by Lauren Royal
Pigheaded. That was Kit. But Rose also thought he was right—at least where Thomas was concerned.
A pawnbroker, for heaven’s sake!
“Do you know, Ellen,” she ventured carefully, “it might be a good idea for you to kiss Thomas before you decide you want to marry him.”
“Kiss him?” Dashing away the tears, Ellen burst out laughing. “Mercy me, that’s precious.”
For a moment Rose was confused, but then she just felt like a fool. Of course Ellen had kissed her love. The girl was eighteen, and Rose had contrived to be kissed long before that.
She just hadn’t enjoyed it.
“Show me the book,” she said.
Sobering, Ellen pushed it slowly across the table. “I’d like to read it together with Thomas,” she said, for the first time sounding a bit shy. “But it’s not English.”
“Yes, you said so.” Rose looked at the title. “‘I Sonetti Lussuriosi di Pietro Aretino,’” she read aloud. “It’s Italian.”
“Ah. I was wondering.” Ellen scooted closer. “What does it mean?”
“It’s authored by a man named Pietro Aretino, and it’s called The Licentious Sonnets,” Rose translated with some relish. This sounded good, maybe as good as Aristotle’s Master-piece. She flipped open the book—and stared.
There, above the first sonnet, was an engraving of two people.
Naked people. On a bed.
She leaned forward to study it closer, wishing for more than the flickering torchlight. The man and woman were embracing, both lying on their sides, their legs entwined. Most of the woman’s body was artfully hidden behind the man, but the man’s bare bottom was there for the world to see in all its well-muscled glory.
So this was how people made love! Gemini. This was even better than the Master-piece. Much more instructive—the pictures made all the difference.
A small smile flirted on Ellen’s mouth as she gazed at the picture, too. “He’s a fine specimen of a man, isn’t he?” she asked conspiratorially.
Rose wouldn’t know—she didn’t have anything to compare him with. But Ellen obviously did…
Suddenly, instead of feeling like the older, wiser woman of twenty-one compared to Ellen’s eighteen, Rose felt about five years old.
Ellen wanted this book translated. Ellen wanted to read it with her love.
No, her lover.
“No wonder you laughed when I counseled you to kiss Thomas!”
Ellen didn’t even blush. “We’re in love,” she said in an impassioned tone, as though that explained everything.
And maybe it did.
“What does the sonnet say?” Ellen asked.
“‘Fottiamci anima mia, fottiamci presto; Poi che tutti per fotter nati siamo.’ Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love.” She looked up. “That’s nice, don’t you think?”
Ellen looked disappointed. “I thought it would be…you know, more racy, to match the pictures.”
“The picture isn’t all that racy.” Now that she’d recovered from the shock of seeing naked people on the page, Rose decided the engraving was rather pleasing. “It’s tasteful enough, all considered.” She turned the page. “Oh…”
Not quite so tasteful, the woman was now on her back, half reclined against the headboard, while the man knelt between her spread knees, his body meeting hers in exactly the right place.
“Oh,” she said again.
“Look at the next one.” Ellen reached to flip the page.
“Oh!” Rose tilted her head, then turned the book sideways. There seemed to be so many arms and legs, she really couldn’t tell what was going on.
Could people actually do that? She’d never imagined—
“And the one after that.”
In Posizione Quattro, Position Four, the woman and man were both seated, facing each other, she on the edge of a bed and he on a chair pulled close. Gazing at the picture, Rose felt a wave of heat ripple through her. The woman’s legs were spread wide. The man was touching her there. And the woman was touching his…yard, Aristotle’s Master-piece had called it.
Rose hadn’t heard the term yard before reading the Master-piece, but she guessed Ellen would already know that word—and probably more. Although Rose considered herself educated, she now realized the Master-piece had only explained how everything worked in clinical terms. The actual process of making love had remained somewhat of a mystery.
Until now.
A strange ache spread low in her middle as she tried to imagine herself as the woman in the engravings. The only problem was she couldn’t envision doing any of those things with anyone she’d ever met…except Kit.
That odd ache intensified, and she shut the book.
After taking a moment to collect herself, she drew a shaky breath. “Where did you get this?” she asked Ellen.
“I found it in Thomas’s shop.”
“Someone pawned this book?”
“People pawn everything. Jewels and pottery and pistols and swords…it’s like a treasure trove, I’m telling you. My favorite place in the world. You should pay a visit, Rose. The shop is right on the High Street.”
Rose had never thought she’d like a pawnshop—they were seedy places, from what she’d heard. Disreputable, along with their owners. “Does Thomas have other foreign books?”
“Not like this one.” Ellen laughed. “But yes, I’ve noticed other books that aren’t in English. This book was part of a whole library someone pawned; I don’t think Thomas ever looked through the titles to see what he had. He seemed surprised when I showed it to him.”
“I’ll bet he did.” Rose couldn’t imagine sharing this book with a man. Or rather, she could, but only one certain man—and she didn’t want to think about that.
“Can you translate the rest of the first poem?” Ellen asked.
Rose slowly reopened the book, grateful that the words, at least, didn’t seem disturbing. She would read those and try not to look at the pictures.
“Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love. And if you adore my…yard…”
Ellen nodded. She did know that word.
“…then I will love your…your…seat of womanly pleasure. Good God.” Rose felt her cheeks heat; in fact, she couldn’t remember blushing so much in her whole life as she’d done since coming to court. “This isn’t sounding at all sonnetlike, is it? I’ve never before attempted to translate a sonnet.”
“It’s fine,” Ellen assured her. “I am sure Thomas will enjoy hearing this.” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “I’ll never remember it, though. Let me try to find quill and paper so I can write it all down.”
Rose wasn’t at all certain she felt up to translating these sonnets aloud in a courtyard in the middle of Windsor Castle. Especially with Kit somewhere on the other side of that wall. For all she knew, he could be heading here to fetch nails or a beam any minute.
She’d never considered herself a prude, but a lady had her limits.
“Never mind,” she said when Ellen stood. “I shall take the book back to my apartments and write down the translations myself. That way I’ll be able to think about the wording. Perhaps I can make it more sonnetlike.”
“Oh, that’s a very kind offer. But don’t trouble yourself to work on the wording overmuch. Thomas is no devotee of sonnets.”
Rose was looking forward to meeting this Thomas. She couldn’t imagine he was a very refined man, but Ellen certainly didn’t seem to mind.
“When will you bring me the words?” Ellen asked. “Tomorrow morning, at the pawnshop?”
“It’s past midnight already.” Rose stood with a yawn. “How many sonnets are there?”
“Sixteen.”
All those engravings to study. She had a lot to learn…and that odd heat was building again already, just thinking about it. “I could translate one by the morning.” It was late, not to mention she’d like to keep this book for a while. “Will Kit allow you to go to the pawn
shop?”
“He has to sleep sometime,” Ellen said with a mischievous smile. “And I imagine once he allows himself to succumb, he’ll sleep like the dead. I should be able to sneak out easily enough. When he wakes, though, he’ll surely come for me and drag me back here while he works all the day.”
“And half the night,” Rose agreed.
Kit was the hardest working man she’d ever met.
“Probably.” Ellen sighed. “Will you visit the pawnshop tomorrow, then? In the morning?”
“I’ll come,” Rose promised. She grabbed the book, and the two of them returned to the dining room.
Kit was up on a ladder inspecting something or other. He’d removed his surcoat and wore only shirtsleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. His forearms were muscular and sprinkled with crisp black hair.
The blasted man looked better than ever.
“Did you two have a nice visit?” he asked. As he climbed down the ladder, Rose saw muscles rippling under his thin white cambric shirt, too. She hadn’t sipped any champagne tonight, but her stomach seemed to think she had, anyway.
“Very,” Ellen said, but Rose couldn’t remember what the girl was responding to. She was thinking Kit must carry big beams all the day to have developed so many muscles. And she was thinking about how she’d decided to let him kiss her again, to find out what he did differently from Gabriel.
And she was thinking about the pictures in the book.
Oh, this wasn’t good at all!
“How did the translation go, then?” he wondered, his gaze on the book in Rose’s hands.
She knew he was hoping to get his hands on it. “It was more difficult than Ellen had anticipated, so I’m going to take it home to work on it. Please excuse me. I must go find my mother.”
She felt very relieved to escape. At least until she walked back into the drawing room and saw two men heading toward her. Gabriel and a man she had yet to meet.
Though the stranger wasn’t as handsome as Kit, he might be a good kisser. But she didn’t have the will left to find out. Not to mention she was holding a lewd book clutched to her chest.
She had to get rid of it.
When Gabriel got to her first, the other man turned away dejectedly. “Pardon me, your grace,” she said quickly. “I was just heading to the ladies’ attiring room.”
“Are you quite all right?” Gabriel asked, his blue eyes radiating concern.
He really was terribly nice. “Oh, yes. I’m just feeling a bit, um, peaked.”
“Still?”
“It’s all the excitement, I’m certain,” she told him with a practiced, romantic sigh.
When he smiled, she knew she’d succeeded in convincing him he was responsible for her excitement. Leaning close, he lowered his voice to an intimate murmur. “I do hope you’ll be feeling better soon.”
She didn’t care for his perfume. It was too flowery. “Oh, I’m certain I will,” she said blithely and sailed out of the chamber.
Blessedly, the attiring room was empty. She stuffed the book under her cloak and then dropped onto one of the green baize benches.
She really was feeling a little bit peaked.
Twenty-Three
“KIT,” HIS SISTER said a few minutes later. “I need to talk to you.”
“One moment, Ellen.” He turned back to inspecting the latest materials that had arrived.
“I need to talk to you now,” she yelled across the courtyard.
“It will do nicely,” he told his new foreman, then took a deep breath and strode over to his sister, thinking, not for the first time, that it had been a bad idea to bring her along while he worked. “What in your little selfish world is so important you had to interrupt me?”
Instead of bristling, she looked smug. “Lady Trentingham wishes to see you.”
He slanted her a suspicious look. “Lady Trentingham doesn’t even know who you are.”
