by Lauren Royal
The drawings before him blurred.
He’d passed.
All was not lost.
When the double doors reopened, his heart seized as he wondered wildly whether the king had some complaint, after all. When two women entered instead, he sagged with relief. Then sat straight when he recognized them.
Rose and her mother, both dressed in bright, cheerful colors. Surely a sight for tired eyes.
“Oh!” Lady Trentingham exclaimed, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
He wouldn’t wager on that.
“I just wanted to show Rose this beautiful chamber,” she added.
Kit shut his book. “I was about to leave, anyway. It’s time I went home.”
“Home? Surely you’re not finished here. It looks wonderful, but—”
“It’s stunning, Mum! Even better than you described.” Rose gazed up at the ceiling. “Beauty and whimsy all rolled into one. I am not overly fond of the decoration here at Windsor. Overdone, if you ask me. But this room doesn’t take itself as seriously as the others.”
“Thank you,” Kit said. Relishing the admiration in her voice, he watched her wander the chamber, touching a carved panel, the white marble mantel, a bit of grooved wainscoting. Smiling, he turned to her mother. “The project is well in hand for the moment; I’m not abandoning it, I assure you. I live right here in Windsor. Not a ten minute walk.”
“Is that so? I imagine your home must be lovely.”
He knew a hint when he heard one. “Would you like to see it?”
“Mum, I don’t think—”
“We’d love to,” Lady Trentingham cut in. “Weren’t you just saying, dear, how tedious it is here in the daytime?”
Twelve
KIT LED THEM on the easy walk from the castle down the hill to the Thames. Rose decided it felt good to be out in the fresh air. And there truly was nothing to do at Windsor Castle in the daytime…with the exception of the palace staff, it seemed everyone was still abed, sleeping off the excesses of the night before.
When Rose had hit her pillow after midnight, court had still been in full swing. She would have to adjust her country hours and perhaps take a nap this evening before court got underway. They had just begun setting up gaming tables when she left. Although she’d never gambled, she imagined it was much fun. She wanted to see if she could win enough money for a new gown.
The steep, curved street followed the castle wall. Across the road, townspeople were going about their business, entering and exiting rows of gabled shops with living accommodations above. Women carried baskets over their arms, gathering purchases as children and dogs played tag in the cobbled street.
No dirt road here, in this bustling town where the king kept a household.
“Look,” she said as they reached the bottom of the hill. “A bookshop.”
“John Young, Bookseller,” Mum read off the old, cracked wooden sign.
Rose was always looking for new books to help practice her skills. “I wonder if they might have any books written in foreign languages.”
“They do,” Kit put in. “I found this there.” He raised the book tucked under his arm. “It’s Latin.”
“You read Latin?”
“Hell, no,” he said with a smile, not surprising her in the least. He hadn’t understood her family’s Latin motto, after all. “I bought it to examine the drawings.” He opened the book and held it up as they walked. “See? Classical architecture.”
“But there are words,” Mum pointed out. “Explanations.”
“True.” He sighed as he closed the cover. “I believe, actually, that this book is meant to teach one how to accurately draw buildings. But I enjoy studying the pictures.”
“Rose can read Latin,” Mum said.
Rose avoided her mother’s gaze, instead looking longingly inside the bookshop as they passed. “May we stop here on the way back, Mum?”
“Perhaps.”
“We can stop now, if you wish,” Kit offered, pleasantly surprising Rose. She thought fleetingly that were it the Duke of Bridgewater walking beside her, she wouldn’t have dared show an interest in books.
It was freeing to be with a man she didn’t care about.
“Later,” Mum said. “I’m anxious to see the house.”
At last they came to the end of the street. On the bucolic River Thames, swans glided majestically. Rose gazed across the Windsor Bridge toward the charming town of Eton. “Where do you live?” she asked Kit.
“Right here,” he said, gesturing toward an imposing redbrick house that sat beside the river.
No, not a house. A mansion.
She consciously closed her gaping jaw. “It looks like Rand’s house.”
Her mother smiled. “Rand’s house is white, not brick.”
“But the style in which it’s built…” Rose looked toward Kit, knowing he’d understand what she meant. “It looks nothing like Windsor’s dining room.”
“The dining room reflects Charles’s preferences, not my own.”
“I like yours much better,” she murmured as he led them under a small columned portico and into the house.
She paused on the threshold, admiring the clean, modern lines of the entry hall. The black marble floor was studded with small white marble diamonds. Smooth, pale stone walls were set off by classic dark oak molding. A high ceiling led to a corridor beyond, where Rose glimpsed a series of archways that vaguely reminded her of a vaulted cathedral.
As she’d said, it reminded her of the house Kit had built for Rand in Oxford. But better. Not to mention at least twice the size.
Kit Martyn was quite obviously a wealthy man.
“Mr. Martyn.” A butler dressed in dark blue rushed to meet him. “Welcome home.” His inquisitive pale blue gaze swept Rose and her mother. “Shall I have Mrs. Potts prepare dinner for three?”
“Thank you, Graves, but I don’t believe the ladies are staying long.”
