by Lauren Royal
If only Kit would allow it.
“That’s true,” Kit said. “You must be willing to take my sister without her dowry.”
Rose suspected Kit wanted to make sure the man was devoted, but Ellen released an angry huff. Yet Thomas, bless the man, didn’t so much as blink. “I would take your sister if she came with a mound of debt. Ellen’s dowry would be welcome—I won’t lie—but I don’t want your sister for money, sir. I want her because I love her.”
It was such a pretty speech, Rose wanted to applaud.
But Kit just nodded, somehow contriving to appear pleased, relieved, disappointed, and resigned all at once. “Come along, then. Let’s get this done.”
Ellen let out a little squeal, then ran to Thomas and pressed her lips to his in a fervent kiss.
“After the wedding,” Kit said, but not without a hint of good humor.
Regardless, Ellen chose to glare at him.
“Good luck, Ellen.” Rose handed her the bouquet of flowers she’d arranged while they were waiting for Thomas. It wouldn’t feel like a real wedding without flowers.
Though Ellen smiled, she looked apprehensive until Thomas had drawn her down the aisle to stand before the priest. Then she took his hand and released a heartfelt sigh.
Some other people began to protest, but Kit pressed a small pile of gold into the priest’s plump hand—and that was that. The man wasted no time beginning the ceremony. He was the no-nonsense sort, with a booming voice, a big belly under his robe, and flushed, well-fed cheeks.
Standing in the small, old chapel, Rose shifted on her high-heeled shoes, wondering if she’d ever be a bride.
“Thomas Whittingham, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.” The confident words boomed off the plain, whitewashed walls, binding Thomas to Kit’s sister.
But Rose wasn’t listening to the ceremony. Instead, she focused on the bride and groom—their linked hands, their bodies ranged close, their eyes shining with a potent mixture of disbelief and happiness.
Smiling as though she’d arranged this wedding herself, Chrystabel leaned close and bumped against Rose’s left side. “They’re perfect together, aren’t they?” she whispered.
Rose could only nod dumbly. Ellen and her pawnbroker were clearly in love…for Ellen, at least, it hadn’t been as easy to fall in love with a titled man as a commoner.
The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. “Ellen Martyn, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…”
Standing on Rose’s right, Kit sighed. “Have I done the right thing?”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, wondering if she would do the right thing. For she feared that, like Ellen, she wasn’t finding it easy to fall in love with a titled man. The Duke of Bridgewater was handsome and rich and kind, and she’d tried to make herself fall in love with him, to no avail. And yet, with Kit…
Her feelings didn’t bear thinking about.
“…so long as ye both shall live?” the priest concluded expectantly.
“I will,” Ellen pledged, sounding happier than Rose remembered ever feeling.
A few more words, a ring slid onto her finger—something hastily chosen from the pawnshop, no doubt—and Ellen was clearly and truly wed now, the new Mrs. Thomas Whittingham.
And Rose was more confused than ever.
When Thomas lowered his lips to meet Ellen’s, Kit looked to Rose. Her breath caught in her chest. His eyes were full of promises…but they were promises she couldn’t return.
She didn’t breathe easily again until they were all heading back down the steps to her family’s carriage.
“Where will you go tonight?” she asked Ellen.
“Home. To the pawnshop in Windsor.” She smiled up at Thomas, then glanced at Kit and lifted her chin before turning back to Rose. “It will doubtless be late by the time we arrive, but I’ve no wish to stay in London.”
“We’re going home to Trentingham tomorrow,” Chrystabel announced.
“Are we?” Rose asked, surprised. But right now the idea of home sounded wonderful.
“I miss your father. And Rowan. And I’m going to have your sisters and their husbands over for supper as soon as possible. In fact, I’ll send notes to them before we leave. Perhaps they can join us tomorrow night.” Without missing a beat, Chrystabel turned to Kit. “Will you join us as well? My husband is likely impatient to see his greenhouse take shape. You did promise to work up a design before you left Lily’s wedding.”
