by Lauren Royal
She sighed. “I don’t want to fight, either.”
“Rose, you must be more careful around men.”
“I would never allow—”
“You’re a passionate woman, but for your own good, you must curb—”
“I’m not passionate,” she interrupted. “Only with you. I knew it was you, Kit. I’ve never kissed anyone else like that. Anyone but you. Ever.”
He stared, wondering whether to be pleased or angry at that impassioned revelation. Anger won. “How can you fib with such a straight face? You expect me to believe that after you admitted you didn’t realize I was the pirate?”
“I didn’t recognize you as the pirate during the masked ball,” she returned hotly, “because it never occurred to me you would be there.” She shifted her weight back and forth, popping up and down on her single high-heeled shoe. “And you’re a blasted hypocrite, do you know that? You kissed me when you didn’t know who I was.”
“Bloody hell,” Kit shot back, “do you take me for a fool? A sightless nitwit would have recognized you at twenty paces. You smell like a damned garden. But you could be wearing sackcloth instead of flowers and I’d know you, Rose. Instantaneously. Don’t you know that?”
Her dark eyes flashed. “Like I knew you the moment you caught me in the dark? The moment I touched you, even blind as a bat? I just never connected you with the pirate.”
Understanding hit Kit like a brick dropped from a half-built wall.
I knew you. I just never connected you with the pirate.
She was beautiful in her fury, her cheeks flushed, her agitated breath making her chest heave in a way that drew his gaze. No one could lie that convincingly.
Damnation, had he ever been such a nithing blockhead?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I twisted your words in my mind, jumped to an erroneous conclusion. You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
He cracked a smile. “You’re so graceful at accepting apologies.”
Her anger seemed to flee as quickly as it had flared. “It’s a good thing, since I still don’t want to fight.” She answered his smile with one of her own, her gaze raking his costumed form. “You make a very fetching pirate.”
“Do I, now?”
Though he’d said it in all good humor, her voice dropped to a whisper. “You appeared like magic, and I was so grateful to have you there. You swept away my fear with a single touch of your lips…”
Unable to help himself, he touched those lips to hers again. A silent apology that swiftly turned to more, much more—
“Rose?” her mother’s voice drifted down the Great Stairs. “Rose!”
Reluctantly Kit drew away. “We’re out here, Lady Trentingham.”
Her high heels clicked on the cobblestones as she made her way over to them, carrying Rose’s missing shoe. “I feared for you, dear. I know how you hate the dark.” She kissed her daughter on both cheeks, then drew back and touched the one with the shallow scratch. “What happened here?”
“A woman with claws like a wildcat.” Rose’s hand went to the injury. “Does it look terribly bad?”
“A little powder and you’ll never know it’s there,” her mother assured her.
Rose sighed. “I cannot imagine what Nell was thinking when she ordered the torches doused.”
Lady Trentingham cocked her head. “Did you not know Nell is famous for practical jokes? Why, recently she left King Charles at a brothel—”
“Without any clothes or money,” her daughter finished for her. “I heard about that. Remind me never to introduce her to Jewel and Rowan. If she makes these pranks a habit, the three of them together could prove deadly.”
“You’re all right, though?” Lady Trentingham tried to smooth Rose’s hair, but her efforts made little difference. “You’re not truly hurt?”
“Kit rescued me,” Rose said.
“Did he?” Lady Trentingham shared a furtive glance with him, that one brief look conveying a mixture of emotions: gratitude, congratulations, and a silent admission that she’d been wrong. “I think we should leave,” she told Rose quietly.
“Yes,” Rose agreed. “There’s Judith’s wedding, of course…but I believe I’d want to leave anyway.”
Lady Trentingham looked back to the great hall. “Then shall we make our good-byes?”
“Please, Mum, just give King Charles my apologies. I’d rather go straight to our rooms.”
Kit was glad Rose didn’t want to go back to the ball. “I’ll walk you to your lodging,” he said, taking her arm.
