by Lauren Royal
Rose’s lips twitched.
“It’s not amusing,” Louise said with a sniff. “His Majesty deserves respect—not least from one such as her.”
Louise de Kéroualle, daughter of a Breton family of ancient and distinguished lineage, quite obviously considered herself much above Nell Gwyn. But Rose couldn’t help liking the “coarse orange wench” better. Louise was rumored to be a French spy, which Rose suddenly had little difficulty believing.
Pretty is as pretty does, her mother had always told her three girls. Rose was imagining Louise’s lovely face transforming into that of a hag when Gabriel appeared and laid a hand on her arm.
“Did you not promise me the next dance?” he asked, although she hadn’t. Before Rose could answer, he nodded toward Louise. “Your grace.”
The pale beauty nodded back, a smile curving those blood-red lips. “Your grace,” she echoed, her voice as sweet and smooth as honey.
The woman, Rose realized, was a natural-born predator. Although she knew tongues would wag when the duke led her off toward the dance floor yet again, she went more than willingly.
As she took her place across from him, her heart pounded with the thrill of it all. She’d always said it was as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, and the Duke of Bridgewater certainly had a title worth falling for.
The dance was a branle, and all the running, gliding, and skipping rendered her breathless. Or maybe it was the duke…she couldn’t be sure. She only knew that when he took her by the arm and drew her toward an exterior door, her heart gave a little lurch.
“We shouldn’t—” she started.
“Whyever not?” His smile looked innocent enough. “Aren’t you heated after that dance? I certainly feel overwarm…” One pale, arched brow rose, and his tone implied the heat resulted from more than just exertion.
Well, she shouldn’t refuse him, should she? After all, it was only a walk outside. She glanced toward her mother, but Chrystabel was engaged in conversation across the room. The men at court had wicked reputations, but if Mum were concerned, surely she’d be watching more closely.
In any case, it hardly mattered, since while Rose was dithering, the duke had managed to steer her from the room.
She’d never liked the dark, so she was relieved to see a few torches. It was a mild evening, but no one else seemed to be outdoors enjoying the favorable weather. “Should we be out here?” she asked nervously.
“It’s open to the public. Charles expanded this terrace recently, and he’s invited the townspeople to enjoy the views. Enormous as it is, it’s crowded as hell in the daytime.”
She’d bet it was—and for some reason, she found herself wishing all those people were here now. But when the duke took her hand and began walking, her fleeting unease was replaced by a sense of wonder. Her first time at court—how amazing that she should find such a perfect man so quickly! She should have come to court years earlier.
“How long have you been here at Windsor?” he asked.
“We just arrived today.”
“I guessed as much—or I would surely have spotted you before now.”
They fell quiet as Gabriel guided her toward the edge of the terrace and stopped by the rail. This castle, like most, was built on high land, and the terrace afforded magnificent views. Beneath the castle wall, parkland gave way to a few twinkling lights and the moon reflecting off the Thames in the distance. Stars winked in the heavens above.
“It’s a lovely night,” Rose said to fill the silence.
“Yes, it is.” He smiled down at her, his face lit by the moon. “And made more so with such lovely company.”
Rose liked what she was hearing.
Surely there was no reason to feel uneasy…
Nine
KIT HAD SIX men erecting scaffolding, two chipping off the ruined plaster, and another two hauling away the debris. At the same time, he had a team dispatched to London to fetch the quality materials that had been figured into his original specifications. With any luck, they’d return on the morrow, or at worst, the day after that.
Construction work generally halted at dusk. There were no chandeliers in the room as yet, so the men worked by the light of torches and candelabrum. If Kit could persuade the rest of his crew to remain on the job twenty-four hours a day, he would. But of course they were snug in their beds while he fretted. Artists, especially, were temperamental creatures.
“Careful!” he warned, one eye on the late-night crew while he reworked the schedule again in his head, planning contingencies in case the new materials arrived late. “We’re strapped for time, but I won’t have injuries. Or a fire.”
“Pardon me!” a musical voice exclaimed. He turned to see the swish of peach-colored skirts as Lady Trentingham swiveled away, narrowly missing being whacked in the head by three men carrying a beam. “I’ve apparently stumbled into the wrong room.”
Emerging from the shadows, Kit strode toward her, his footfalls muffled by the protective tarpaulins on the new oak flooring. “It’s perfectly all right, Lady Trentingham.” Taking her arm, he drew her over to a safe corner.
“Mr. Martyn!” she said warmly. “I was searching for my daughter—”
“Lady Rose? I thought I glimpsed her earlier. What a surprise to find you both here.”
She turned slowly, inspecting the chamber. “I’ve brought her to court to find a husband.”
He should have guessed. A woman as beautiful and bright as Rose would be snapped up here within days—if she wasn’t debauched first. Absurdly, disappointment tightened his chest as he watched Lady Trentingham scan the room and saw her pretty brown eyes—so like Rose’s—widen with appreciation.
“This ceiling is going to be exquisite,” she commented, gazing up at the half-painted details on the older portion of the room—the part that wasn’t ruined. “A banquet of the gods, am I right? Fish and fowl…and look, a lobster! How very charming.”