“I did, didn’t I?” he said wryly. “But—”
“Rose has indicated you’ve got Whitehall under control. And you won’t be far from Windsor. Or Hampton Court, for that matter.”
Mum could be persuasive when she put her mind to it. Kit nodded. “I suppose since no red-and-white-liveried king’s man has shown up with bad news, I can take a day to sketch a design.”
“And one night to relax before jumping back into the fray.”
“And one night,” he agreed, his gaze straying to Rose.
Her skin heated all over.
It took a few more minutes for plans to be nailed down. Rose and Chrystabel would take Ellen and Thomas back to the town house to fetch Ellen’s things. Kit would return to Whitehall, spend the balance of the day making certain everything there would proceed smoothly, then go on to Trentingham Manor in the morning.
Rose was settled in the carriage and halfway to St. James’s Square before she realized that in all the time since before the wedding began, Ellen hadn’t said one word to her brother.
Forty-One
ROSE’S FAMILY was almost more than Kit could take. They were loud. They were boisterous. And there were so damn many of them.
Rose’s oldest sister, Violet, had brought along her husband, Ford, and their three children—two of whom were infant twins and prone to wailing—plus Ford’s niece, ten-year-old Jewel.
Kit’s friend Rand was there with his new wife, Rose’s younger sister Lily. Lily, as usual, was surrounded by animals—a cat she’d brought, along with a sparrow and a squirrel that had followed her. Her mother had ordered the latter two outside during supper, but they were watching through a window.
And then, of course, there were Lord and Lady Trentingham. And their eleven-year-old son, Rowan.
With Rose and Kit—and not counting the creatures—that made eleven people around the table in Trentingham Manor’s white-paneled dining room and two in cradles nearby. Kit was unwillingly reminded of his school days, eating in an enormous hammerbeam-ceilinged hall with shouts and conversation coming from all angles. He half expected a food fight to break out.
It seemed quite a racket to a man who was used to dining with only his sister.
Ellen. She’d passed her wedding night by now—not that it had been the proper wedding night he’d wanted for her—and he wondered how she was doing. Was she happy with her pawnbroker? They’d be happier, of course, when he gave them the money he’d saved for her dowry, but he thought he’d wait a little while for that. A week or two, at least. Let them get settled first—such a windfall was likely to be unsettling, indeed.
In the meantime, he hadn’t wanted to be alone at his house in Windsor, imagining his baby sister and her new husband doing God knew what down the street. So Lady Trentingham’s invitation had been welcome, even though he damn well knew he had better things to do.
But his projects seemed stabilized, and the day had gone well enough. Lord Trentingham had been happy with Kit’s ideas for the greenhouse, and Kit had gone only half hoarse shouting all his explanations. He’d order the materials and hire a foreman when he returned to Windsor. Lord Trentingham was anxious to get his plants inside before winter, so Kit had promised him an accelerated schedule. The groundbreaking w
as planned for ten days hence.
“This all must be very disturbing,” Rand said.
“Hmm?” Kit had been so deep in his thoughts he hadn’t even noticed that sweets had been put on the table. “Are you talking to me?”
“Wake up, you dolt.” Rand elbowed him in the ribs and laughed. “We’ve been talking about the problems you had at both Windsor and Whitehall.”
“They’re settled now,” Kit said. His plate had been removed by one of Trentingham’s footmen, and he hadn’t noticed that, either. Someone set a smaller, clean plate in front of him.
“Are you sure?” Jewel’s deep green eyes looked wide in her delicate, heart-shaped face.
She seemed as concerned as an adult might, so he answered her seriously. “I’m convinced Washburn didn’t set the fire, so I don’t expect him to try anything else.”
“But how can you be sure?”
Seated to Kit’s left, Rose passed him a platter of small currant cakes, her soft floral fragrance wafting to his nose along with the fruity scent of the baked goods. “The fire was probably not intended,” she told Jewel.
