forearms were muscular and sprinkled with crisp black hair.
The blasted man looked better than ever.
“Did you two have a nice visit?” he asked. As he climbed down the ladder, Rose saw muscles rippling under his thin white cambric shirt, too. She hadn’t sipped any champagne tonight, but her stomach seemed to think she had, anyway.
“Very,” Ellen said, but Rose couldn’t remember what the girl was responding to. She was thinking Kit must carry big beams all the day to have developed so many muscles. And she was thinking about how she’d decided to let him kiss her again, to find out what he did differently from Gabriel.
And she was thinking about the pictures in the book.
Oh, this wasn’t good at all!
“How did the translation go, then?” he wondered, his gaze on the book in Rose’s hands.
She knew he was hoping to get his hands on it. “It was more difficult than Ellen had anticipated, so I’m going to take it home to work on it. Please excuse me. I must go find my mother.”
She felt very relieved to escape. At least until she walked back into the drawing room and saw two men heading toward her. Gabriel and a man she had yet to meet.
Though the stranger wasn’t as handsome as Kit, he might be a good kisser. But she didn’t have the will left to find out. Not to mention she was holding a lewd book clutched
to her chest.
She had to get rid of it.
When Gabriel got to her first, the other man turned away dejectedly. “Pardon me, your grace,” she said quickly. “I was just heading to the ladies’ attiring room.”
“Are you quite all right?” Gabriel asked, his blue eyes radiating concern.
He really was terribly nice. “Oh, yes. I’m just feeling a bit, um, peaked.”
“Still?”
“It’s all the excitement, I’m certain,” she told him with a practiced, romantic sigh.
When he smiled, she knew she’d succeeded in convincing him he was responsible for her excitement. Leaning close, he lowered his voice to an intimate murmur. “I do hope you’ll be feeling better soon.”
She didn’t care for his perfume. It was too flowery. “Oh, I’m certain I will,” she said blithely and sailed out of the chamber.
Blessedly, the attiring room was empty. She stuffed the book under her cloak and then dropped onto one of the green baize benches.
She really was feeling a little bit peaked.
TWENTY-THREE
“KIT,” HIS SISTER said a few minutes later. “I need to talk to you.”
“One moment, Ellen.” He turned back to inspecting the latest materials that had arrived.
“I need to talk to you now,” she yelled across the courtyard.
“It will do nicely,” he told his new foreman, then took a deep breath and strode over to his sister, thinking, not for the first time, that it had been a bad idea to bring her along while he worked. “What in your little selfish world is so important you had to interrupt me?”
Instead of bristling, she looked smug. “Lady Trentingham wishes to see you.”
He slanted her a suspicious look. “Lady Trentingham doesn’t even know who you are.”
“Could that be because you weren’t polite enough to introduce me?” She straightened her slim eighteen-year-old shoulders. “Well, she noticed me, anyway. Came right up and introduced herself, then asked where she might find you. I gather she looked in the dining room, but of course you were out here.”