“Could that be because you weren’t polite enough to introduce me?” She straightened her slim eighteen-year-old shoulders. “Well, she noticed me, anyway. Came right up and introduced herself, then asked where she might find you. I gather she looked in the dining room, but of course you were out here.”
“Where did she find you?”
“On the terrace. She’s waiting for you there.”
He headed in that direction, wondering just what Ellen had been doing out on the terrace now that she no longer had her book to occupy her.
He admitted to himself it probably hadn’t been fair to expect her to entertain herself all evening long. But he hadn’t felt as though he’d had a choice. If he’d left her at home, she’d surely have run off to spend the evening in the company of that damned pawn dealer. Doing God knew what.
He certainly didn’t want to know.
Life had been so much simpler when he was off at school and Lady St. Vincent was still alive and caring for Ellen. He and his sister had spent glorious times together during the weeks he’d been able to visit. They’d never argued.
Well, rarely. Only when she’d begged him to take her back to school with him.
He stopped in the dining room long enough to shrug back into his surcoat before stepping out to the terrace.
Lady Trentingham turned in a swish of golden brocade skirts. “Kit. Ellen found you.”
“I apologize for not introducing you earlier.”
She waved that off. “I knew at first glance you were related. She looks just like you. A little prettier,” she added with a smile.
He grinned back. “I should hope so.”
“I wanted to let you know that Rose is in the ladies’ attiring room. I thought, considering our earlier conversation, you might want to be there when she comes out.”
He’d almost convinced himself he’d dreamed that conversation. This whole day seemed naught but a dream born of wishful thinking: everything going right with King Charles, the wonderful afternoon with Rose, the kiss, his materials showing up in a timely fashion, Lady Trentingham encouraging him to seduce her daughter…
But then again, he was still fighting with Ellen. That was no dream.
And neither, apparently, was this. Lady Trentingham leaned closer and straightened his cravat. “Shall I show you where Rose will be coming out?”
“She’s looking for you,” he said. “She mentioned that the last time I saw her.”
“Is that so?” A slow smile spread on Rose’s mother’s face. “Well, she’s going to find you instead.”
Twenty-Four
ROSE HAD NEARLY steeled herself to venture forth from the attiring room when two young women walked in.
“Oh,” the blond one said when she spotted her. “You’re here.”
Rose didn’t care for her tone. She wanted to slap her across her pinched face. But she also wanted to be liked here at court, so she plastered on a smile. “I’m Rose Ashcroft. And you are…?”
“Lady Wyncherly.”
“And I’m Lady Wembley.” The other woman joined her friend at the large gilt-framed mirror. Her hair was so black Rose imagined she dyed it and used a lead comb.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady…” Willoughby? Wemperley? “Ladies. You’re both married, then?”
“Yes,” they said in unison, and then the dark-haired one added, “and you’re not.”
Rose could think of worse things than not being married. Like being one of these shrews.
The blond Lady W touched a pimple on the other’s face. “Right there,” she said.
The woman glared at herself in the mirror. “Hell and furies, another one.”
The blonde pulled a tiny silver box out of her drawstring purse. “Here, choose a patch.”
While the pimply Lady W rummaged through the box with a fingertip, the blond one turned to Rose. “Why aren’t you busy kissing someone?”
Rose was rapidly concluding it was just as well none of the women here seemed to like her, because she certainly didn’t like them. But she decided to ignore the slu
r. “I’m resting until the gaming.”
“There won’t be any gaming tonight,” pimply Lady W said, choosing a crescent-shaped patch.
“No gaming?” Rose echoed, crestfallen.
Blond Lady W pulled some adhesive from her purse and dotted it on the back. “Haven’t you heard?” She stuck the black velvet on her friend’s face. “This will be an early evening, because we’re all leaving for Hampton Court tomorrow. Will you be coming along?”
She sounded as though she hoped not.
“I’m not sure,” Rose told her. She’d found no opportunity to discuss it yet with Mum. Half of her wanted to go to Hampton Court just to spite these women, while the other half thought the peace of Trentingham Manor would be heaven in comparison.
Unfortunately, there were no potential husbands at home.
The blonde chose a patch for herself—a cupid—even though she was already wearing nine and had no pimple to cover. Patches were quite in fashion, and Rose wore one herself—a small heart at the outside edge of her right eyebrow—but she thought the woman’s face looked diseased with so many black shapes all over it.
Maybe the blond Lady W was diseased. Maybe most of the patches were hiding hideous smallpox scars. Although Rose knew it wasn’t nice of her, the thought of that made her smile.
“What?” the Lady Ws barked together.
Rose shrugged and walked out of the little chamber. She was certain they started talking about her the moment she cleared the door—and she doubted they had anything good to say. But she decided she didn’t care.
Stepping into the drawing room, she stopped short when she saw Kit. He was standing there, gazing into space and looking uncomfortable. Well, he didn’t belong here at court, so that wasn’t such a surprise. Perhaps the king wanted the drawing room renovated too, and he was studying it.
She noticed Kit was taller than she, but not terribly much taller. Maybe half a head, while she only came up to Gabriel’s chin. Kit didn’t make her feel petite like the duke did.
He finally took note of her. “Rose,” he greeted with a smile.
No Lady. Did that mean he considered her a friend now?