by Lauren Royal
Rose wanted someone who’d make her feel like a queen. Good God, a duchess or countess would do. Or even a lowly baroness…
As the years crawled by without a husband on the horizon, she was getting less picky. So long as the man was titled, handsome, rich, and powerful, most anyone was acceptable.
The guests parted as Lily and Rand began making their way from the chapel. They’d taken but a few steps when a cat, a squirrel, and a chirping sparrow came to join them.
Rose moved to hug her sister. “It was beautiful,” she murmured. “I’m so happy for you.”
She was. Truly she was.
Lily leaned down to pick up the cat, straightening with a brilliant smile. “Your turn next.”
A hurt retort came to Rose’s mind, but she wouldn’t snap at her sister on her wedding day.
“I’m happy for you, too, Rand,” she said instead, rising on her toes to give her sister’s new husband a kiss on the cheek. But not too far up on her toes, because Rose was a tall woman. Too tall, perhaps, or too slim, or too quick-tongued…or too something.
There had to be some reason she had yet to find love.
Too intelligent, most likely. At one point, she’d thought Rand might be the man for her. Handsome, titled, and a professor of linguistics at Oxford—surely a good match for Rose, given her own exceptional command of foreign languages. But he’d chosen her little sister.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said now, making Rose feel the unluckiest woman.
She’d had better days.
Lily must have noticed her dejected expression, because her fingers stopped stroking the cat’s striped fur. Concern clouded her lovely blue eyes. “You will be next,” she said quietly.
“Undoubtedly so, since I’m the only one left,” Rose quipped. “Unless, that is, Rowan manages to find himself a bride before I find a groom.”
They both swung to look at their eleven-year-old brother where he stood with Violet’s young niece, Jewel, their dark heads close together as they whispered animatedly.
“He may have found himself a bride already,” Rose added dryly.
Lily’s laughter rang through the chapel, echoing off the molded dome ceiling. “Surely someone will claim you long before Rowan gets it in his head to wed. Why, you’re the most beautiful of all of us, Rose!”
Rose had always thought Lily the most beautiful, but she knew she was beautiful, too. Yet beauty, she’d learned, was not enough to hook a husband.
Well-wishers pressed closer. Rose began moving toward the drawing room and found Judith by her side. Forsaking her betrothed, Judith clutched Rose’s arm. “Who is that handsome fellow?” she whispered conspiratorially.
Rose slid a glance to the man in question, a friend of Rand’s whose gaze suddenly met hers, then skimmed her body in a way that might have made her heart pound…if she were at all interested. “That’s Mr. Christopher Martyn—Rand calls him Kit. He’s an architect,” she added dismissively.
“Christopher Martyn, the architect?” Awe hushed Judith’s voice. “Hasn’t King Charles recently awarded him a contract to renovate Whitehall Palace?”
“Along with Windsor Castle and Hampton Court.”
“Ah, a man of intelligence to complement yours.” Clearly Judith considered the man’s lack of a title no impediment. “No need for you to play the featherbrained coquette for him.”
“I’ve no interest in him. And I’ve never acted featherbrained.” But perhaps now was the time to start.
On her sisters’ advice, Rose had tried to win Rand by appealing to his intellect, but that hadn’t worked at all. Never again would she attempt to attract a man by flaunting her brains. No matter what her family or Judith said, she knew there were better ways to entice gentlemen.
Unfortunately, where Rand was concerned, she’d come to that conclusion too late. To her intense embarrassment, she’d stooped to propositioning him in her family’s summerhouse, and when that hadn’t worked, desperation had driven her to attempt bribery and trickery of the worst kind.
She couldn’t imagine what had come over her that day and had feared she’d never be able to look Rand in the face again. But to her utter relief he seemed at ease with her, as though he’d graciously forgotten that humiliating episode.
“You cannot tell me,” Judith whispered, dragging Rose back to the present, “that you don’t find Mr. Martyn attractive.”
