by Lauren Royal
He sounded sincere, and she couldn’t help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller—not to mention the highest ranked.
There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.
It was worth a try, she decided as he drew her out to the blasted terrace.
She was getting nowhere in her search.
Twenty
“BURNING THE midnight oil, eh, Martyn?”
Working in the blaze of torches and candelabrum for the second night in a row, Kit looked up from his plans to see the Earl of Rosslyn. He offered his old friend a wry smile. “Oil lamps are a bit dim for my purpose, but you’ve got the gist of it, yes.”
Rosslyn paced the chamber with an elegant swagger, his tall walking stick clicking as he went. He paused, watching men and supplies go in and out of the two sizable holes cut in the ceiling that gave access to the area above, where Kit’s crew was busy reinforcing the structure. “It’s coming along nicely.”
“Thank you.” While unsurprised that his rival should check on his progress, Kit was pleased with the man’s pleasant tone. “And your own projects?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” Rosslyn pulled a tortoiseshell snuffbox from his pocket. “You’ve done an excellent job recovering here, Martyn. But then, you always were up to the task, weren’t you?”
Kit could remember a few occasions, back in their school days, when Rosslyn hadn’t been up to the task. But then, he’d had no compelling reason to excel, as Kit had. The secure life of a peer had been awaiting him.
“What made you become an architect?” Kit asked. Surely an earl didn’t need a profession.
Having partaken of a pinch of snuff, Rosslyn sneezed. “Monuments.”
“Monuments?”
“I wish to leave something behind. Something so men will say there went Gaylord, the Earl of Rosslyn.”
The man wasn’t as shallow as Kit had thought. “Your theater in London is a masterpiece,” he conceded.
“I rather prefer my last church. But I thank you.” Rosslyn tucked the snuffbox back into his pocket. “Well, the ladies are waiting. I shall leave you to it.” He turned on a high heel and swaggered toward the door, letting loose another sneeze followed by an “Oof!”
“Pardon me!” Lady Trentingham exclaimed.
“My apologies, my lady.” Holding his walking stick in a wide stance, Rosslyn swept her a deep bow. “I was just leaving.”
She turned and watched the man mince away.
“Lady Trentingham,” Kit called over the bangs and scrapes of construction.
Rose’s mother looked over and smiled. “Good evening,” she greeted him, her own voice carrying well. He supposed that came of dealing with her half-deaf husband. She walked farther into the dining room, lifting the hem of her gown to step over a few boards and skirt her way around a sawhorse. “My, that scaffolding went up quickly.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he told her, shooting a glance to his crew. “I long ago learned that my presence makes all the difference.” He rolled up the plans. “Can I help you with something?”
She met his gaze, her own forthright. “I’m wondering what happened this afternoon with my daughter.”
Kit slanted a look at Ellen. She’d stopped sulking and had her nose buried in her book. He would have to take a look and see what she was finding so fascinating.
In the meantime, though, he’d rather not have her hear his answer to Lady Trentingham’s question. In fact, he was damned uncomfortable at the thought of answering the question at all. No matter that she’d encouraged his suit, the Countess of Trentingham was unlikely to approve of Mr. Christopher Martyn kissing her high-born daughter before there was a formal commitment.
He supposed there was nothing for it, but he wouldn’t humiliate himself in front of his sister. “Would you mind stepping out onto the terrace?” he asked Rose’s mother. “I feel the need for some fresh air.”
The pounding of hammers and scraping of saws receded as they exited the room, leaving a pleasant quietness in their wake. The terrace was deserted, and for a minute or so, Kit procrastinated, listening to the tandem sounds of their footsteps, the thud of his heavy boots and the click of her feminine heels.
“I know you told me Rose is innocent,” he began at last. “But—”
Her laughter was startling. “So you kissed her, hmm? Good for you. I suspected as much when she came in babbling about what an excellent idea it is for a woman to kiss a man before she marries him.”
