by Lauren Royal
In the hush that followed, Rose’s heart swelled. She’d thought her wedding day would never come.
“I will,” she pledged, squeezing Kit’s hand.
A few more words, a gorgeous ruby ring slipped onto her finger, and Rose and Kit were husband and wife, Mr. Christopher Martyn and Lady Rose Martyn.
Once upon a time, she’d thought that disparity would bother her. But nothing could be further from the truth.
When Kit lowered his lips to meet hers, Rose threw her arms around him.
She’d finally found someone who could make her feel like a queen.
Seventy-Two
ROSE COULDN’T remember ever hating idle chitchat more than she did late that afternoon. Idle chitchat was the very devil.
Especially when it contrived to keep her from her wedding night.
She’d been wanting Kit ever since he’d appeared in her bedchamber earlier today. No, since before that. Since she’d shown up at his house and found him gone. The want was a fire smoldering inside her—a heat that would take little encouragement to flame.
Very little.
“Farewell, Aunt Cecily, Aunt Arabel,” she said with a forced smile, kissing Mum’s sisters on both cheeks. She urged them down the portico’s steps to the lawn. “Thank you for coming.” As they finally walked away with their children, she leaned close to Kit’s ear. “I think that’s the last of our guests. We can leave now.”
He glanced toward the river. “Soon.”
As her curious gaze followed his, Jewel and Rowan stepped onto the portico. “I have something for you,” Jewel said.
Rose looked down to find a box, exquisitely fashioned of colored, leaded glass. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed.
“Jewel made it,” Rowan informed them. “Her hands are covered in cuts.” His voice rang with admiration, as though blood and gore were badges of honor.
“We’ll treasure it,” Kit told the girl. Taking the box, he reached to squeeze Rose around her waist. “Won’t we?”
“Absolutely.” She tingled all up and down her side where he’d pulled her against him. “Thank you so very much,” she told Jewel. “I had no idea you worked with glass.”
Jewel hid her scarred hands behind her back. “Mama and my little brother both make jewelry. I got tired of doing the same thing. I was looking at the windows in a church, and Papa told me how the lead is soldered like some of Mama’s jewelry. I thought I might like to try it.”
Chrystabel moved around Rose, plucking the last of the love-knots off her gown. She took the glass box from Kit, lifted the lid, and dropped the little red bows inside. “It’s over,” she said with a long, drawn-out sigh.
Rose wished it were over. She wanted to be alone with Kit. “It was a beautiful wedding, Mum.”
Chrystabel sighed again. “I never really got to plan a big wedding. I shall have to do so for Rowan. A nice, long betrothal—”
Rose’s laugh interrupted her. “Have you considered that Jewel might want to plan her own wedding? Or Jewel’s mother might—”
“Jewel?” Rowan’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’m not going to marry Jewel!”
Kit gave the boy an indulgent smile. “Wait till you’re older—”
“Never!” Rowan looked at Jewel with such horror, the girl shrank back.
Rose pulled Kit aside. “May we leave now?” she asked.
He confused her by glancing toward the river again. “I don’t think…ah, yes. Here’s our transportation.”
Rose turned and stared at the beautiful, gilded barge rounding the bend and approaching Trentingham’s dock. “This is how we’re getting to Windsor? What about your carriage?”
“Ellen and Thomas accompanied me here. I sent them home in it. You wouldn’t have wanted to ride back with them, would you?”
“Not really.” She liked Kit’s sister well enough, but she was anxious to begin her wedding night—and she didn’t want company. “This is Ford’s barge. Was it his idea?”
“Violet’s, actually. Who knew a romantic heart hid inside that intellectual exterior?”
“Violet,” Rose said low, “lost her virginity on this barge. She told me all about it on the way to your house last week.”
“All about it?”
“Well, perhaps not all. But there’s a bed inside the cabin.”
Kit’s gaze heated. “Well, let’s go then,” he said loudly, turning back to her family.
