Rose

by Lauren Royal

  “Whooooooooo. Whooooooooo.” She’d drawn breath for another exhalation when footsteps sounded in Rose’s room down the corridor.

  She barely made it back into the master chamber before her daughter’s door slammed open. “What was that? Who’s there?”

  Unlike her sisters, Rose didn’t sound scared. Her voice wasn’t tentative and frightened. Aggravated would better describe it.

  Rose’s footfalls paced the corridor up and halfway back before Chrystabel heard another door opening. Kit’s, thank the Lord. It had to be—his was the only occupied room left.

  “What the hell is going on out here? I thought I heard a ghost.”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Rose said peevishly.

  “Obviously,” Kit drawled, “you have never torn down an old building.”

  “Obviously,” Rose returned, “you have a lively imagination.”

  Kit only laughed. God strike her down, Chrystabel thought, if these two weren’t perfect for each other.

  No lightning bolts came down the chimney.

  “Are you hungry?” Rose asked.

  “I could eat.”

  There wasn’t a male alive who couldn’t find space for food, no matter how long since his belly was last filled. Chrystabel credited her daughter for knowing the way to a man’s heart.

  But as they made their way downstairs, her own heart sank. A jovial family midnight snack was not what she’d had in mind for Rose and Kit. And she had few, if any, chances left to arrange another meeting before her daughter wised up and figured out what was going on.

  A lot of terms could be used to describe Rose, but slow-witted wasn’t one of them. And Chrystabel knew well what would happen should her daughter discover that she and Kit were in league. The marriage would never occur.

  She shut her door and made her way back to bed to wake her husband. If he knew what was good for him, he’d better not say he was hungry.

  What she had in mind to ease her disappointment did not involve food.

  FORTY-FIVE

  AS KIT AND ROSE approached the kitchen, they heard laughter. Boisterous, rollicking laughter.

  Kit peeked in the door to find nearly the entire Ashcroft family around a big, scarred wooden table. Pies, bread, and leftover dishes from supper littered the surface. Ale and conversation flowed.

  Deciding he wasn’t hungry, he shut the door quietly, muffling the laughter to a dull roar. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go for a walk instead.”

  Rose’s dark eyes looked huge in the light of the single candle she was carrying. “Outside? In my night rail in the dead of the night?”

  “It’s been unseasonably warm. I’ll wait while you get your cloak.”

  “We’ve no shoes!” she protested, making Kit look down in surprise. Suddenly he could hardly fathom that he was here in Rose Ashcroft’s home in bare feet.

  Though her night rail and dressing gown concealed her body more effectively than the current fashions—court fashions most especially—there was something undeniably intimate about the ensemble. Something that made him belt his own robe more tightly.

  “We can go upstairs and don shoes,” he suggested.

  “I think not.”

  For a moment, he thought she would open the kitchen door and join the impromptu party. It had been her idea to come down here, after all. Looking forward to some quiet time with her in this noisy house, he’d agreed—but perhaps her interest in food surpassed her interest in him.

  Happily, in the end she didn’t disappoint him. “I have another idea,” she whispered, taking his arm to lead him away. “We can walk in my father’s orangery.”

  “Your father grows oranges?”

  “Not very successfully. That’s why he’s so keen to get that greenhouse.”

  The orangery was a long, narrow chamber that occupied the entire ground floor of the west wing. “It used to be called the Stone Gallery,” Rose told him as they entered. There were candlesticks mounted on the walls at intervals, and she lit them as she walked. “I suppose that after you build the greenhouse we’ll call it the Stone Gallery again.”

  Tall windows, dark now, lined the gallery along the west side and half of the east as well. The ceiling was intricately carved oak. Kit recognized it and the chamber as dating from Tudor times—a room the occupants would have used to take exercise in inclement weather. But now it was filled with a variety of trees and plants, all interspersed with statuary that looked like it had been brought from Italy.

  “Would you like an orange?” Rose asked laughingly, pulling a small, rather shriveled example from a scraggly branch. “Don’t worry—they don’t taste as bad as they look.”

  He peeled it as they walked, the black and white marble floor cold beneath his bare feet. “It’s quiet here,” he said.

  “Yes.” She sounded amused at the observation. “It’s not easy to find a quiet place at Trentingham, is it?”

  “You’ve a large family. But I like it,” he added, realizing suddenly that he did. “Even the noise. There’s a lot of life here. Vitality.”

  He’d felt that lack of vitality since his parents’ deaths. He’d been busy, yes—but there was a difference.

  “It’s real,” he added, tossing the peel into an empty clay pot.

  “Real?”

  He divided the little orange and handed her half. “Charles’s court, for example, is lively. But it’s forced gaiety, don’t you think? The liveliness here is real.”

  “Ah. Yes. I see,” she said thoughtfully.

  Popping the juicy, sweet fruit into his mouth, he hoped she also saw that court was a life she’d just as soon live without—because she’d have to if she married him. Even supposing he got his knighthood, he hadn’t the time to flit from one place to another at the whim of his monarch. He had his lifework to pursue.

  And no matter that it was fashionable, he had no intention of living a separate life from his wife.

  He heard her swallow. “Are you not happy, Kit?”

  She sounded like she cared. He hoped it was as more than a friend. More than like a brother, but better. “I’m happy right now,” he said, licking his fingers.

  “And Ellen is happy now.”