“Before she marries him?” he echoed. His heart suddenly threatened to beat its way out of his chest. He and Rose had enjoyed a nice afternoon, and an incredible kiss, but surely she wouldn’t be swayed that easily. “She cannot be thinking to marry me,” he said, hoping against hope he was wrong.
“Oh, no. Not yet, anyway. At the moment, she seems to be looking for another man with your skill. Interviewing them, you might say.”
Now his heart threatened to stop. “She’s kissing other men?”
“Not very successfully, from what I can tell. And unfortunately, she seems to be acquiring quite a reputation. As a mother, I’m a mite concerned about that. I’m considering leaving tomorrow; I believe Rose could benefit from a short break from court.”
Kit’s head was spinning. Though he knew full well he had no right to be vexed at Rose for kissing other men, he couldn’t control his gut reaction.
His gut didn’t like it.
And if Lady Trentingham wasn’t angry he’d kissed her daughter, what did she want with him?
He slid a hand into his pocket. “Charles is leaving Windsor anyway, and everyone else will follow him, of course. To Hampton Court.”
“A perfect excuse, then, should I decide to take our leave.” She walked to the edge of the terrace and gazed over the half wall at the darkened Thames Valley. “As for Rose being innocent…”
He came up beside her. “Yes?”
“Well, for the record, my daughter may tell you that I heartily approve of kissing.”
He blinked. “You heartily approve?”
“Yes, of kissing and—in your case—most anything else it takes to convince Rose you’re the only man for her.” She paused—for effect, he suspected. “Do you understand?”
His fingers gripped the top of the wall so tightly that stone scraped flesh. Thank heavens she was still looking at the landscape. “You cannot mean…”
He couldn’t say more. He stared straight ahead.
“Nothing that would get her with child,” she said, “and that’s an absolute.”
“Of course,” he choked out. Lord Almighty. Could she be telling him to do what he thought she was?
When her laughter pierced the night again, he turned his head to find her looking right at him. “You’ve gone white,” she said. “I can tell even by this dismal torchlight. Surely that’s not such a daunting task? Or an unpleasant one?”
Any words he might manage to come up with remained stubbornly stuck in his throat. She was Rose’s mother. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that seducing her daughter would certainly be pleasant, indeed.
When she laid a hand on his arm, the gesture eased some of the shock. “As my husband is fond of reminding me,” she said softly, “I wasn’t a nun before we wed. I don’t expect my daughter to remain one, either. But I won’t have her risking a child out of wedlock, and the decision of whom she will marry will be hers in the end.”
He would never—never—have considered telling a man to seduce his sister, to any extent whatsoever. Not even a fine nobleman he hoped she would marry. In fact, short of marriage, he would tell any man to keep his hands the hell to himself.
But Rose’s mother must know her very well.
“She’ll be in good hands,” he finally managed to say.
She squeezed his arm before releasing it. “I’m counting on that.”
Twenty-One
EVEN THE KING had tried to steal a kiss!
As Charles and Rose had ended a minuet, he’d murmured his intentions in a low, velvet-edged voice and leaned close, apparently unconcerned that anyone might be watching. Right then, Gabriel had walked up to claim she’d promised him the next dance, which had been lucky for Rose, because she had no idea how to gracefully turn down the king.
And she had no intention of kissing even one more man tonight.
A good loser, Charles had gone away happily enough, smiling when he spotted Nell Gwyn sashay into the chamber.
Now, as Rose and Gabriel performed the complicated steps of the galliard, she was aware of all the gazes on the two of them. Jealous gazes. The women were jealous because she’d captivated the most coveted bachelor at court. The men were jealous because he’d made his intentions crystal clear—and one didn’t elbow aside a duke.
All the attention was positively heady, and part of Rose was thrilled beyond belief. A duke, and such a handsome one at that!
The only catch was his kisses.