“You know,” her father said for the third time, “it’s traditional for a girl to spend her first married night at her parents’ house.”
“I’m only questioning convention,” Rose shouted.
Her mother smiled. “When are you going to London, dear?”
“The queen’s birthday celebration is Friday, so we’re thinking probably Wednesday.”
“Windy?” Father frowned. “Yes, the wind does seem to be picking up.”
“It certainly is, Father.” Rose shared an amused glance with Kit. “I think everyone should hurry inside.”
A few hugs and kisses and tears later, Rose and Kit crossed the lawn to the river and climbed aboard the barge. He pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. They turned to bid farewell to her family, happy to be alone at last.
Well, almost alone. There was a crew, of course, to guide the vessel to Windsor. And a young man playing a violin, sheltered from the weather by the tall wall of the cabin that sat in the barge’s middle.
Heat thrummed through Rose’s veins. She forced herself to stand at the rail, waving at her family until the barge pulled away. The wind was indeed picking up, whipping her skirts and hair. Her heart seemed to speed up to match until it beat in a wild frenzy. Beside her, Kit felt warm, a temptation worthy of the devil himself.
“Inside,” she demanded the moment they cleared the dock. She couldn’t get him into the cabin fast enough. No sooner had they slammed the door behind them than she threw herself into his arms.
The kiss, hot and out of control, left no doubt that Kit was of the same mind. Violin music swirled through her head as his tongue swept her mouth. She returned the favor, tasting him, breathing in his scent and feeling a little thrill at the realization that he would be hers to savor from now on.
As the barge turned into the center of the river, the kiss grew more frantic. Her eyes closed and her mouth sealed to Kit’s, Rose wrenched his surcoat off his shoulders and pushed it down his arms. The vessel rocked, threatening her balance, and he grabbed her to hold her upright, laughing into her mouth.
“Now,” she said against his lips, working him closer to the bed. The barge settled into a more gentle rocking rhythm, but wind whistled through the shutters, igniting a similar storm in her blood. She shoved his long waistcoat off, her hands going blindly to his cravat as his fingers went to her stomacher. She burned, she ached. The tiny cabin seemed endless as she inched him toward the bed, their mouths still locked in that breathless caress. She turned them both, ready to sink to the mattress the moment she felt it behind her knees.
But what she bumped into was higher. And harder. She put a hand back, feeling wood. She twisted in dismay, her eyes flying open. A wedding feast for two was spread on a gorgeous carved mahogany table surrounded by six matching chairs.
There was no bed. “Where the devil is the bed?”
“Hmm?” Deprived of her lips, Kit kissed her throat instead.
“The bed. The bed is gone.” Disappointment dulled all the exciting, stormy sensations. “Kit, there’s no bed.”
He raised his head and blinked, then shrugged. “We’ll make do.”
What? Would they lie down on the floor? “I don’t see how—”
“Trust me, sweetheart.” Seemingly unperturbed, he dropped her stomacher to a chair and untied the bow securing her laces, bending again to kiss the valley between her breasts.
Beneath his hot mouth, her flesh prickled. She swayed and closed her eyes. “You’re right,” she suddenly realized. “Position Five could work on the table.”
He jerked upright. “Position Five?”
“From I Sonetti. Here.” She turned and shoved dishes away from the edge. “Sit here.”
“Here?”
“Here,” she said, pushing him into place. She backed up to him and raised herself to sit on his lap, moving her legs to either side of his knees and wiggling herself close. “Hmm.” She leaned forward a little, angling…”Yes, it can work!”
His laughter burst out behind her.
“What?” she asked, half twisting on his lap.
“It may work, but it’s not very romantic.” He swung her around to sit properly sideways, then leaned her back against his arm. “There. Now I can kiss you.”
She wanted more than kisses. “But we cannot—”
“Trust me, sweetheart, we can.” When she opened her mouth to protest again, he covered it with his fingers. “Trust me.”
