by Lauren Royal
When the dance came to an end, Rose felt deflated. One never danced with the same man two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.
No sooner had he straightened than another man rushed over and begged the honor of a dance. And after that, another. And another and another until the evening grew late and the men all blended in her head.
Marquesses and earls and barons, light-haired and dark-haired and handsome and plain, short and tall and in between. She gave each and every one of them a fair appraisal.
Truly, she did.
But she knew—she just knew—that none of them was as perfect for her as the absolutely perfect Duke of Bridgewater.
Seven
KIT WALKED briskly through the dark castle grounds toward Sir Christopher Wren’s apartments—the official apartments of the Surveyor General, apartments he hoped to own for himself someday. Not that he’d actually live there. He’d just put the finishing touches on his brand new house here in Windsor, situated on an enviable plot of land on the banks of the River Thames.
In fact, his sister, Ellen, was waiting for him there now. At least, he hoped she was waiting for him. She’d declared herself in love with a completely unsuitable man—a pawnbroker, for heaven’s sake—and he feared she might be off at his damned pawnshop.
Ellen never had been the type to pay heed to his brotherly concerns.
Arriving at his destination, he knocked twice on the old oak door and waited for Wren’s secretary to admit him. He was slightly startled when Wren himself answered, dressed in shirtsleeves. He’d obviously been working. He wore no periwig, and his long, dark hair was a mite disheveled, as though he’d been raking his hands through it.
Wren didn’t reside in the official Surveyor General’s apartments either, but instead used the rooms as office space. Like Kit, Wren had recently built an impressive house for himself in town. But as the Dean of Windsor’s son, he’d been raised right here in the castle deanery, a playmate of the young Prince of Wales—now King Charles—and he and his monarch were still intimates. Kit was hoping their long-standing relationship would mean Wren could convince the king that Kit was the right man for the Deputy Surveyor post.
But the look on Wren’s face wasn’t reassuring.
“This new development does not bode well,” Wren said without preamble, motioning Kit inside. Perching one hip on a large drafting table strewn with copious drawings, he waved Kit toward a chair.
Like Charles, Wren was two decades Kit’s senior. But Kit had known him for years, ever since he’d found himself Wren’s student at Oxford. Professor and pupil had grown close, and although Kit knew Wren was also acquainted with his rival for the position, he knew as well that Wren had never held the man in high esteem. Gaylord Craig, now the Earl of Rosslyn, hadn’t been a stellar student—and Wren was a man who valued intelligence augmented by hard work.
Unfortunately, however, the decision wasn’t Wren’s alone. Charles owed many Royalist families for their support in the Civil War, and government appointments were less costly than most methods of repayment.
“Until this unfortunate occurrence,” Wren continued, “you were the front-runner for the appointment. But Charles hasn’t the patience for costly errors—the monarchy, I’m afraid, is as cash-strapped as ever.”
Kit rubbed the chunk of brick in his pocket. “The error wasn’t strictly mine—my foreman chose to use substandard materials. Not,” he rushed to add, “that I don’t take responsibility. Quite clearly I erred in hiring the man in the first place. I’ll cover the losses myself.”
Wren nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes sympathetic. “Regardless, I’m now under pressure to award the post to Rosslyn. Last I saw, however, the dining room was coming along beautifully—your design and eye to detail are impeccable. Charles plans to inspect it tomorrow, so if you can make certain the site is safe and any debris is cleared—”
“Of course.”
“—perhaps we can divert his attention to the impressive decoration.”
“I have everything under control,” Kit assured him.
If necessary, he would comb the town for extra hands and have the men work overnight. Sufficient scaffolding would be erected to assure no safety concerns, and the site would look pristine, whatever it took to make it that way. “What time have you scheduled the visit?”
“Noon.”
“Then I shall be ready by ten.”
“Make sure you are.” Though Wren’s words sounded serious, he tempered them with a small smile. “With any luck, we can pull this off.”