She’d allowed four more, trying vainly to coax him to change his style. When that hadn’t worked, she’d tried—really tried—to learn to enjoy his technique. Because, truth be told, she couldn’t imagine why she didn’t. It seemed to her that his kiss wasn’t actually all that different from Kit’s.
Some of the men had been positively boorish in their approach, but Gabriel didn’t fit in that category. His kisses weren’t too terribly slobbery, his breath was fresh, and he had the manner of a gentleman, if an impassioned one. So she couldn’t put her finger on what Kit had done specifically that made his kiss magic while Gabriel’s had no effect on her at all.
Or at least not the desired effect.
Perhaps she would have to allow Kit another kiss, in order to discern the difference. Once she figured that out, it should be a simple matter to explain to the duke what she wanted. Practice, after all, should make perfect.
If only the practice weren’t so tedious.
“Thank you, your grace,” she said kindly when the dance came to an end. She loved calling him your grace, not to mention imagining being called your grace herself. She noticed the musicians set down their instruments. “Is the dancing over so early?” she asked with a frown.
“Only temporarily.” Gabriel gestured to another corner of the room. “I believe Nell is about to grace us with an entertainment.”
Chairs had been arranged to leave the corner open as a stage of sorts. Rose and the duke drifted closer as the performance began, a clever comedy mocking court life and filled with bits of song and dance. It seemed Nell had brought friends, for other actors and actresses took the makeshift stage along with her. When the brief play ended, the chamber burst into applause, the king’s the loudest of all.
“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed, the remnants of laughter still on his face. “Extraordinary!”
Laughing herself, Nell swept him an exaggerated bow. “Then, sir, to show you don’t speak like a courtier, I hope you’ll make the performers a handsome present.”
Charles made a great show of patting his velvet clothing. “I have no money about me.” He turned to his brother, the Duke of York. “Have you any coin, my dear James?”
His eyes dancing, the duke shrugged. “I believe, sir, not above a guinea or two.”
Laughing harder, Nell turned in a circle, her arms outstretched. “Od’s fish,” she cried, borrowing the king’s favorite oath, “what company have I got into?”
Rose laughed along with everyone else. With her robust sense of humor, Nell was truly delightful.
Gabriel tucked a hand beneath her elbow. “Shall we adjourn to the North Terrace?” he asked politely.
Not again. Her high spirits quickly faded. “I think not. I feel, um, a bit peaked. I should like to find my mother and see if she’s ready to leave.”
“Already? The gaming hasn’t even started.”
And she’d wanted to try that. But not as much as she wanted to escape now. Somewhere—anywhere—where she could find some peace and think about all that had happened this day.
“I believe I saw my mother head in that direction,” she said, indicating the portion of the castle that was under construction—an area she suspected the fastidious duke would have no wish to enter. “I thank you for the dances.”
Without looking back, she hurried away, hoping he wouldn’t follow and heaving a sigh of relief when she made it into the unfinished vestibule without hearing any footsteps behind her. Thinking to hide herself even better, she slipped into the half-built dining room and sagged against an exquisitely carved wall.
This late at night, she’d expected the room to be deserted, but it wasn’t. Across the chamber, Kit and Ellen were having words again.
Did the man never sleep?
“Let me see it,” he said, reaching toward his sister. “Why should it be a secret?”
“It’s mine,” Ellen shot back, clutching a book to her chest. “Why do you have to stick your nose into everything that’s mine?”
Dazed, Rose just watched. It struck her that in his fine but plain suit, with his gleaming black hair free instead of tucked beneath a wig, Kit looked anything but aristocratic. His skin was browned from working outdoors, and he carried his lean, rangy body with easy authority, not the controlled movements necessary to carry off the weight of layers of heavy fabric and ribbons.
In an odd way, she found the lack of fussiness appealing. But she wanted an aristocratic husband.
It was a good thing he was just a friend.
“Rose!” Ellen exclaimed, spotting her and abandoning Kit to hurry over. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”
“Were you?” Rose asked.