Rose slanted Kit another covert look. Dressed in forest-toned velvet, he was tall and lean, his hair dark as jet, his eyes a startling mix of brown and green. She dredged up a wry smile. “I’d have to be blind to claim that.”
“And he looks ever so nice. Do you think he’s nice?”
“He’s nice enough.” Except for those unusual eyes, which were decidedly not nice. Wicked would be a better description.
“And good Lord, he’s building things for the king! I’m certain he has money—”
“Money,” Rose interrupted pointedly, “does not make up for lack of a title.”
Her sister Violet walked up, sans children for once. “Who needs a title?”
Judith crossed her arms. “Lady Rose apparently wishes to become Lady Something-Higher.”
“Oh, well.” Violet sent Rose an indulgent smile. “That’s only because she has yet to fall in love.”
Rose smiled in return. “And given that it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, I’ve decided to concentrate on the former.”
Violet and Judith exchanged a glance that set Rose’s teeth on edge, then left her, to return to their respective men.
Since Lily had given their mother barely two weeks to plan the event, the wedding party was small. Still, there were more than enough guests to fill the drawing room and spill out onto the Palladian portico and into the exquisite gardens. Trentingham Manor was known for its gardens, thanks to Rose’s father and his passion for flowers and plants.
But it was a warm, sunny day, and Rose feared for her creamy complexion, so she opted to stay indoors. She wandered the crowded drawing room, sipping from a goblet of the new and frightfully expensive champagne her parents favored for celebrations. Although she enjoyed sharing a word or two with various relatives and neighbors, she was generally feeling at loose ends, not quite sure what to do with herself.
Until, that was, she heard her father’s voice and turned to see him addressing Kit Martyn.
“…one of those newfangled greenhouses,” Father was saying. “On the east side of the house, I’m thinking, to catch the morning sun. Since autumn is nearly upon us, I’d be much obliged if you could start it immediately.”
Rose couldn’t believe her ears. It was the second time her father had asked the esteemed architect to build him a lowly greenhouse.
Half tempted to ball up the lacy handkerchief she had tucked in her sleeve and stuff it into her father’s mouth, she hurried to join them. “Mr. Martyn builds things for the king, Father! Palaces, for heaven’s sake. He hasn’t—”
“Well, not quite palaces,” Kit corrected her. “Renovations to palaces, additions to palaces, but I’ve yet to build an entire—”
“See?” Rose met her father’s deep green eyes, speaking loudly and slowly to make sure he could hear her over the hubbub of the celebration. “Palaces. He hasn’t the time to build you a greenhouse.”
Kit sipped from his own goblet of champagne, then grinned at Rose’s father. “Oh, I think I might find the time,” he disagreed, his words infused with a hint of laughter. “In exchange for a dance with your beautiful daughter.”
He shifted to look at Rose, making it clear which daughter he meant. His green-brown gaze swept her lazily, almost as though he were mentally undressing her…and if his expression was any indication, he plainly liked the results.
Lord Trentingham frowned. “My bountiful bother?”
Kit looked confused, and Rose knew she should remind him that her father was hard of hearing at the best of times—and in a crowded room, he was all but
deaf.
But she couldn’t seem to speak. The audacity of the man, thinking he could trade a building for her company. Surely her father would never—
“I’ll be most pleased to build your greenhouse,” Kit reiterated, “if your lovely daughter will oblige me with a dance.”
“Oblige you with advance?”
Understanding dawned in Kit’s eyes. “A dance,” he shouted. “May I have the honor of a dance with Lady Rose?”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” her father said. “Now, about that greenhouse—”
“I’ll do a preliminary design before I leave,” Kit all but bellowed.
“Excellent.” Lord Trentingham turned a vague smile in Rose’s direction. “Run along, dear. Enjoy yourself.”
Her mouth dropped open, then shut when she found herself propelled from the drawing room by a warm hand at her back. Then she was stepping out onto the covered portico, which had been pressed into service as a dance floor.