“I’m pleased you think so. I envisioned it both exquisite and somewhat amusing.” He hoped the king would be even half as impressed as she. “I hired Antonio Verrio to paint it. You may have heard of him?”
“Heavens, yes. The Duke of Montagu brought him from Paris, didn’t he? I arranged his marriage. The duke’s, not the artist’s.” She ran a hand down the intricate oak carving on the wall beside her, a melange of fruit and vegetables. “And who is responsible for this?”
“Grinling Gibbons, assisted by Henry Phillips.”
She nodded approvingly, still looking around. “The cornice is his work as well, if I’m not mistaken. Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. Martyn?”
He blinked at the rapid change of subject. Not to mention the subject itself. “Lady Rose is indeed interesting,” he replied cautiously. “And please, call me Kit.”
“Kit.” She dropped her gaze to meet his. “That isn’t the sort of interest I was enquiring about, and”—a small smile curved her lips—“I suspect you know it. Do you want Rose?”
He wished there were furniture in the unfinished room, so he could sit down. “Do I want…”
“I don’t mean in a carnal sense,” she clarified, then her eyes twinkled. “Well, of course that’s part of it…but do you want her as a wife?”
“A wife?” Furniture or no, if this line of questioning continued, he was going to have to sit. The floor was looking mighty tempting. His knees felt weaker than the plaster that was crumbling overhead.
And he hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of reply Lady Trentingham was seeking. He rubbed the back of his neck.
Do you want her as a wife?
Only in his most ludicrous dreams.
If he answered yes, would Lady Trentingham berate him for aspiring far above his station? If he answered no, would she take offense on her daughter’s behalf?
Thankfully, she saved him from answering at all. “You would make me a fine son-in-law, but if you wish for that to happen, you’d do best to hide my approval from my daughter.”
<
br /> Kit could hardly believe his ears. Elation sang through his veins, tempered by a rush of confusion. “I…” He paused for a deep breath. “Doesn’t it bother you that I’m not of noble birth?”
Lady Trentingham graced him with a soft smile. “I know a good man when I see one, and a title rarely has much to do with it. In my opinion, that is. I wish I could say my Rose felt the same way.” Her voice was laden with warning. “If you wish to pursue her, I’m afraid you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
He wondered if he was up to the task. But with the approval of Rose’s mother, he was damn well willing to try. “She told me she’s allowed to choose her own husband.”
“Yes, she is. And furthermore, she’s determined not to wed anyone of my choosing. I’m rather known as a matchmaker,” she added, but it wasn’t a boast, rather an honest nugget of information. “Like my other daughters, she wants no part of any marriage I arrange.”
“I see.”
She cracked a smile. “Nevertheless—and unbeknownst to my children—I chose both Violet’s and Lily’s husbands. And I aim to make it three for three. How’s that for an impressive accounting?”
“My lady, I wish you every success in attaining that goal.” He’d never spoken more earnest words, since her success would mean his as well.
“I’m pleased to hear you agree. One more thing.” She placed her hand on his arm, commanding his gaze. “My daughter is an innocent…and I expect her to remain one until the day she’s wed. I’m well aware of the goings-on here at court—”
“I’m no courtier,” he rushed to assure her. He waved an arm, encompassing the half-finished chamber. “I’m only the hired help.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She smoothed down her skirt. “Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who is a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I persuade you to accompany me in my search?”
Ten
AS ROSE AND Gabriel walked, she found herself mentally bouncing back and forth between trying to be her most charming and marveling that the Duke of Bridgewater was choosing to spend so much time with her. As a result, she feared their conversation had been a bit stilted.
But that was only to be expected, wasn’t it? After all, they hardly knew each other. Still, her family had always been rather vocal, discussing anything and everything with great enthusiasm, so the awkward silences made her uncomfortable.
“What do you think,” she asked after a particularly long gap in their dialogue, “of the maritime agreement we’ve just signed with France?”
“Maritime agreement?” The duke’s perfect brow creased in puzzlement.
Did people not discuss these matters at court? Didn’t he read The London Gazette? She plucked a yellow bloom off a potted hollyhock plant. “English ships will now be permitted to carry Dutch cargoes without fear of French interference.”
A little chuckle burst from his lips. “What would a woman know about that?”
She forced a laugh in return. “Oh, just something I heard,” she said and cursed herself silently.
Though she wasn’t a student of history or prone to philosophical musings, she’d always been interested in what currently went on in the world. But how could she have forgotten her own rule to dazzle men without revealing her intelligence?
She sniffed the flower daintily. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what the agreement might mean to us here in England.” When he gave her a blank look, she worried that he might no longer like her. “The significance of such an action escapes me,” she lied in a desperate effort to redeem herself.
“That’s quite all right, my dear.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
Did he still like her, then? she wondered.
But then he drew her between a turret and a potted tree, and she knew.
He still liked her.
In fact, he was going to kiss her.