“I’ve never put much stock in luck. Hard work and perseverance have done well by me so far.” Kit returned the smile with a wry one of his own. “But I suppose a little luck wouldn’t come amiss just this once.”
Wren rose and opened the door, giving Kit a companionable slap on the back as he ushered him through it. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m counting on it,” Kit told him.
Hard work and perseverance. He’d always believed that with both, anything could be his.
He headed back to his site. The castle grounds were quiet this time of night, the Round Tower on its huge mound of earth looming tall and imposing between the Lower and Upper Wards. His footfalls echoed off the cobblestones as he skirted the circular structure and made his way to Horn Court.
Nodding a familiar greeting, the usher there opened the door to admit him to the King’s Staircase. Kit hurried up the steps and through the progression of chambers—rooms he didn’t belong in, if one went strictly by rank. But as one of the king’s architects, he had free access.
Someday he would have the rank, too.
His mind on his project and what he would have to accomplish tonight to assure its successful completion, he fairly ran through the Audience Chamber and into the King’s Drawing Room, where court was in full swing this evening. There, he stopped short.
Rose Ashcroft was on the dance floor.
His breath caught at the sight of her, a vision in wine-colored satin. The wide neckline bared her creamy shoulders. Her long sleeves were caught at intervals with jeweled clasps that left gaps, revealing tempting glances of a diaphanous chemise underneath.
He had no idea how she’d come to be here, but she was dancing with some lucky bastard who was tall, blond, and exceedingly aristocratic.
As she spun in the other man’s arms, Kit felt that punch in his gut again. And jealousy spurted through his veins. Which was absurd, aggravating, and unproductive.
Mr. Christopher Martyn was still years away from gaining the title that could give him access to Lady Rose Ashcroft. Wren hadn’t been knighted until well after he’d become Surveyor General. Deputy Surveyor was just the first step.
Unless…
What if he managed to impress King Charles with his abilities as a master architect? Windsor’s new dining room would prove to be spectacular, of that he was certain. The renovations at Whitehall Palace and the new building at Hampton Court—apartments for Charles’s long-time mistress Barbara, whom he’d created the Duchess of Cleveland, and their five children—could prove to be Kit’s making.
Charles might be pleased enough to award him a knighthood along with the Deputy Surveyor post. That would speed along Kit’s plans, perhaps allowing him to win the stunning woman now gliding on the dance floor in the arms of another man.
His jaw set with determination, he tore his gaze from Rose and strode through the glittering assembly, exiting the drawing room into the small, as-yet-unrenovated vestibule that led to his project.
“Martyn.”
Kit turned to see the Earl of Rosslyn follow and close the heavy door behind him. After the hubbub of court, the vestibule seemed quiet, the music and voices muffled to a dull hum.
“Yes, Rosslyn?”
Slim, fair, and elegant in a vaguely effeminate way, Rosslyn shook his head sympathetically. “I was sorry to hear of your misfortune.”
Given t
hat they were competing for the same post, Kit couldn’t help wondering if the man was sincere—but after all, they went back a long way. Oxford, of course, and before that, they’d both attended Westminster School. They’d never run in the same circles, since Kit was a King’s Scholar with his tuition paid by the Crown, while Rosslyn stuck to his wealthy crowd. But Kit had always got on well with everyone, and as it had become clear in the last few weeks that he and Rosslyn were the final candidates for Deputy Surveyor, he’d found himself a bit disconcerted to be competing for the post with a friend.
Not that that dimmed his determination to win. He’d been working toward this appointment all his life. Now he was so close.
He tried for a blithe smile. “What misfortune is that?”
“Your project here has suffered a setback, hasn’t it?”
Kit managed an unconcerned shrug. “Minor, I can assure you. I’ll finish within deadline as planned.”
“Excellent.” Rosslyn toyed with the ribbons that crowned his walking stick, his pale blue eyes speculative. “I must say I have mixed feelings about winning the Deputy Surveyor post over you. The last thing I need is more projects—I’m overwhelmed with commissions as it is.” One square-toed high-heeled shoe tapping, the earl eyed Kit’s plain suit with ill-concealed disdain. “And I certainly don’t need a knighthood.”