Three musicians in one corner were playing a minuet, a graceful dance that facilitated conversation. The wedding guests chatted and flirted, their shoes brushing the brick paving in unison. Though the dance was already in progress, Kit handed both their champagne goblets to a passing maid, took Rose’s hands, and swept her into the throng.
She’d never touched him—certainly not skin to skin—and the contact reminded her just how attractive she’d thought him the first time they met. The mere sight of him had set her blood to singing inside her. But that, of course, had been before she’d discovered he was a plain mister. Since then, seeing him had had no effect on her at all.
So it was disconcerting to find that touching him now seemed to make the champagne bubbles dance in her stomach.
“Lovely Corinthian capitals on the columns and pilasters,” Kit noted, ever the architect. “Do you know who carved them?”
She pliéd and stepped forward with her right foot at the same time she finally found her tongue. “Edward Marshall, who also carved the Ashcroft family arms in the pediment. And in future, please keep in mind that there’s no need to ask my father’s permission for a dance. Ashcroft women make their own decisions.”
“So Rand has told me,” Kit said, breezing over the implication that she might have refused him.
They rose on their toes, and when he pulled her closer, she caught a whiff of his scent. A woodsy fragrance with a base of frankincense and myrrh. It smelled nice, she thought, wondering if she could duplicate it in her mother’s perfumery.
“Your family is an odd one,” he said. “I don’t allow my sister to make her own decisions. Not the important ones, in any case.”
She felt sorry for his sister. “Our family motto is Interroga Conformationem.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Question Convention,” she translated. What sort of educated man didn’t know Latin? Certainly not one she’d ever consider husband material.
It was a good thing he wasn’t in the running.
They dropped hands to turn in place, then he grasped her fingers again. “Is it true, as Rand said, that your father allows his daughters to choose their own husbands as well?”
She noticed Lily and Rand dancing together—much closer than the dance required. Surprisingly, envy didn’t clutch at her heart this time. She only smiled. “Yes.”
“In future, I’ll keep that in mind,” Kit responded with a disarming grin.
Ignoring his impertinence, Rose gazed across the wide daisy-strewn lawn toward the Thames. Just then, her brother Rowan raced onto the portico, looking like a miniature version of their father in a burgundy suit, his long midnight hair streaming behind him.
A quite ordinary-looking man followed more sedately, but as he wore red and white—the king’s livery—he attracted more attention.
The musicians stopped playing, and the dancers ground to a halt.
“There he is,” Rowan said, pointing to Kit in the sudden silence. “Mr. Christopher Martyn, the man you seek.”
“IF I MAY speak with you in private, sir,” the messenger said. “I bring word from His Majesty.”
Kit nodded and stepped off the portico, silently leading the way to the summerhouse he’d spotted earlier. He felt the eyes of the other wedding guests following him and heard their speculative murmurs, but the sudden appearance of the king’s man didn’t intrigue him as it did them. He was, after all, completing several royal projects. Likely Charles simply wanted a change.
As Kit crossed Lord Trentingham’s celebrated gardens, he thought instead of Rose, vaguely wondering where he’d found the nerve to imply he might be interested in marriage. He’d been drawn to her when they first met, but quickly dismissed it when she failed to respond to his advances. He figured there were plenty of splendid women in the world—which meant there was no sense pursuing one who wasn’t attainable.
But today she’d sipped champagne, and he’d noticed her lips were made for kissing. And he’d taken her hands and felt something like a punch to his gut. And she’d challenged him verbally, and those words had jumped out of his mouth.
Ludicrous words. As a man who’d never wanted for female attention, he was frustrated by Lady Rose’s obvious disinterest, but deep down he knew that pursuing her was an absurd waste of time. Although he thought her lovely and intelligent—he’d watched her decipher a coded diary weeks earlier and been nothing short of astonished—he had no illusions of winning Lady Rose. Or, for that matter, any lady at all. He knew his place in the world.
