by Lauren Royal
“Yes, you certainly do,” Harriet added as she wove matching burgundy ribbons through the bun on the back of Rose’s head. “And just think of all the new men you’re going to meet! I can hardly believe I’m here, so far from Trentingham.”
Actually, it wasn’t far at all—little more than a couple of hours downriver. Though Rose had never been inside the castle before, she and her sisters often came to Windsor to visit the shops. But Harriet had been born at Trentingham Manor and, at age nineteen, had never gone farther than the nearest village before today.
Rose suspected that was half the reason for their late start. Harriet had been so flustered, she’d been unable to keep her mind on the preparations.
“You might meet a new man, too,” Mum told Harriet, a familiar light coming into her brown eyes. Chrystabel was always happiest when matchmaking. She didn’t care whether the couples were royalty or servants, so long as—thanks to her—two people were finding their lifelong mates.
“Do you think so?” Harriet’s fingers fumbled with the ribbons as she breathed a romantic sigh.
Rose had never thought of Harriet as pining for marriage. Harriet was just Harriet, a sturdy girl with frizzy red hair and pale green eyes in a wide face full of freckles.
But now those eyes went dreamy. “I would so love to fall in love.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” Chrystabel promised her.
“There, Lady Trentingham, you’re finished,” her own maid Anne said. “And you look pretty, too. As for you,” she added to Harriet, “my lady will find you a special man to love.”
Four years earlier, Chrystabel had successfully matched Anne with a coachman from the Liddington estate. Today, they both lived happily at Trentingham, and so far they had produced one little future chambermaid and a tiny stableboy-to-be.
Chrystabel stood and smoothed her peach silk skirts, looking to Rose. “Come along, dear. What’s taking you so long?”
Though a retort hung on the tip of Rose’s tongue, she kept her mouth shut and followed her mother from the lodging. As they crossed the Upper Ward, excitement churned in the pit of her stomach.
She was about to meet the king and queen of England.
When they reached the open courtyard called Horn Court, where two red-and-white liveried footmen stood guard at the door, she paused and pulled a curl forward to rest artfully on one bare shoulder. Her breath was coming short, and it had little to do with the rigid, pointed stomacher that stiffened the front of her bodice.
“Shall we?” Chrystabel asked, gesturing toward the door.
One of the footmen pulled it open.
To Rose’s disappointment, the monarchs weren’t waiting right inside. Instead, she followed her mother into a tall, wide hall that held nothing but a staircase. But what a staircase. “Oooh,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful!”
“It looks French,” Chrystabel whispered back. “While exiled on the Continent, King Charles was much taken with Versailles.”
French or English, Rose thought the staircase was lovely. Twin flights of steps rose to their right and left, meeting at a central landing above. The rooms they had been given here were rather ancient, with plain plastered walls, but these walls were covered in colorful painted murals depicting Greeks and Trojans. Giants battled on the deeply coved ceiling that towered over her head.
As Rose climbed the steps, carefully holding her skirts, she felt very small and insignificant. She supposed that was the desired effect. Even here, outside his chambers, the king would want to project strength and power.
At the top of the stairs, she held her breath while another liveried footman opened another door.
But she was disappointed again. Beyond the door lay an enormous rectangular room with no furniture—and no king or queen, either. A few lords and ladies stood in little clusters, absorbed in softly murmured conversations.
Rose’s and Chrystabel’s high-heeled shoes made clicking sounds on the planked floor as they crossed the chamber. Rose huffed out a sigh. “Where are the king and queen?”
“We’re getting there, dear. This is the Guard Chamber.”
As though she couldn’t have guessed. Military trophies covered every inch of the walls: helmets and drums, shields and armor, guns and lancets, swords and knives. “Are there any weapons left for the army?” she whispered.
Mum’s laugh broke the hush of the chamber. “I certainly hope so!” She met Rose’s gaze, her brown eyes glittering. “It’s an impressive display, but all the same, I expect we’re still well defended.”
The painted ceiling featured Jupiter and Juno seated on thrones at either end. In the center, a glassed octagonal opening provided a view of the stars and, Rose imagined, a great splash of natural light in the daytime.
Reaching the door at the far end, Chrystabel paused. “Lady Trentingham and Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she announced, her voice laced with quiet dignity.
Finally. As one of the six guards bowed and opened the door, Rose lifted her burgundy satin skirts.
But the room beyond was deserted, save for an usher at the far end.
“What’s this?” Rose demanded.
“The King’s Presence Chamber.” Chrystabel curtsied in front of the magnificent red velvet throne, taking Rose’s hand to make certain she did, too.
Thinking it the most ridiculous thing she’d ever done, Rose frowned as she straightened. “Despite the name of the chamber, the king,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the empty throne, “does not seem to be present.”
“Come along,” her mother said with a half-concealed smile.
Rose looked to the heavens for patience, seeing instead a painted ceiling where Mercury was presenting a portrait of the king to the four corners of the world.