Well, she had little choice, did she? When he replaced his hand with his mouth, she sank into the embrace, trusting. And trembling. His lips seemed made to fit hers, and the storm overtook her again, just that easily.
He spread her bodice wide and toyed with her aching breasts, slipping a hand up under her gown. But she had no taste for leisurely play. The barge rocked, and the wind whistled, whipping her senses.
“Now,” she murmured, “show me now.” When he failed to respond, she nipped his bottom lip. “Now.”
He laughed again. “And to think I feared you’d never come to my bed.” He set her on her feet momentarily while he pulled out a chair, then sat and turned her to face him, drawing her down to straddle his lap.
Leaning back, he reached beneath her skirts and quickly unlaced his breeches. “Isn’t this better than facing away?” he asked, drawing her near.
She sucked in a breath, feeling that exquisite need where her body pressed against his, where she could feel him straining against her.
“I can kiss you,” he pointed out before taking a long minute to demonstrate, leaving her lightheaded. “And touch you.” As his fingers teased her breasts, she squirmed against him below. “And hold you.” His arms went around her to pull her close.
“Yes,” she gritted out, “I can see the advantages. Now, can you show me how it will work?”
His hands went to her hips and raised her a little. Then he lowered her, slowly, slowly sliding into her.
She felt herself stretching, accommodating, welcoming him into her body. She sighed and then gasped when she felt him him slide out and back in, felt the storm rising in her blood. And then they moved together, that urgent heat building, a rush of heady sensation that threatened to sweep away all thought.
As his mouth met hers, she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling it up, shoving her hands underneath to grip his heated flanks. Her breath quickened. The searing need built until it seemed unbearable, until she couldn’t move fast enough, until the storm finally burst, a swirling maelstrom of pleasure that had her shaking uncontrollably. When she might have screamed, he took the sound into his mouth, and she felt his own low cry echoing inside her.
Somehow, Kit had become her world. If she could crawl inside him, she would. She contented herself with slumping against him, sweetly drained, reveling in the feel of his arms crushing her close as she waited for her heart to calm, her breathing to slow. So they could start all over again.
She would never get enough of him.
The gentle sway of the barge was soothing. As the blood stopped pumping in her ears, the wind seemed to whistle less fiercely, and the gentle strains of the violin seeped through the shutters and filled the cabin with peace.
The calm after the storm.
With her ear pressed against Kit’s chest, she could hear his heart thumping. “‘You are filling me,’” she quoted softly, “‘thrilling me, and I could stay seated here for a year.’”
His satisfied hum vibrated through her. “Nice,” he murmured.
“That was from one of the sonnets,” she admitted, opening her eyes. Sconces on the beautifully paneled walls held flickering candles. She raised her face and kissed Kit’s chin. “I Sonetti didn’t show this position.”
“Forget I Sonetti.” He reached around her to fill two goblets from a waiting bottle of champagne. “I wonder what happened to the bed?”
“I don’t know.” Rose laid her head on his shoulder. “The entire barge used to be rather shabby. Violet had mentioned it was being refurbished, but I never imagined they’d scuttle the bed.”
“They have a family now. A table makes more sense.”
“Not to us.”
“It’s not such a long journey, and they set out a veritable feast to occupy us. Did you eat anything at the wedding?”
“I was too busy talking to people.” She smiled at the wonderful memories. “But I’m not hungry.”
“No? Drink, then.” He handed her a goblet, waiting for her to sit up before raising his in a salute. “To a lifetime of love.”
“And beds,” she said, draining her cup in one long swallow.
He laughed and pulled her near. Violin music drifted in from the deck, and the boat rocked gently as it made its way downriver. She relaxed against him again, just breathing, existing, enjoying the closeness as he munched cheese and bread and sipped wine.
Suddenly she felt so happy, tears pricked her eyes. “Kit, I’m so glad I married you.”
He squeezed her tight. “Then you wouldn’t rather be here with the duke?” he teased.