“Exactly.” He took three cakes and passed the plate to Rand. “The men aren’t supposed to smoke pipes on the job, but I wasn’t there to watch.”
Lord Trentingham frowned. “Has Whitehall become overrun with mice?”
Kit blinked. “Pardon?”
“You said the men aren’t supposed to poke mice?”
“Smoke pipes, darling.” Lady Trentingham leaned to brush a few cake crumbs off her husband’s cravat. “The men aren’t supposed to smoke pipes.”
“It could have been someone else.” Taking six cakes for himself, Rowan sounded a bit gleeful at the prospect of uncovering intrigue. “Not this Washburn, but someone else.”
“Let’s hope not.” Using one of the cakes to scoop sweet whipped cream from a dish, Kit worried the children might be right. “It was most probably accidental. These things happen.”
“Bee stings do happen,” Lord Trentingham put in. “Especially out in my gardens.”
No one corrected him this time.
Jewel waved a currant cake. “Accidents at two of your buildings? Aren’t you wondering if your other building might have a problem, too?”
Out of the mouths of babes. Kit sighed. “Perhaps I should go to Hampton Court and make certain everything there is progressing smoothly.”
“Rose and I are going to Hampton Court,” Lady Trentingham volunteered cheerfully.
Kit wasn’t surprised.
Her husband had actually heard that. “Not too soon, I hope, Chrysanthemum.”
“Well, we won’t want to wait too long. The court is there, after all, and Rose will want to see the duke.”
Rose’s sisters turned to her in unison.
“The duke?” Violet asked, leaning down to swipe her son’s spoon off the floor for at least the tenth time.
Lily fed a bit of cake to her cat under the table. “What duke?”
“The Duke of Bridgewater.” Rose hid her face by raising her goblet to her lips—although Kit knew it was empty. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Forty-Two
NOT TOO MUCH later, Rose found herself upstairs flanked by her sisters, the three of them lying crosswise on her oak four-poster bed, staring straight up.
“Tell us about the duke,” Violet said to the underside of Rose’s crimson velvet canopy.
“He’s very generous and handsome and kind,” Rose returned morosely. “He gave me these ruby and pearl earrings.”
Her sisters both turned to look. Violet touched a finger to one of the delicate drops. “They’re lovely.”
“Goodness!” Lily exclaimed. “He sounds perfect. Exactly what you were looking for. Do you think he likes you?”
“Very much.” Rose sighed. “I won’t be surprised if at Hampton Court I receive my first proposal.”
Violet came up on an elbow. “Then why do you sound so melancholy?”
When Rose turned her head to see Violet, her sister’s warm brown eyes looked too concerned behind the lenses of her spectacles. She focused back up on the canopy. “I don’t care for the way he kisses.”
“Oh…” her sisters said together in a way that made it clear they considered this as important a problem as she did.
Rose wasn’t sure whether she was glad or frustrated at that fact. Part of her wished they’d tell her to marry the duke and be done with it.
“Is his kiss…sloppy?” Lily asked.
“No.”
“Rough?” Violet wondered.
“No.”
“Then what?” they both chimed.
“I’m not sure. There’s nothing wrong with his kisses. I just don’t enjoy them. They don’t make me feel anything.” Rose crossed her feet where they hung off the end of the bed. She uncrossed them. Her voice dropped miserably. “For the longest time, I didn’t like anyone’s kisses. I thought something was wrong with me. Until…”
Now Lily came up on an elbow. “Until what?”
Rose felt hemmed in. She looked at her older sister, then her younger, then back to the canopy. “I’ve found one man whose kisses make me melt. But he’s totally unsuitable.”
“In what way?” Lily’s voice was heartbreakingly sympathetic.
“In every way. He’s a commoner. And he works for a living.”
“Rand works,” Lily said defensively. “Don’t you think being a professor is a lot of hard work?”