She was beginning to think all this decoration might be a tad overdone.
A red-and-white-garbed usher grandly opened the next door. By now, Rose wasn’t expecting to see Their Majesties on the other side. In fact, she figured that at this rate she might be a wrinkled old crone by the time she actually met them.
“The Audience Chamber,” Chrystabel intoned softly. “You’ll curtsy to this empty throne as well.” She glided toward the canopied seat. “Charles does sit here to receive visitors in the daytime.”
“Does he never sit in the other throne?”
“That throne is only symbolic, dear. Ceremonial.”
Rose had been sure she’d find the court’s pageantry intriguing and exciting, but in truth, it all seemed a little silly!
The next chamber made her jaw drop open, and it had nothing to do with the gaudy decorations—or even the spectacular clothing and jewels that adorned all the people milling about.
Unable to avert her gaze, she drifted slowly through the room by her mother’s side. There, in that dark corner, a woman sat sprawled on a man’s lap, her head thrown back in laughter. Across the chamber, a fluttering curtain left the distinct impression that action of some sort was going on behind it.
Nearby, another couple was kissing. No, more than kissing. Rose squinted, wishing there were more chandeliers overhead, or that those yeomen holding flaming torches would move closer to…
Gemini!
Her eyes widened. The woman’s stomacher was unfastened down one side, hanging drunkenly, and the laces beneath were undone, and—oh, dear!—the man had his hand—
His gaze met Rose’s for a moment. Or at least she thought it had—she couldn’t be sure, given how quickly she shifted to focus on the ceiling overhead. But the painting above did nothing to erase the shocking-but-intriguing mental picture. There, the painted Charles rode in a chariot surrounded by naked angels, just as the real Charles was apparently surrounded by naked—
“Come along, dear. We’re about to be announced.”
“Announced?” She’d been so shocked, she hadn’t even realized she’d finally made it to the chamber where Their Majesties waited.
Rose had always considered herself unshockable, but quite suddenly she felt lik
e an innocent country mouse. Father had been right all along, she thought. Court was no place for a well-bred young lady.
Good thing she wasn’t so young anymore.
The couple in front of her bowed and curtsied and moved out of the way, and she found herself approaching a red-canopied dais.
“Lady Trentingham!” the stuffy usher called. “Lady Rose Ashcroft!” Rose held out her satin skirts—so plain compared to the jewel-encrusted gowns of the other ladies—and dropped into a deep curtsy. When she came up, she aimed a smile at King Charles, a bit startled to find that he seemed to be an ordinary human being.
She’d seen paintings, of course, but of a younger man, and somehow not such a real one. The king was forty-seven now, and a bit of gray-streaked hair peeked out from beneath his long, curled black periwig. His dark eyes were as sharp as ever, though—or at least as sharp as Rose had always heard. They swept her from head to toe, a gaze both approving and more than a bit lascivious.
Well, he was known for that.
In contrast, Queen Catharine’s eyes were a warm, liquid brown. She wasn’t a beauty, but her appearance wasn’t displeasing, either—she looked sad, and a little world-weary.
After fifteen years of marriage, she had yet to present her husband with a child.
Standing before Catharine, Rose mimicked what her mother was doing with Charles and lifted the queen’s hand to press a kiss to the back.
She was rewarded with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Catharine told her in flowing, Portuguese-accented English.
“The pleasure is mine,” Rose returned sincerely. Really, she couldn’t imagine why her sisters had gone all fluttery over the prospect of meeting the monarchs. They were just people!
She switched sides with her mother and bent her lips to the king’s hand.
He surprised her by gripping her fingers. “You’re as lovely as your mother.”
Chrystabel blushed. Rose grinned at Charles. “Your reputation is well deserved, Your Majesty.”
Still holding her hand, he grinned back. “My reputation, my dear?”
“As a ladies’ man.”
Chrystabel gasped. When Charles threw back his head and laughed, Rose shot her a victorious smile.
Charles glanced around the room. “It seems you’re the last to be presented,” he said, not looking at all displeased about that. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
Now it was Rose’s turn to gasp. She knew the protocol was for ladies to ask His Majesty to dance, not the opposite. Feeling light-headed, she curtsied again. “It would be my honor, Sire.”
“The second dance, then,” he said, rising from his throne. He held out a hand to Catharine, and she rose as well and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor, the jewels on her gorgeous lavender gown twinkling as she moved.
The incessant chatter in the room ceased as everyone turned to watch the king and queen dance the first dance. Rose drifted to join the small crowd that surrounded the dance floor, hugging herself with excitement. After the king danced with her, surely other men would want to do the same. Maybe one of them would end up her husband.
In fact, before the first dance even ended, she felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to see a handsome specimen. The man was tall and fair, his clothing dripping with lace, his manner oozing aristocracy.
