by Lauren Royal
“Where did she find you?”
“On the terrace. She’s waiting for you there.”
He headed in that direction, wondering just what Ellen had been doing out on the terrace now that she no longer had her book to occupy her.
He admitted to himself it probably hadn’t been fair to expect her to entertain herself all evening long. But he hadn’t felt as though he’d had a choice. If he’d left her at home, she’d surely have run off to spend the evening in the company of that damned pawn dealer. Doing God knew what.
He certainly didn’t want to know.
Life had been so much simpler when he was off at school and Lady St. Vincent was still alive and caring for Ellen. He and his sister had spent glorious times together during the weeks he’d been able to visit. They’d never argued.
Well, rarely. Only when she’d begged him to take her back to school with him.
He stopped in the dining room long enough to shrug back into his surcoat before stepping out to the terrace.
Lady Trentingham turned in a swish of golden brocade skirts. “Kit. Ellen found you.”
“I apologize for not introducing you earlier.”
She waved that off. “I knew at first glance you were related. She looks just like you. A little prettier,” she added with a smile.
He grinned back. “I should hope so.”
“I wanted to let you know that Rose is in the ladies’ attiring room. I thought, considering our earlier conversation, you might want to be there when she comes out.”
He’d almost convinced himself he’d dreamed that conversation. This whole day seemed naught but a dream born of wishful thinking: everything going right with King Charles, the wonderful afternoon with Rose, the kiss, his materials showing up in a timely fashion, Lady Trentingham encouraging him to seduce her daughter…
But then again, he was still fighting with Ellen. That was no dream.
And neither, apparently, was this. Lady Trentingham leaned closer and straightened his cravat. “Shall I show you where Rose will be coming out?”
“She’s looking for you,” he said. “She mentioned that the last time I saw her.”
“Is that so?” A slow smile spread on Rose’s mother’s face. “Well, she’s going to find you instead.”
TWENTY-FOUR
ROSE HAD NEARLY steeled herself to venture forth from the attiring room when two young women walked in.
“Oh,” the blond one said when she spotted her. “You’re here.”
Rose didn’t care for her tone. She wanted to slap her across her pinched face. But she also wanted to be liked here at court, so she plastered on a smile. “I’m Rose Ashcroft. And you are…?”
“Lady Wyncherly.”
“And I’m Lady Wembley.” The other woman joined her friend at the large gilt-framed mirror. Her hair was so black Rose imagined she dyed it and used a lead comb.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady…” Willoughby? Wemperley? “Ladies. You’re both married, then?”
“Yes,” they said in unison, and then the dark-haired one added, “and you’re not.”
Rose could think of worse things than not being married. Like being one of these shrews.
The blond Lady W touched a pimple on the other’s face. “Right there,” she said.
The woman glared at herself in the mirror. “Hell and furies, another one.”
The blonde pulled a tiny silver box out of her drawstring purse. “Here, choose a patch.”
While the pimply Lady W rummaged through the box with a fingertip, the blond one turned to Rose. “Why aren’t you busy kissing someone?”
Rose was rapidly concluding it was just as well none of the women here seemed to like her, because she certainly didn’t like them. But she decided to ignore the slur. “I’m resting until the gaming.”
“There won’t be any gaming tonight,” pimply Lady W said, choosing a crescent-shaped patch.
“No gaming?” Rose echoed, crestfallen.
Blond Lady W pulled some adhesive from her purse and dotted it on the back. “Haven’t you heard?” She stuck the black velvet on her friend’s face. “This will be an early evening, because we’re all leaving for Hampton Court tomorrow. Will you be coming along?”
She sounded as though she hoped not.
“I’m not sure,” Rose told her. She’d found no opportunity to discuss it yet with Mum. Half of her wanted to go to Hampton Court just to spite these women, while the other half thought the peace of Trentingham Manor would be heaven in comparison.
Unfortunately, there were no potential husbands at home.
The blonde chose a patch for herself—a cupid—even though she was already wearing nine and had no pimple to cover. Patches were quite in fashion, and Rose wore one herself—a small heart at the outside edge of her right eyebrow—but she thought the woman’s face looked diseased with so many black shapes all over it.
Maybe the blond Lady W was diseased. Maybe most of the patches were hiding hideous smallpox scars. Although Rose knew it wasn’t nice of her, the thought of that made her smile.
“What?” the Lady Ws barked together.
Rose shrugged and walked out of the little chamber. She was certain they started talking about her the moment she cleared the door—and she doubted they had anything good to say. But she decided she didn’t care.
Stepping into the drawing room, she stopped short when she saw Kit. He was standing there, gazing into space and looking uncomfortable. Well, he didn’t belong here at court, so that wasn’t such a surprise. Perhaps the king wanted the drawing room renovated too, and he was studying it.
She noticed Kit was taller than she, but not terribly much taller. Maybe half a head, while she only came up to Gabriel’s chin. Kit didn’t make her feel petite like the duke did.
He finally took note of her. “Rose,” he greeted with a smile.
No Lady. Did that mean he considered her a friend now?