Commoner, through and through.
His best friend might be an earl who’d grown up in a mansion, but Kit had been raised in a single-room cottage. No Martyn had ever borne a title. Before him, he doubted any Martyn had ever even considered the possibility.
He knew that, social perceptions aside, he was damn well as good as anyone else. But he was also well aware that he wasn’t considered good enough for the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. And wishing things were different would never make them so.
At least, not in the near future.
The circular redbrick summerhouse was a small building with classic Palladian lines. He ushered the king’s man inside. Owing to the admirable design—large arched windows over each of the four doors—it was bright beneath the cool, shaded dome.
Bright enough to make out the seriousness in the messenger’s eyes.
Apprehension soured the champagne in Kit’s stomach. “Yes?” he asked.
The man’s words were anything but reassuring. “This concerns one of your projects. I’ve been sent to advise you that the ceiling at Windsor Castle is falling—”
“Falling? Has anyone been hurt?”
“I should say chunks of plaster have fallen—not the ceiling itself. But it’s sagging, and there are many cracks. There have been no injuries, but His Majesty wanted you to know—”
“I understand.” Kit understood Charles’s underlying message all too well. If he failed to complete this project on time and satisfactorily, his dream of being appointed Deputy Surveyor—a step toward someday becoming Surveyor General of the King’s Works, the official royal architect—would be as good as dead.
And without that, the rest of his dreams—his plans to obtain a title for himself and marry his sister Ellen to a peer of the realm—would die along with it.
He yanked the door back open. “I shall depart for Windsor posthaste.”
“Sir.” The man bowed and preceded him outside.
Back at the house, Kit looked around for Rand, but his friend was nowhere to be found. He went instead to give his apologies to his hostess. “Forgive me, Lady Trentingham, but I must take my leave. There’s a problem at Windsor Castle. I cannot seem to locate Rand—”
“He and Lily have a habit of disappearing,” she told him with a suggestive twinkle in her eye that took him by surprise. She was, after all, the girl’s mother. But then her brown eyes turned sympathetic. “I’ll explain,” she added. “He’ll understand.”
In no time at all, Kit w
as settled in his carriage, rubbing the back of his neck as the vehicle lumbered its way toward Windsor.
Could he possibly have made an error in designing Windsor’s new dining room? Had a flaw in the plans gone unnoticed? He unrolled the extra set he always carried, spreading the linen they were drawn on over his lap. But he couldn’t seem to concentrate.
Especially when his carriage jostled past the village of Hawkridge, where he’d grown up.
Toying with the small, worn chunk of brick he carried in his pocket—a chip off his first building—he found himself gazing out the window as memories assaulted him. Nights whiled away in his family’s snug cottage, he and Ellen playing on the floor while their mother read by the fire. Days spent with his father, learning carpentry and building. Afternoons fishing with the local nobleman’s son, Lord Randal Nesbitt, both of them starved for companionship their age.
That felt like a lifetime ago. Rand was married now, a man who declared himself in love. As for Kit, love wasn’t high on his list of priorities.
A luxury, love was, and one Kit felt quite capable of living without. After all, love had done his parents no favors. They’d been happy together, content with their simple lot in life—and both ended up in early graves.
That wasn’t going to happen to Kit or his sister.
For twelve years—through school, university, and a quickly rising reputation—he had dedicated himself to one goal. The Deputy Surveyor post was almost within his grasp.
He couldn’t fail now.
“YOU LOOK melancholy,” Rose’s mother said later that evening. Standing with Rose in her perfumery, Chrystabel picked over the many flower arrangements on her large wooden worktable, plucking out the marigolds. “Why the long face, dear? Are you sad to see your creations destroyed?”
“Of course not.” Rose added a purple aster to a pile of flowers and some ivy to a bunch of greens. She looked up and forced what she hoped sounded like a romantic sigh. “The wedding was beautiful, wasn’t it?”