Apparently Rosslyn wasn’t feeling competitive, Kit thought with some relief. He grinned and held out a hand. “Well, then, for the sake of the kingdom, may the best man win.”
Rosslyn’s grip had always been of the limp variety, and this occasion was no exception. Kit knew he was the best man.
Now he just had to prove it.
Eight
AS THE EVENING wore on, Gabriel sought out Rose for a second dance and then a third. “People will talk,” she told him as he guided her toward the dance floor once again.
“Do you care?” he asked.
“Not at all, your grace.” Rose’s attention was drawn by a spectacle that was already becoming familiar: King Charles crossing the chamber followed by a bevy of yipping spaniels. Amused, she smiled as she saw him stop before a short woman and slide an arm around her possessively. “Who is that?” she asked.
The duke barely spared the couple a glance. “Have you never met Nell Gwyn?”
“Is that Nell Gwyn? Gemini!” Rose knew of the woman, of course; she doubted there was a soul in England who hadn’t heard of the brothel-born actress who’d stolen His Majesty’s heart. But she’d expected Nell to be exquisite.
Although the woman enthusiastically kissing Charles was pretty, Rose wouldn’t call her beautiful. Her small body was lushly curvy, her hair a riot of red-brown curls. Rose’s eyes widened as Charles worked his mistress toward a chair and tumbled her onto his lap. Over the music, Nell’s delighted laughter mixed with the ever-present yaps of the king’s dogs.
“I had no idea she was allowed at court,” Rose mused. “Has Charles granted her a title?”
“Of course not.” Gabriel maneuvered her around to where she couldn’t stare. “But Charles made their young son the Earl of Burford, and Nell herself was appointed Lady of the Queen’s Bedchamber these two years past.”
Rose blinked. “And what does our dear queen think of that?”
“I don’t expect our dear queen was given a say in the matter.” The duke raised a brow as he looked down at her. “Wives usually aren’t.”
“Not all wives,” she said archly. “I’ll have you know my family’s motto is Interroga Conformationem.”
“Question Convention?” he translated, looking amused.
Rose smiled, pleased. On top of everything else wonderful about him, the man knew Latin.
After a few more dances with men who failed to measure up to the duke, Rose sneaked off toward the ladies’ attiring room, hoping for a rest. As she approached the small chamber, Nell Gwyn’s distinctive laughter drifted out. “Aye, my ladies, the tale is true.”
“Tell us,” a feminine voice demanded.
“Yes, do tell!” came a veritable chorus.
Wondering just how many ladies were crowded into the attiring room, Rose stopped outside the door and listened.
“I took His Majesty to a bawdy house,” Nell confided, “and encouraged him to run up a bill treating everyone to drink. Incognito, of course—it wasn’t the type of place his cronies frequent, you understand.” That was met with titters of laughter. “By and by, I took him up to a room and got him undressed—then I ran away with his clothes.”
“You’re a bold one, Nelly Gywn,” someone chortled out. “What happened after that?”
“Well, the brothel owner didn’t believe this man wrapped in a sheet was her sovereign—you cannot blame the poor fool, can you? He carried no money, so to pay his debt and for something to wear, he offered an emerald ring as security. It was all he had on him, you see.”
“And fair enough,” a lady pointed out.
“Well, the proprietor refused, claiming it was paste for certain. Our dear king nearly burst a vessel, he did, when fortunately someone recognized him and convinced the owner as to his identity. So all was well.”
“He must have been furious,” someone breathed.
“You don’t know my Charles,” Nell declared. “Once it was over, he thought it a fine jest indeed!”
Hoots of laughter greeted Rose when she stepped into the room. “Good evening, ladies.”
Her smile faded as the chamber fell silent and, one by one, the women shouldered their way past her and out the door.