“But Rand doesn’t have to work. He works because he wants to. Good God, he’s an earl, and someday he’ll be a marquess.”
“That wasn’t always the case, and he never minded working. And it didn’t bother me to think of marrying him when he did have to work. In fact, it didn’t bother you, either, if I recall correctly. You were perfectly willing to chase Rand when he was only a professor.”
“He was never only a professor.” Rose didn’t care for Lily’s affronted tone, nor for the reminder of how foolishly she’d pursued her sister’s husband. “Even before he became an earl, he was Lord Randal Nesbitt.”
“There’s nothing wrong with work,” Lily insisted.
“Of course there isn’t!” Frustrated, Rose pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her face as her sisters came up beside her. “It’s only that I had a plan for my life, and this man isn’t part of it.”
“Is he poor?” Violet asked.
“No,” she said, thankful she could say that at least, else she’d get the same kind of tirade from Violet that she’d just heard from Lily. Violet’s husband, after all, had been poor as a churchmouse when they met.
“It’s Kit, isn’t it?” Lily suddenly guessed.
“No,” Rose denied quickly, then sighed at Lily’s perceptive gaze and added, “How did you know?”
“I’ve both eyes and ears in my head. You’re surprisingly familiar with the man’s projects, and you cannot deny you thought him handsome the day you met. And he was drawn to you. I was there, if you’ll remember. And he is not totally unsuitable.”
“I want to love the duke,” Rose wailed.
“Sometimes,” Violet said softly, “we cannot choose these things.”
All three of them sighed in unison.
Lily reached to cover Rose’s hands where she’d clenched them together in her lap. “At least Mum isn’t trying to match you with Kit,” she offered with forced cheerfulness.
“That’s right,” Violet said. The one thing they’d all agreed on, from the time they were small girls, was that they didn’t want any part of Chrystabel’s matchmaking schemes. “She’s taking you to Hampton Court to spend more time with the duke.”
“But she invited Kit here,” Rose realized suddenly. “And to supper in London.”
“True,” Violet conceded. “But she probably just wanted to make sure he follows through with Father’s greenhouse.”
“Probably.” That thought was a relief. The last thing Rose wanted was Mum trying to marry her off to
Kit. Once Chrystabel got something like that in her head, the pressure would be tremendous. “She likes Kit’s sister, too. Perhaps she felt sorry for Ellen and invited her to the town house to cheer her up. Kit would naturally have had to come along. And, oh!” she added, “I almost forgot. I’ve borrowed a book from Ellen that you two may find very interesting.”
Just the thing to take her mind off these gloomy thoughts.
“A book?” Violet loved books.
“Not one to read—unless you read Italian.” She hurried over to her trunk to fetch I Sonetti. “Mostly you’ll want to see the engravings. The ladies at court found them fascinating.”
“The ladies at court?” Lily reached for the book.
“You’ve never even been to court.” Violet snatched it away.
“I vow and swear, neither of you ever grew up.” Knowing she was no better, Rose laughed as she took it back. “Let me sit again between you.”
She wedged her wine-skirted bottom onto the bed between Violet’s lavender skirts and Lily’s yellow ones. After settling the book on her lap, she slowly opened it.
“Goodness.” Lily’s eyes widened. She was newly wedded, after all. “May I borrow this?”
“No. It’s not mine.” Rose flipped a page, then another. “Now look at this. Is this even possible?”
Lily shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Oh, that works fine,” Violet assured them, her gaze glued to the book as Rose turned to a new engraving. “But wait”—she put a hand over Rose’s to hold it in place—“I cannot imagine how this one would work.”
Both of Rose’s married sisters had cheeks as red as her bedding. The three of them looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Wait till you hear the words,” Rose said with a grin.
Forty-Three
THE MEN HAD adjourned to Lady Trentingham’s perfumery. Ford tinkered with the distillery he’d made for his mother-in-law, searching for a reported leak. Rand sat in a green brocade chair, sipping brandy.