While her mother ascended the staircase, Rose leaned to put on her shoe. “I look like something one of Lily’s cats dragged in, don’t I?”
“No.” His mouth quirked in a half grin. “Worse.”
She winced as she straightened. “Well, thank you for being honest.”
“I’ll love you no matter what you look like. Always. Would the duke feel that way as well?”
She had no clue what the duke felt, as evidenced by the way she changed the subject. “Did you check all the measurements?”
He began walking her toward her apartments. “Some. Not all. There are hundreds.”
“Have you found anything wrong?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet. The set of drawings I keep with me doesn’t seem to match the plans I left here, and I’m not certain which is correct or which reflects the actual measurements we took last night.”
He couldn’t imagine how that had happened. Most builders worked from a single set of plans, but he preferred to err on the side of caution and always made a careful duplicate. Had he been not-so-careful? The discrepancy was more than disturbing, but he’d set aside the problem for the evening when he decided watching over Rose was more important. And he didn’t want to think about it again now.
Before she could ask more questions, he stopped beneath the clock tower and turned to face her. “I’ll let you know if I find anything conclusive,” he said, raising a hand to her lips.
Her eyes went soft when he traced her mouth with the pad of a finger. She swayed toward him involuntarily, and he took advantage, drawing her close for a long, languid kiss.
It was a kiss his tired soul could melt into, but he wouldn’t allow that, even though she threw herself into the caress. She was still distant, distracted. Though she was with him in body, her mind had yet to cross the crucial barrier that would truly make her his.
“Come along,” he murmured when they parted, their lips clinging for one last moment. “It’s been quite a night.”
Just as they reached Base Court, a shooting star streaked across the sky.
“Look,” she breathed, closing her eyes to make a wish.
He wished, too, then turned and took her face in both hands. “What did you ask for?”
“I cannot tell you, or it won’t come true.”
“Fair enough.” It made him smile to think she believed such fancies. “Shall I tell you what I wished for instead?”
“I think I know,” she whispered and left it at that.
It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but for now it would have to do.
Fifty-Five
HAMPTON COURT was quiet in the middle of the night, Kit’s building dark now except for the circle of light thrown by his lantern. Scents of fresh-cut wood and hardening mortar assaulted his nose, and his footsteps echoed in the empty rooms as he wandered them for the last time.
Tomorrow the building was coming down.
Two more days spent poring over the numbers had confirmed his suspicions: the building was flawed. He’d double-checked his calculations, remeasured, triple-checked again. The conclusion was always the same. If left standing, the structure would eventually collapse.
Oh, it wouldn’t fall today or tomorrow—not even this year. In fact, it could be ten or twenty or fifty years before the inherent weakness resulted in disaster. It would certainly remain standing until long after he was appointed Deputy Surveyor, most likely so long afte
r that he doubted he’d ever be blamed.
But when the collapse occurred, the consequences could very well be deadly.
Was his design at fault? Or had someone tampered with the plans? Since the two copies he had didn’t match, he couldn’t be sure. The fact that they were different lent credence to the theory that Harold Washburn—or someone else—had sabotaged this project.
But it didn’t matter. It was Kit’s project, Kit’s responsibility.
There was nothing for it. Although it meant he would miss his deadline and any chance at the appointment and knighthood, he’d had no choice but to order the structure torn down and rebuilt from scratch. He couldn’t live with himself knowing there were potential deaths looming ahead—not even when he suspected those at risk had yet to be born.
All he had left now was a journey to Windsor and the difficult task of explaining his failing to Wren. Then—while his dreams were torn down along with this building—he would go to Trentingham as promised. Once there, he would finalize the plans for Lord Trentingham’s greenhouse…and tell Lady Trentingham why he was no longer worthy of marrying her daughter.
He grabbed an exquisite carved panel—that, at least, could be salvaged—and exited the building without looking back.