“As you say, sir.” The butler took himself off.
“You wanted to see the house?” Kit asked, directing the question to Chrystabel.
“We’d love to,” she assured him.
He led them through to a drawing room, all white paneled walls with a gray marble fireplace. The furniture was upholstered but not fussy, the windows large and tall, allowing sunshine to flood the room.
“I prefer natural light to candlelight,” he told them. “Would you care to sit?”
“No,” Rose said. “Show us the rest, please.”
He shared a smile with her mother.
Rose’s favorite room on the ground floor was the dining room, a complete contrast to King Charles’s in its simplicity. Other than wide crown molding, the ceiling was smooth and white—at night it would reflect the light of the single carved oak chandelier that hovered over the round table. The walls were covered with dark oak paneling, rich and simple except for a few ornately carved sections above the fireplace.
“Sixteenth century, all of it.” Kit waved the book he still held, indicating the wood that graced the walls. “I rescued it from a house I renovated—the owner wanted something more extravagant.”
Rose turned in a slow circle. “Something more like Windsor Castle’s decorations?”
“Very much.”
“That owner has no taste,” she declared.
Kit grinned. “Would you like to see upstairs?”
A small, exquisite stained-glass window threw colored light onto the curving staircase. “Another item I rescued,” Kit said, waving the book at it, too.
The bedchambers weren’t simply sleeping rooms; they were suites—and there were many. His sister’s was peacock blue with a lovely canopied bed, a sitting room with a settle, a desk, and a marble fireplace, and a mirrored dressing room that made Rose fairly seethe with jealousy. This suite was also the only cluttered area in the house, with pretty little items decorating every flat surface. Rose wondered what his sister was like.
Kit’s chamber boa
sted more classic oak paneling, a red-draped half-tester bed, and a beautiful sitting room surpassed only by the luxurious dressing room. It had the biggest bathtub Rose had ever seen—not a tub that the servants had dragged upstairs, but a permanent one positioned before a fireplace.
Rose could imagine herself in that tub, not to mention that bed. She hoped the Duke of Bridgewater lived half as nicely. Many of the estates she’d visited were much too old and drafty, and she’d met quite a few men who seemed more than happy living with their grandmothers’ choices in decor.
When the Ashcrofts had seen and admired everything, Kit led them downstairs. “Ellen isn’t here,” he muttered darkly as though to himself. “Anywhere.”
“Ellen?” Rose asked.
“My sister,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Graves!” he called. The butler reappeared. “Will you send someone to the pawnshop to seek out Ellen? Should she be there, I wish to see her directly.”
“Of course, sir.” The butler went off, presumably to fetch and instruct a footman.
“Well.” Kit set the book on a small marble-topped table in the entry. “I hope you enjoyed the grand tour.”
“I did.” In truth, Rose was overwhelmed. She’d never imagined a commoner would own such a lovely home. And Kit not only owned it, he’d designed it. He was responsible for the pleasing proportions of each room, the tasteful wall and window treatments, the spare but perfect accessories.
All it needed, she thought absurdly, was flowers. Yes, beautiful arrangements of flowers would be the crowning touch. Her fingers itched to design them. She’d use silver vases in simple classic shapes to match the house.
Chrystabel lifted the book. “It’s a shame you cannot read this.”
“Languages.” Kit flashed a self-deprecating smile. “The one subject I failed in school.”
“Rose could read it to you. Couldn’t you, dear?”
Rose was still planning her flower arrangements. Red, she thought, would suit this entry perfectly. The black-and-white floor called for something bold.
“I desperately need to lie down, but why don’t you stay here and translate this book for Kit? I’m certain he can find someone to escort me home.”
“Stay here?” Rose echoed, wrested from her vision of the multicolored arrangement she’d create for the lovely dining room.
“It’s early still, and you have nothing else to do until court this evening. It would be a kindness.”
She collected her thoughts and considered. Not only was Mum right, she was known for being hospitable. While Rose herself was known, she knew, for being selfish. Inside, she’d never felt like the woman others seemed to perceive her, and if she wished to alter those perceptions, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to follow in her mother’s hospitable footsteps.
And truth be told, she’d enjoy the challenge of translating a book about architecture. Although she generally hid her linguistic talents from men, Kit was just her brother-in-law’s friend and—now that he was building the greenhouse—her father’s hireling. She didn’t care if he thought she was too intelligent, since she wasn’t interested in marrying him.
“Rose?” her mother queried.
“Very well.”
Kit’s eyes lit, suddenly looking more green than brown. “Graves! It seems we’ll be requiring dinner, after all.”
Thirteen
BEFORE ROSE could change her mind, her mother had departed, and she and Kit were in the beautiful paneled dining room, a lovely dinner of beef in claret and carrot pudding set before them.
To her surprise, she found Kit very good company.
“It’s odd,” she realized in the middle of their meal. “You’re quite easy to talk to.”
A forkful of carrot pudding halfway to his mouth, he laughed. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”
“Usually.” Unless she was with a man she thought of as husband material; then she had to watch her words. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case here. “Do you not find it odd at all? After all, we hardly know each other.”