He struck a pose, one hand resting lightly on the jeweled hilt of his court sword, the other on the head of his high, beribboned walking stick. “Lady Trentingham, may I have the honor of an introduction?”
Rose wasn’t surprised the gentleman knew her mother’s name. Mum was known far and wide as an amateur matchmaker—and a very successful one, at that. Could the request for an introduction mean he was looking to find a wife?
Chrystabel laid a hand on Rose’s arm. “Lord Rosslyn, may I present Lady Rose Ashcroft. My daughter,” she added meaningfully. “Rose, this is the Earl of Rosslyn. And how is your wife, my lord?” she asked in pointed tone.
“She’s well,” the man replied blithely. He inclined his head toward the left, where Rose saw a woman half entwined with a man who had to be a decade her junior. “Like most here at court, we have an understanding.”
Rose was half tempted to bash him over the head with his own walking stick, but before she could react, Charles appeared by her side. He bowed and held out a hand. “My lady?”
Rosslyn’s eyes widened, making Rose feel rather triumphant as she joined the king on the dance floor.
It was a country dance, performed in two lines, one of women, one of men. When it was her turn to parade down the center with Charles, their joined hands held high, Rose felt the eyes of the entire chamber on her.
The king’s eyes were on her as well. Dark and glinting, they captured hers quite effectively. The fabled Stuart charm. “It’s a pleasure to have a new face at court, my lady. Especially one as lovely as yours.” Charles danced superbly, very graceful for so tall a man. His voice was just as smooth. “Why have you never graced us with your presence before, my lady?”
She blushed—becomingly, she hoped. “My father thought me too young.”
“Young?” he echoed, sounding puzzled.
And then they had to return to their respective lines.
As she executed the simple steps, she furtively glanced around. There were ladies of her mother’s age, certainly, but there were also girls of fifteen and sixteen. Or perhaps she should think of them as women, since they hung on the arms of grown men, flirting madly.
Clearly, she wasn’t too young.
The next time she met up with the king to parade down the center, she had a more plausible reason. “I’ve come to court to find a husband.”
“Ah.” His dark eyes glittered speculatively. “Interesting choice of word, my lady. Husbands we have, although many are already wed.” He smiled at his own jest. “Take me, for example—”
“I won’t be,” she interrupted archly.
Though she immediately worried that he might be offended, he only laughed. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he conceded good-naturedly.
Among this social circle filled with promiscuous spouses, her parents were known as uncommonly devoted.
When the dance came to an end, the king raised her hand to his mouth, pressing warm lips to the back. “It was a pleasure, my lady. I wish you every success here at court.”
For a moment, while he still held her hand, Rose found herself suffused with wonder. Here she was, in the King’s Drawing Room at Windsor Castle, with none other than Charles himself. An experience like this could go to a woman’s head, she thought giddily.
Then he led her from the dance floor, and she watched him go straight to a girl of no more than seventeen and kiss her soundly on the lips. Rose couldn’t help but notice his queen was studiously gazing elsewhere, resignation etched on her small, foreign-looking face.
Apparently all was not lightness and fun here at the castle.
But this was Rose’s first evening at court, not a night to shoulder the worries of the world. She looked away, determined to enjoy the spectacle that was Charles’s court. Courtiers wore every color of the rainbow. Gentlemen walked with swaggering, elegant movements while ladies fluttered exquisitely painted fans.
“May I claim the pleasure of a dance?”
Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome man. “Absolutely, my lord…?”
“Bridgewater. The Duke of Bridgewater,” he clarified with a warm smile and a smart bow.
Rose was pleased to see he wasn’t carrying one of those foppish ribbon-topped walking sticks. And he was a duke! Not only a duke, but a youngish duke—of an age, Rose guessed, not above thirty.
Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old men of forty or more.
As he swept her into the dance, her heart skittered with excitement. Already she was dancing with exactly the sort of man she’d come here hoping to meet.
“My given name is Gabriel, and my family name is Fox,
” he informed her quite pleasantly. “You’re Trentingham’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Rose Ashcroft,” she said, gazing up at him—for he was tall. Tall enough to make her feel nearly as petite as her sister Lily. Her gaze skimmed from the top of his very-English blond head, past blue eyes, and down a patrician nose to his smiling mouth, each detail making her even happier.
He was perfect!
She was certain she was falling in love already.
“My dear Rose—may I call you Rose?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction.”
He was not only a duke, but a gentleman as well.
She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. “To be sure, your grace.” Imagine being called your grace—her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. “My mother brought me here to meet gentlemen like you.” Men exactly like you, she revised silently, thrilled to have the attention of such a great catch.
And she did have his attention. His hands gripped hers a little tighter than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary—his rapt attention made a little thrill run through her.
Court was wonderful. Even while dancing with Gabriel—for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn’t help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeoman, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.
That observation prompted her to check out Gabriel’s jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swinging a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds, and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.
Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!