“I brought a book I’d like you to translate.”
“Did you?” Her gaze still fastened on Kit, Rose seemed to be reduced to two-word responses.
“Will you try?” Grabbing Rose by the arm, Ellen pulled her down the length of the chamber. “I’m dying to find some fresh air—this place is filled with sawdust.”
Before Rose could protest, Ellen had propelled her out a door at the end of the chamber. As it shut behind them, Rose sneaked another glance at Kit. The last she saw of him was those wicked green-brown eyes.
It should be a crime for a commoner to be so attractive.
Twenty-Two
ELLEN LED ROSE down a long back corridor, around a corner, and out into a small brick courtyard. Unlike Horn Court with its uniformed guards and staircase to the king’s chambers, this area was lit by a single torch and held nothing but stacks of building supplies and a weathered wooden table with two chairs. Rose gratefully dropped onto one of them, amused to hear assorted bangs, scrapes, and curses coming from the building to her right.
“We’re nearly back where we started, aren’t we?”
Ellen took the second chair. “The dining room is on the other side of that new wall, yes.”
Despite the sounds of construction, the courtyard seemed private enough. “So…why wouldn’t you show Kit the book?”
“He wouldn’t like it. I fear he’d make certain I never saw Thomas again.”
“Oh?” Though Rose felt drained, her curiosity was stronger. “May I see it?”
“In a minute.” Ellen laid the book on the table and ran a finger over the gold lettering that gleamed in the torchlight. “Kit drew a picture of you.”
“I know. I saw it. It was very well done. I had no idea he was an artist.”
“He’s not. Or not anymore. He used to draw all the time, and paint, too.” Ellen’s voice was so melancholy, Rose’s throat tightened just hearing it. “Da used to bring extra wood home from his work—he’d spend hours sanding it smooth and cutting it to size so Kit could paint on it. And Mama would bring home leftover paints. The lady she worked for painted landscapes as a hobby.”
“They sound like they were very devoted parents.”
Ellen nodded, still absently tracing
the gilt title. “They were. But Kit hasn’t painted since they died. Not anything. He says he’s too busy, but I’m not sure I believe him.”
“He does seem very busy,” Rose said gently.
Ellen’s eyes, so like Kit’s, went from sad to furious in a heartbeat. Brown to green. “All he wants to do,” she said between gritted teeth, “is make money and add it to my dowry. He thinks he can buy me a titled husband. I don’t want a titled husband. I want Thomas.”
Rose had never been afraid to ask questions when she wanted answers. “How much is your dowry?”
“He adds to it constantly. Half of every penny that comes his way. Last I heard, it was up to eleven thousand.”
“Pounds?”
“Pounds.”
“Gemini,” Rose breathed, stunned. “Mine is only three thousand.” Hardly a pittance—three thousand pounds was ten years’ income for a gentleman. “I have another ten from my grandfather, but that money is mine to control.”
Ellen pushed back her unruly dark hair. “Kit doesn’t let me control anything.”
“He just wants what’s best for you.” Rose was sure of it. She was also sure Kit was going about it in a typical male, pigheaded way, but she wouldn’t say that, at least not now. “He took responsibility for you so young,” she said instead. “Only sixteen, wasn’t he?”
“And I was six.”
“Well, then, of course he couldn’t let you make your own decisions.”
“But I’m older now. Why can’t he see that I’ve grown up? I hate being at odds with him. I hate the harsh words. I love him—but I love Thomas, too.” Ellen fought to hold back tears. “Will you help me persuade him?”
“Me?” Rose blinked. “Why should Kit listen to me?”
“He drew you,” Ellen reminded her. “He hasn’t drawn anything but buildings in twelve long years.”
And he’d kissed her, too, but Rose wouldn’t be telling Ellen that. “I suppose I can try,” she promised her. “But I’m not at all sure I can make any difference.”