“Kit. You’re still here. “ She suddenly remembered her plans. “Will you kiss me?” she asked.
“Here? Now?” His eyes widened, becoming more green than brown.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rushed out, cursing herself silently for her habit of speaking before she thought. “I just…well, I just want to see how you do it.”
He looked amused. “Like anyone else does it, I imagine.”
He was wrong, so wrong, about that. As he moved closer, the little bubbles began dancing in her stomach.
He was very, very wrong.
His gaze locked on hers, now purest green with only flecks of brown. Flecks she was close enough to see. Though his scent wasn’t heavy, it still overwhelmed her—that woodsy perfume mixed with the clean sweat of hard, honest work.
“Are you certain you want a kiss now?” he teased. “Right here, in front of the entire court?”
“Haven’t you heard?” another man cut in. “Our Lady Rose quite enjoys kissing.”
Startled, Rose turned to find Lord Davenport standing behind her. She’d kissed him earlier and been disappointed, but at least he’d had good manners.
“Greetings, my sweet Lady Rose,” he said and kissed her again, right there—as Kit had said—in front of the entire court.
It was a chaste kiss. But it snapped Rose out of her trance. What had she been thinking, asking Kit Martyn—a common architect!—for a kiss before England’s finest?
“Thank you,” she told Lord Davenport, meaning it. If only she liked kissing him, she would give him another for saving her from humiliation.
“My pleasure,” the man said, reaching for her again.
Hearing a throat clear, she turned back to Kit.
But he was gone. The Duke of Bridgewater was there instead. “Ah, Lady Rose. You promised me this dance, if I’m remembering right?”
She hadn’t, but before she could say so he was leading her away. Lord Davenport just shrugged. Apparently he didn’t feel up to challenging the duke.
“I don�
�t like seeing other men kiss you,” Gabriel said.
“Then don’t look,” she suggested, laughing when he began to protest. “I didn’t encourage him,” she told him.
“Shall I call him out, then?”
“Gemini, no!” She laughed again, furtively searching for Kit. He was nowhere to be found. “Lord Davenport isn’t worth your time, your grace.”
The duke’s pretty blue eyes sparkled, telling her he liked hearing that.
They danced an almain and once again received jealous glances from men and ladies alike. Gabriel was a perfect gentleman. But after the dance, when he contrived to draw her behind the curtains, she sighed.
If only she enjoyed his kisses instead of dreading them, life would be so much better.
They weren’t the only couple in the big bay window. In one corner, a man had his hand down the front of a lady’s bodice, and if Rose could judge from the woman’s moans, she was enjoying his attentions very much. As she watched, Rose felt her own breasts begin to tingle, and a strange, lazy warmth stole through her body, weakening her knees. She licked her lips, imagining a man doing that to her.
But the man wasn’t Gabriel.
“Don’t look,” he whispered, turning her to face the other corner.
There, a man had his hand up a lady’s skirts! The lady had raised one of her legs and wrapped it around his. Rose suddenly pictured one of the engravings in Ellen’s book.
She needed air.
“I wish to go outdoors,” she told Gabriel.
“Excellent idea. There’s a distinct lack of privacy in this area.”
She hadn’t meant with him; she’d submitted to four of his kisses tonight, and she didn’t intend to allow a fifth. Not until she’d kissed Kit again and figured out how to teach the duke to kiss her better.
As they emerged from behind the curtains, Rose looked around for rescue, relieved to meet the gaze of Viscount Hathersham. She’d kissed him, too, and from what she could remember, it hadn’t been that bad. At least not bad enough that she couldn’t risk encouraging him a little if it might save her from another private outing with the duke.
“Lord Hathersham!” she called, waving him closer. “I completely forgot that I’d promised you the next dance.”
She hadn’t, of course, but thankfully he wasn’t dim enough to say so. He bowed and took her by the hand, raising it to his lips. His kiss was a bit more blubbery than she’d remembered, but at least it was to her hand, not her mouth. “The next dance will be my pleasure, Lady Rose. And well worth the wait.”
As they moved toward the dance floor, Rose sent Gabriel what she hoped he would take as an apologetic glance.
“I never asked you to dance,” the viscount said in a low tone that she imagined he thought was seductive.
“Well, you should have,” she told him with a smile.
“You feel we two are suited, then?”
“For a dance.”
Though a vigorous country dance would have been more to her liking, the musicians had chosen a minuet. As the dancers went to their toes, the viscount pulled Rose near. “I’m hoping I can persuade you we’re suited for more than a dance.” One of his hands slipped around her and rested on the small of her back. “You move nicely,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“I have nice moves as well.” When she tried to gain some distance, he pressed her even closer. “Especially,” he added, “in bed.”
She forced a girlish giggle. “Oh, my lord! There’s no bed here at court.”
“We can find one,” he murmured as his hand slid down to her bottom. And pinched.
“My lord!” She twisted subtly out of his embrace, not wanting to make a scene. “That isn’t appropriate,” she told him in a voice colder than the ice sculpture that decorated the refreshment table.
“But, my lady—”
“Hush up and dance!”