Finally only Nell was left. She shrugged and made her way to Rose. “Don’t pay them no mind, milady.” Like a man, she held out a hand. “I’m Eleanor Gywn, Nell to my friends.”
“I know.” Nell’s hand felt small and warm for the moment Rose held it. “I’m Rose Ashcroft.”
“Lady Rose Ashcroft, I’ve been told.” Nell’s twinkling eyes almost closed when she smiled. “They’re only jealous of your beauty. And afraid you’ll steal their men.”
“Gemini!” Rose exclaimed. “Most of them are married!”
“Ah, a babe in the woods.” Nell gave a kindly sigh. “Here at court, that makes no difference. The women consider all male courtiers fair game, and the men hunt amongst the women just as freely. Fidelity went out with Cromwell,” she concluded, then wiped her tongue and spit, having uttered the hated name.
Rose slanted her an assessing glance. “You don’t seem to worry that I’ll help myself to a courtier or two.”
Nell’s infectious laughter poured forth. “Bloody hell, sweetheart, what do I need with the pompous fools? I bed with the king. It doesn’t get any better than that!”
Rose wondered if by better Nell meant that he was a great lover. Or was it a simple reference to Charles’s exalted status?
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when another lady barged in, her milk-white complexion mottled with angry red. Giving Nell a glare that said she wished her dead, she plopped onto a green baize bench with her back to them both, her dark ringlets shaking with barely controlled fury.
Nell snorted, then sailed out the door with Rose in tow. “Don’t pay no mind to her, either,” she said, none too quietly.
Rose waited until they were out of earshot to ask, “Who is she?”
“The high and mighty Louise de Kéroualle.”
“The Duchess of Portsmouth?” Another of Charles’s mistresses—this one, Rose knew, not nearly as popular with the people. Of course, that was due to her Catholicism rather than any fault of her personality, which, after all, the populace could hardly be acquainted with.
Nell, on the other hand, had been known to proudly proclaim herself “the Protestant whore.”
“Squintabella is in a snit,” Nell said now, “because she arrived today after a long journey from Bath, but although Charles took dinner with her, he didn’t invite her to stay the night, preferring my bed instead.”
“Squintabella?” Rose echoed weakly, her head spinning with all this de
licious court gossip.
“Did you not notice the slight cast in the duchess’s eye? I was here at court before her, and I’ll be here long after she’s gone. She’s managed to send Barbara running across the Channel, but she won’t do away with me so easily.”
“Barbara has left England?” The news was a shock. Barbara was Charles’s longest-standing mistress, having accompanied him home for his Restoration.
“She’s on the outs now, thanks to Louise. Living in Paris. But she’ll return—she always does. And no matter what she’s done, Charles always forgives her.”
“You must find that maddening,” Rose said.
“Hell, no. She’s had him wrapped around her finger for seventeen years. I know better than to expect that to change now.” Nell laughed as she bussed Rose on both cheeks, sang “Good luck, dearie!” and flitted back into the drawing room.
No sooner had she left than Louise came out the door. “Enjoying court, Lady Rose?”
Still reeling, Rose turned to her in surprise. “Very much,” she told the gorgeous woman. Baby-faced with almond-shaped eyes, full red lips, and enough jewelry hanging all over her to stock a small shop, Louise made Rose feel plain in comparison.
But the duchess’s demeanor wasn’t so beautiful. “You’d do best,” she advised haughtily, “not to fraternize with such as she.”
“Could you mean Nell?” Bristling, Rose couldn’t help but notice that small squint Nell had mentioned. “Whyever not? Charles seems to think her good enough.”
“I cannot credit that he’s taken with such a coarse, common orange wench.” As a young girl, before she’d stepped on stage at the Theatre Royal, Nell had been employed there selling oranges. “She calls him her Charles the Third, you know.”
Rose could feel jealous venom spewing from this bitter woman. “Charles the Third?”
“Her earlier lovers included Charles Hart—a common actor—who then passed her to Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. She called him her Charles the Second, and now the king has become Charles the Third.”