He’d long ago learned there was no point in that.
Fifty-Six
“OH, JUDITH,” Lily breathed, staring at the gown the maid had just laid on her friend’s bed. Palest blue, Judith’s wedding dress had a wide neckline and golden ribbons crisscrossing the stomacher. The underskirt was cloth-of-gold. “It’s so beautiful.”
A happy sigh escaped Judith’s freshly painted lips. “I always dreamed of wearing blue for my wedding.”
“Me, too,” Violet said.
Lily grinned. “Me three.”
Rose’s sisters had both worn blue, and they were both happily married. Rose brushed her fingers over the gown’s shimmering fabric, ordering herself not to be jealous. After all, she’d received so many proposals she’d lost count, and she’d probably have more if she hadn’t rebuffed so many men.
It had been her choice to refuse them.
Besides, she would never wear a gown like this. It might be lovely, but it was entirely too pale and insipid. When Rose finally chose to marry, she intended to do so in red.
Judith wandered across her feminine mauve room to her dressing table. “Shall I wear patches?” she wondered.
Rose turned to her pretty, plump friend. “Just one. A heart. But we must powder your face first.” She handed Judith’s patch box to Lily so she could find a suitable shape, then dipped a fluffy brush into a packet of Princess’s Powder. “Are you nervous?”
“Of course not,” Judith said, but her smile was trembly. She held out a wine cup for Violet to refill. “Why should I be nervous? Grenville is a good man.”
Rose dusted Judith’s cheeks. “Of course he’s good. He’s titled and has money.” And if he wasn’t exactly handsome, she added to herself, at least he wasn’t pockmarked or ugly. A woman could look at him without wincing.
If she’d gained nothing else from court, she’d learned it wasn’t easy to find perfection. Perhaps compromise wasn’t such a bad thing.
“No, I mean Edmund is ever so good.” Judith peered at herself in the mirror. “He adores children, though his first wife couldn’t give him any. He makes certain all the orphans on his estate find families and homes. No one, young or old, is ever allowed to go hungry, and—”
“That’s just being decent,” Rose interrupted.
Violet set down the wine bottle with a little clunk. “But decency is important. And rare.”
Still riffling through the patch box with a fingertip, Lily nodded. “I’d choose decency over money and a title any day of the week. You have to live with the man you wed.”
“Husbands and wives don’t have to live with each other.” Rose fluffed more powder on her friend’s face. “At court, it seems hardly any of them do.”
Violet stared at her, her brown eyes looking huge through her spectacles. “But those are marriages made for alliance, not love. That’s not what you want, is it?”
“Of course not,” she said, still fluffing.
“Stop!” Judith laughed, brushing at her dressing gown. White powder flew everywhere. Particles coated the surface of her dark wood dressing table and floated in a sunbeam that came through the window. “Edmund won’t be able to find me under all this powder.”
“Sorry.” Rose dusted more on her own cheeks, though her scratch was all but healed. “Is Grenville nervous?”
“He doesn’t seem to be. But then, he’s been married before. He’s not worrying about tonight.”
Violet touched her hand. “Are you worried, Judith?”
“A little.” Looking away, Judith grabbed her goblet and took another swallow of wine. A big one.
“I think you’re a lot worried,” Lily said, prying the goblet from Judith’s fingers. She’d downed half a bottle already, and there were still hours left before her wedding. “You don’t want to be slurring your vows.”
“The marriage bed is nothing to fear,” Violet told her.
“Are you sure?” Judith asked.
“Of course she’s sure.” Rose nervously tweaked the bouquet of flowers she’d made for Judith to carry. “All brides fret about it, but they all survive, don’t they?”
“Are you fretting?” Violet asked her.
“Why should I fret? I’m not getting married.”
“But if you were?” Lily pressed.
Rose thought of I Sonetti and all those awkward positions. “No, I’m not fretting,” she said, telling herself it wasn’t quite a lie.