She held herself in check, though she wanted to rant and rave—and perhaps bash him over the head with something good and heavy. The Chinese vase on that silver table would do nicely.
The nerve of him, touching her bottom!
When the dance ended, she muttered a stiff “Thank you, my lord,” and took off for the solitude of the terrace.
TWENTY-FIVE
“SHE’S DISTRESSED,” Lady Trentingham said, standing with Kit in a dark corner of the drawing room. “And she’ll be alone out there on the terrace. Go to her.”
“I’d wager she won’t be alone for long,” Kit predicted. A safe bet, given the Duke of Bridgewater was meandering toward the door already.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate you taking her away from here.”
“Away?” Rose’s mother never failed to surprise him.
A short laugh escaped her lips—or maybe it was a snort. “Not for the night—just for an hour. You can find solitude, yes? You know this castle better than anyone.” She gave him a little push. “Now, go. I’ll keep an eye on Ellen.”
He went, quickly, feeling like a poltroon as he elbowed his way past the more sedate duke and handily beat him outdoors. This entire courtship was beyond humiliating. Lady Trentingham had made it clear she approved of him pursuing her daughter, and he shouldn’t be needing her encouragement—or worse, her nagging—to make each and every move.
He’d always gone after what he wanted with no holds barred, and from now on, he promised himself, he’d do the same with Rose.
Silhouetted in the moonlight, she stood at the edge of the terrace, gazing over the darkened Thames Valley.
“Rose,” he called softly as he approached.
She started, then turned, looking amused. “Kit? You always turn up.”
A glance back told him the duke had made it out to the terrace. “Would you fancy a stroll?” he asked her quickly. Without waiting for a reply, he began walking.
She followed without hesitation. “Where would you take me?”
“Around the courtyards, or—”
“Lady Rose!”
“It’s Bridgewater,” she whispered, walking faster. “Ignore him.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“Of course I like him! He’s a duke!” She sped up, walking amazingly quickly considering her high heels. “I just need to leave court for a while, that’s all.”
Her mother really was quite perceptive. “And why is that?” he asked, steering her around a corner.
“I’m making a fool of myself here,” she said with a sigh, never one to mince words. “I wish to break the cycle.”
He laughed, then glanced back. Thankfully, they seemed to have lost the duke. “A fool?” he said. “I think not. It’s quite obvious all the men like you.”
He hadn’t enjoyed watching that popinjay kiss her.
“And all the ladies hate me.” He could hear the pout in her voice.
“They’re only jealous,” he soothed.
“I know that.”
As he led her through a small courtyard, he laughed again, enjoying her candor.
“They’re vulgar bores, anyway,” she declared. “But a woman needs friends. I miss my sisters. I enjoyed talking with Ellen.”
“She enjoyed you, too. She’s in a much better mood now. Thank you for that.”
She waved a hand. “I cannot think what I did, besides possibly offer friendship.”
“She needs friends, too. Of late, she spends all her time with that man.” He steered her around the Round Tower. “What was the title of the book she brought along?”
“I won’t know until I translate it,” Rose said glibly.
So glibly he suspected it was a fib. That book was making him more and more curious.
She stopped before the castle gate and turned to face him. Torchlight danced over her fine features, highlighting her puzzled smile and the charming little indents it made in her cheeks.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He hadn’t known, but now he did. “To the river, if it pleases you.”
Althoug
h Lady Trentingham had suggested he take her daughter to a secluded part of the castle, surely the river would do as well.
TWENTY-SIX
ROSE KNEW SHE shouldn’t have left the castle, especially with a man. But she’d wanted so much to escape. And Kit was a friend.
She’d never had a male friend before.
“It’s quiet out here,” she said.
“Unlike your friends at court, most folks rise with the dawn and seek their beds when the sun sets.”
“I guess that’s why none of the windows are lit.” The hill was steep, the uneven cobblestones treacherous. “It’s so dark.” A little wobble in her voice matched a sudden lurch in her gait.
He reached to steady her. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“No,” she snapped, then added, “Well, maybe. A little,” when she caught him looking at her sideways.
What was it about this man that made her spill her most embarrassing secrets?
She waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t. “I’d know the way with my eyes closed,” he said. “Here, take my hand.”
She did, though she knew she shouldn’t be doing that either. But Kit’s fingers felt good linked with hers, comforting instead of intimidating. His skin felt warm, his palm rougher than those of the other men who’d touched her tonight. Work worn, she supposed. And while she was holding his hand, the night didn’t seem quite as dark.
At the bottom of the hill, rowdy laughter drifted from a tavern called Bel and the Dragon. The sound of common men thick with drink. Kit was common, too, but for now she didn’t care. It was peaceful here, away from court. And no one was threatening to kiss her.
Not even the man she wished would.
When they reached Kit’s house and he turned and started up the steps, Rose pulled her hand from his. “You said we were going to the river.”
“We’re stopping here only a minute.” He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door; it was late enough that Graves wasn’t there to open it. “Wait here,” Kit whispered, ushering her into the entry. A single oil lamp burned on the small marble-topped table. “I’ll be right back.”