“Perhaps we should get to know each other, then.” He sipped thoughtfully from a goblet of Madeira. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Red. Why?”
He met her eyes. “Color can say a lot about a person.”
“Oh, yes?” She took a swallow of the sweet wine. “What do you suppose red says about me?”
“I imagine that you’re decisive…and perhaps a bit daring.”
She liked that description. “What’s your favorite color?”
“The clear blue of a summer sky.”
“But your bedchamber is red,” she remembered.
“Red is also a color of power,” he said, leaving her to ponder the significance of that.
Was he powerful in the bedchamber? What exactly did that mean? She felt her pulse flutter a little as she contemplated—
“Do you prefer sweet or savory?” he asked, interrupting her musings.
“Pardon?” She blinked and swallowed.
“To eat. Sweetmeats or real meats, which is it?”
“Oh, sweets, most definitely,” she told him, relieved to be on a different subject. Enjoying this game, she eyed a cherry tart one of his serving maids had placed on the table. “But I’m not passionate about it.”
He raised a brow. “Passionate?”
Feeling herself blush, Rose was certain he’d taken her statement the wrong way. “Violet’s sister-in-law, Kendra—she’d have a wedge of that tart on her plate already. She always eats dessert first. In case she wouldn’t have room for it later.”
“Hmm. I appreciate a passionate woman.”
Her cheeks grew even hotter. “And you? Sweet or savory?”
“Give me a hunk of beef any day.” He speared a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth. “Which do you enjoy more, Christmas or your birthday?”
“My birthday. It’s mine alone.”
He sipped, looking amused. “But Christmas is a time for sharing.”
“Exactly.” Two could play this game. “What’s your favorite book?”
His eyes narrowed as he considered. “The Odyssey.”
“Homer’s Odyssey? In Greek?”
“Hell, no. George Chapman’s version.”
“Homer’s is more poetic.” She swallowed the last bite of the buttery carrot pudding. “Why do you like it?”
He set down his fork. “Odysseus faced terrible obstacles, but he persevered and triumphed in the end. I admire that sort of man, that sort of success.”
He sounded very serious. “He did it for love,” she reminded him.
“For his wife, Penelope, yes. She waited for him twenty years.”
Though Rose dreamed of such enduring love, she couldn’t imagine waiting twenty years for anything. “Penelope was more patient than I.”
He smiled. “What’s your favorite book?”
“Aristotle’s Master-piece,” she said without hesitation, even though it was a scandalous marriage manual. It seemed she could tell him anything. “I learned quite a bit from that book.”
“Did you?” That brow went up again, making her wonder if he knew what the book was about or if he assumed it was Aristotelian philosophy. But his thoughtful expression didn’t give him away. “Musically,” he asked, “do you prefer instrumentals or songs?”
“Songs. I love to sing.” To demonstrate, she trilled a few notes, then grinned when he smiled. “Do you sing?”
“Not where anyone can hear me.” Still smiling, he sat back and twirled his goblet between his palms.
“My turn,” she said, focusing on the pewter cup. “Red wine or white?”
“Red. Most definitely red. It’s richer, deeper, more complicated.” He fixed that wicked gaze on her. “And you? Red or white?”
“Champagne,” she said, feeling like she’d just sipped some.
“Rare and expensive. It fits.”
Her face heated again. “The bubbles tickle my senses.”
H
e opened his mouth to respond, but then apparently thought better of it. “Are you early to bed or late to rise?” he asked instead.
“Both,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But that’s about to change. Last night I was so early to bed, I have no idea what time the court festivities ended. Do you know, or did you seek your bed beforetime, too?”
“I never sought my bed at all. I had work that kept me there throughout the night.”
Her jaw dropped. “You haven’t slept?” She began to rise. “I must leave you to get some sleep, then. Although my mother’s heart was in the right place when she suggested I read to you, she was clearly unaware of the circumstances.”
He rose and helped her to stand, his hand warm on her arm through the thin silk of her purple gown. Her skin seemed to prickle underneath.
“I would have you stay and read,” he said. “If you’re finished with your dinner, we’ll adjourn to the drawing room.”
“But you must be exhausted—”
“Think of it as a bedtime story, then.” When she laughed, his eyes glittered green in response. “Honestly,” he added, “tonight will be soon enough for me to rest. I’m accustomed to keeping long hours when a project demands it.”
And that was just the point, wasn’t it? she thought as she let him guide her into the light-flooded drawing room. The people in her life had no demands that would keep them up all the night—or at least none they hadn’t put on themselves. She had nothing in common with this man.
But despite that—despite herself—she liked him. His ease, his self-confidence, his quick sense of humor. In fact, she liked him a little too much. She felt uneasy when he was too close.
When he fetched the book and sat beside her on the pale moss green settle, she briefly considered moving to a chair. But considering they needed to work from the same book, that would be silly—not to mention insulting.
She took the book from him. “‘Perspectiva Pictorum et Architectorum,’” she read aloud, “which means, ‘Perspective in Painting and Architecture’ by Andrea Pozzo.”