She wasn’t fretting yet.
“Mama told me it would hurt,” Judith whispered.
Having read Aristotle’s Master-piece, Rose nodded knowingly. “But only for a moment.”
That part she didn’t find worrisome. The Master-piece described it as “a little pain,” and she believed that was true.
But she wished she’d never seen that blasted Italian book.
Fifty-Seven
“BASED ON THE upper floor’s loads,” Kit said, “I was concerned that with any additional loading the building would eventually collapse. As it stood, it was near the maximum tolerance of the span. I cannot believe I miscalculated something so basic.”
“Neither can I,” Wren said pointedly, pacing his office in Windsor Castle. Then his eyes narrowed as he stopped and turned to Kit. “Are you saying someone else miscalculated? Purposefully lengthened the span? Altered your plans?”
“I won’t say that.” Kit met the older man’s gaze. “The project is my responsibility. The error is mine, and I’ll absorb the costs of rebuilding.”
When he first started out, a problem of this magnitude might have landed him in debtor’s prison. Thankfully, he could easily afford it now.
Wren nodded as he walked him to the door. “This won’t go past this room. I expect Charles will be pleased with the final results, even though you’ll miss the deadline. You’ll doubtless see more commissions, and your reputation won’t suffer.”
That was some consolation. Thanks to Wren’s confidentiality, Kit’s career wasn’t endangered.
Just his dreams. His knighthood. His chances of winning the woman he loved.
“Thank you,” he told Wren as he opened the door. “Though the project won’t come in on time, it will be done right.”
“From you, I expect no less.” Wren watched him step outside. “I’m sorry about the appointment.”
“I wish Rosslyn well with it,” Kit said and closed the door behind him.
So that was that.
He took a deep breath and headed to Windsor’s Upper Ward to check the progress on the new dining room. Following a complete inspection, he felt a little better. Everything seemed to be proceeding well and on schedule. He had high hopes that the successful, timely completion of this beautiful chamber would help ensure more commissions from the Crow
n.
Somewhere in town, a clock struck noon, reminding him he’d best get on his way to Trentingham if he wanted to arrive at a decent hour. But he didn’t want to rush to Trentingham—not today. He felt drained. The interview with Wren had sucked the life right out of him.
Tomorrow morning would be better, he decided, heading out of the castle. He was in no hurry to confess his failure to Rose’s family, and that greenhouse was hardly an emergency. The groundbreaking wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, anyway.
He looked forward to a long, hot bath, followed by a good night’s sleep. Here in Windsor, in his own house, he’d doubtless rest easier than he had in weeks. Especially since he no longer had to worry about his projects. Or, he thought dejectedly, about whether he’d win the appointment he’d been working toward all of his adult life.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Martyn,” the old guard called as he passed through the castle gate.
“Afternoon, Richards,” Kit returned.
The next thing he knew he was standing in front of a pawnshop.
His brother-in-law’s pawnshop, to be precise. Kit still had the damnedest time thinking of Ellen as married. But something inside him knew he had to come to grips with that—the same something that had sent him here without conscious decision.
He hoped she fared well. And there was only one way to find out. He drew a deep breath and opened the door. At the jingle of the bell, Thomas emerged from the back.
“Mr. Martyn,” he said, clearly surprised. And apprehensive, Kit thought.
Well, in a sense, he couldn’t blame the man. But they were kin now, for better or worse, so he’d best set the fellow at ease. “Call me Kit,” he said. “Please.”
“Kit.” The younger man nodded.
“I’ve come to see my sister.”
If anything, Thomas’s eyes grew more hooded. “She’s upstairs. I’ll fetch her.”
“No. I’ll go up.”
“I’m sorry, sir—I mean, Kit. But I’m not sure she wants to talk to you.”
That hurt. Kit had hoped Ellen would be over her snit long before now. She’d won their battle, after all. She’d fought to live over a pawnshop, and live here she did.