“I expect he’d be puking all over me.”
He gulped and swallowed. “What?”
“The duke gets seasick.”
“Ah.” She heard laughter in his voice. “Good thing you chose me instead.”
“Good thing,” she sighed in agreement, then sat up when she felt a bump. “Good God, we’re here.” She jumped off Kit’s lap as a knock came at the door.
“Mr. Martyn?”
“One moment,” he called, shrugging back into his waistcoat. He laughed at her fumbling fingers. “No need to rush. Careful of your dress; you’ll want to wear it to the queen’s ball.” He made short work of attaching her stomacher, then swung her up into his arms and started carrying her off the barge.
“Kit!” She laughed, thinking she was much too tall for this. This wasn’t just a few feet like in the maze. And there were people watching. “You’ll hurt yourself. Put me down.”
“I think not.” They had docked right beside his house—their house—and he walked around to the front. “I’ve been told I should carry you over the threshold. Else we could have bad luck.”
“Only if I trip.”
“Well, this way you won’t trip, will you?” The wind whipped her skirts, practically blowing them up the portico’s steps. “I’m ensuring our future,” he informed her as the front door swung open and he carried her inside.
Holding the door grandly, Graves grinned at them both.
“Put me down,” Rose said, feeling windblown and silly.
“Not a chance.” Kit continued up the stairs. “We’ve one more threshold before we’re safe.”
He crossed that one—their bedchamber—before he set her on her feet.
“I feared for your heart,” she said and kissed him.
But he didn’t even seem winded. “You weigh nothing,” he assured her, and she supposed she didn’t—at least compared to big beams.
By the fireplace a small round table sat between two chairs, its polished surface covered with dishes of fruit, a pile of cakes, and bowls of whipped cream and strawberry sauce. Kit dipped an orange slice in both and slipped it between her lips. “Dessert,” he said with a smile.
The combination was tart and sweet, but she still wasn’t hungry. “I’d rather have a kiss,” she told him archly.
He obliged her, thoroughly, so thoroughly her knees felt weak when he finally drew back and turned her around to face a low chest of drawers.
She blinked and focused. “There it is!” she cried, spotting a square of white underneath
it. “The letter!”
“The letter?” he said from behind her.
“The note I left for you, explaining about Ellen. It must have fallen off the washstand and somehow wound up under there.”
“I don’t care about the letter.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Look up.”
And there, on the oak-paneled wall, was an oval gilt-framed painting.
Of her.
The Rose on the canvas was the same one he’d sketched that first day, her lips curved gently, her eyes holding secrets. “I drew a hundred pictures of you,” he said softly, “but I always came back to this one.”
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, staring. She imagined him painting it, his brush stroking lovingly while she worried needlessly he might not want her. Her heart squeezed in her chest. “I wish I could paint you.”
He stepped in front of her, his gaze glittering green. “Do you mean that, sweetheart?”
Something in his voice gave her pause. “Oh, yes, but I cannot.”
“I think you can,” he said, drawing off his surcoat.
“I’ve no talent with paint,” she said uncertainly, watching him cross to his bed.
His red-draped bed.
Red is a color of power, she remembered him saying.
Her heart raced as he tossed the coat to the red counterpane, followed by his waistcoat. His shirt went next.
Her breath went shallow. “I’ve tried painting,” she said inanely, “but I can never get the colors right.”
“There’s only red and white,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
“Red and white?” She licked her lips, staring at his bare chest. Gemini, he was magnificent. How could she have wanted an idle aristocrat when a working man like Kit had muscles that made a woman’s hands itch to run all over him?
Those muscles rippled as he strode over to the small round table and opened a curved drawer, rummaging inside. At last he pulled out a little brush. A paintbrush.
“White,” he said, dipping it in the whipped cream. “And red.” He swirled it in the strawberry sauce.
The sweets glistened in the firelight as he handed the brush to her with a grin.