She could tell when a man was aiming to kiss her. After all, it had happened before. In truth, she’d lost count of the number of men who’d contrived to press their lips to hers. She supposed it wasn’t surprising, given she was comely and not nearly as proper as her sisters. And they were only kisses, for heaven’s sake—it wasn’t as though she allowed men to take further liberties.
So she’d been kissed before, and she knew what to expect. But she had a sad secret.
She didn’t much care for kissing.
“Gabriel,” she whispered when he turned her to face him. “May I call you Gabriel?”
“But of course, sweet Rose.” His voice had deepened, and he raised a hand and skimmed her cheek. Then it curled around the back of her neck as he drew her closer, and before she could say anything further—before she could attempt to slow him down, to possibly suggest they get to know each other better before sharing this intimacy—he lowered his head.
His other arm went around her, and his hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against his body. As the flower dropped from her fingers, his mouth crushed down on hers.
She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips coaxed hers open, and his tongue pushed into her mouth, wet and frantic. Just like she’d expected, she thought with a mental groan. Most men seemed to prefer this kind of kiss, and the duke was apparently no exception.
Gabriel let out an amorous little moan and shifted her in his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Faced with such honest passion, she tried to relax and participate, tried to learn to enjoy this kiss. But try as she might, it didn’t feel as wondrous as it was supposed to. In fact, it didn’t feel like much at all beyond a messy mashing of mouths.
She was relieved when he pulled away—and even more relieved when her mother’s distinctive soft laughter floated to her on the night air.
She turned and stepped back onto the terrace. “Mum! And…you,” she added rather ungraciously as her gaze shifted to her mother’s right.
There stood Kit Martyn, looking impossibly handsome. A commoner had no right to look so good. She felt those champagne bubbles again, and she hadn’t even been drinking spirits.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him.
“Building a new dining room for the king. What have you been doing here?” he asked in a way that made it clear he thought he knew.
Rose felt herself turning red. For once, she appreciated the dark.
“She’s with me,” the duke said, sounding rather possessive. “Though what business is it of yours, I wonder?”
Picturing these two in a fistfight, Rose feared Kit might win. “Your grace,” she said quickly, “may I present Mr. Christopher Martyn. Kit, the Duke of Bridgewater.” She looked up at Gabriel. “He’s a friend of the family,” she added, feeling it necessary to explain.
“And I asked Kit to help me search for you,” her mother put in. “I felt it unsafe, as a woman, to be out in the dark alone.”
“Indeed, it wouldn’t have been wise.” Kit held Gabriel’s gaze until the man looked away. “I’m glad to have been of service, but I must be off. I’ve much to accomplish before tomorrow. Lady Trentingham, Lady Rose.” He nodded toward them both, then addressed the duke with an elegant bow. “Your grace.”
Slightly disconcerted, Rose watched him walk away.
“We should return as well,” her mother told her. “I’m grateful to have found you in such safe hands.”
If Chrystabel’s voice held a bit of warning, Rose chose to ignore it.
On their way back to the drawing room, she smiled up at Gabriel. She’d liked the way he’d made it clear she was there with him. He truly was perfect.
It wasn’t his fault she didn’t enjoy his kisses.
She’d listened, jealous beyond belief, while her sisters rhapsodized about the sensual kisses they enjoyed with the men who were now their husbands. But kisses had never been like that for her. In all honesty, she found them more than a mite disgusting.
Of course, she’d never told her sisters t
hat, so she sometimes wondered if they, too, were hiding their distaste. But she thought not. Both her sisters were honest to a fault. How they could enjoy men mauling their mouths was beyond her, but apparently they did.
Though she wished it could be the same for her, experience had convinced her otherwise. She could only hope that the rest of what happened between men and women wasn’t nearly as repugnant.
Eleven
“I’M PLEASED.” King Charles nodded thoughtfully, his dark eyes skimming the dining room again with approval. “And I’m satisfied with your explanation, Mr. Martyn. Do be certain, however, to complete this project per schedule.”
“I can assure Your Majesty that will not prove a problem.” Kit walked with Charles toward the double doors and threw them wide. “I thank you for taking the time to visit.”
Kit smiled as he watched the king make his way through the vestibule, several of the man’s ever-present spaniels yipping after him. After pulling the doors shut, he unfolded some tarpaulins and laid them near the side of the chamber that was supported by scaffolding. Then he strode through a door at the other end, along a corridor, and into Brick Court. “Come along, now! Beams, lumber—move!”
Dazed, he stepped aside to let the workmen through with the first of the new materials he’d ordered.
If it wouldn’t be such a bad example, he’d slump against the wall.
He’d passed.
He wandered back along the corridor and into the dining room, keeping out of his crew’s way. He’d been up all night—supervising, reevaluating, working with his own hands—while his men secured the damaged area and hauled away all evidence of the mishap. He’d attached countless strips of decorative molding, polished all the oak paneling, stripped off the tarpaulins and polished the new floor, too. All in hopes of charming the king’s eye.
He’d passed.
Dropping onto a fresh stack of wood and using it as a chair, he flipped blindly through a book of architectural renderings. He should go home; he was exhausted and needed to check in with his sister. Ellen had a habit of finding trouble when he wasn’t around.