  “I don’t want to think about Ellen.”

  “But you must.” They’d reached the end of the gallery. She lit the last candle and set the one she’d carried on top of a headless statue. “I know you’re angry with her, with what she did. But you cannot remain estranged, you cannot remain silent—”

  “I’m not angry. Disappointed, yes, but not angry.” He took her arm, turning her to stroll back the direction they’d come. “And I’m not the one who isn’t talking.”

  “You cannot really mean to keep all that money—”

  “Will you be quiet, Rose?” he asked and then turned her toward him to quiet her with a kiss.

  She wound her arms around his neck and cooperated fully. She tasted of Rose and oranges, a flavor uniquely hers. A flavor he wanted to make his.

  He backed her against one of the walls between two windows. Above their heads, a haughty Roman emperor gazed down from a terra-cotta medallion—a souvenir of earlier times. Kit only wanted to make new times with Rose. A new life, a happy life—a life full of the vitality he’d been missing.

  He licked a bit of sweet stickiness from the corner of her mouth, then kissed that corner, then her chin. Bending his head, he tasted her long, slender throat, the pulse that beat in the hollow, that precious place where shoulder met neck. He parted the top of her dressing gown, baring the smooth, fragrant skin where her night rail had come untied at the collar.

  That small triangle of flesh glowed in the dancing candlelight. Her eyes slid closed. “Kit,” she breathed, and he couldn’t tell whether the single word was a protest or an entreaty. But she didn’t push him away, and he wouldn’t stop tasting her voluntarily.

  When she moved closer, he reached for the sash that secured her dressing gown and slowly drew one end until the b
ow came undone. The garment fell open, and then there was nothing between his hands and mouth and her body but the gossamer fabric of her night rail. No stomacher, no laces, no stays.

  Only one thin barrier to the floral-scented softness that was Rose.

  Kissing her, he teased her breasts through the delicate cloth, his pulse leaping when a little moan escaped her lips. His breath quickened as he felt the crests peak and harden beneath his fingers. He wanted to tear off her night rail and rip open his robe and bury himself inside her.

  But he couldn’t.

  He couldn’t scare her away, and he couldn’t risk getting to the point where he mindlessly took her too far. He couldn’t take her at all. Not until she was his, until she shared his name, until she wore his ring on her finger.

  But Lord Almighty, he wanted her.

  He lowered his head and suckled her through the filmy material. She arched, and his arms clenched tighter to support her. She smelled of roses and passion, a heady scent that almost had him breaking his promise to her mother and asking for more.

  Then she was asking for more.

  “More,” she murmured as she had in the square. “More.”

  How could he resist such a sweet plea? Easing down the neckline of her night rail, he licked at a breast, nibbling greedily. She thrust herself closer to his mouth, responding to his attentions with an eagerness no other woman ever had.

  That innate responsiveness, that unschooled sensuality, was one of the things he loved about her. One of the many, many things.

  She pressed herself against his body until he feared he’d lose his mind. She worked her hands into the front of his robe, hesitating a moment when she realized he wore nothing beneath it.

  “Gemini,” she whispered. Warm and smooth, her fingers maneuvered their way around him. His muscles jumped in response to her brazen exploration. When her arms completely encircled him, her hands flat on his back, she moved closer, molding her curves to fit him. “You feel entirely too good.”

  “So do you, sweetheart,” he murmured.

  “Touch me,” she said.

  His breath lodged in his chest. “I don’t think—”

  “Please.” She slid a hand from under his robe, grasped one of his, and guided it to that place he wanted to touch more than anything.

  Through her night rail, he felt her heat. Searing heat.

  “Touch me,” she repeated, her voice a husky rasp.

  It took a stronger man than Kit to refuse such a heartfelt request. He inched up the fabric, thinking he’d never get enough of this enchanting, forward creature. Steeling himself to maintain control, he slipped his hand beneath the hem and skimmed the warm smoothness of a bare thigh. Gritting his teeth, he teased circles on her delicate, silky skin.

  “Touch me,” Rose breathed. “Please touch me. Please.”

  And finally, finally, he did.

  When Kit cupped her like he had in the square, Rose surged against his hand, quivering with need. She thought, for one fleeting instant, that it was madness asking for this. But oh, the madness was sweet.

  “More,” she begged. “More.”

  For a moment he kept still. She held her breath, waiting, waiting, waiting…

  “More,” she whispered again.

  And he moved his hand.

  A gentle slide of fingers, a tantalizing thrill. And again, tormenting, making her squirm against him. Again, and her dampness became an exquisite slickness. Again, and desire spiraled through her.

  The heat built; her skin prickled.

  Then he slipped a finger inside her, and her world tilted.

  Sensation flooded her being, stealing her breath, making the blood surge through her veins and pound insistently in her ears. He drew out of her and plunged back in, again and again, playing her body until she teetered on the edge of awareness…until suddenly she shattered, shuddering both without and within with pleasure she’d never known.

  “More,” Kit murmured, borrowing her word, wanting more than anything to give her more than she’d ever dreamed. Nothing would make him happier than to make her happy day and night. He wanted her so badly, the need was a physical ache, a heaviness in his chest. “More,” he whispered again.

  And she gave him more, making his heart soar. He’d never seen anything as lovely as his Rose writhing in ecstasy. A true thing of beauty.

  As her tremors abated, he kissed her, taking her long, sweet languid sigh into his mouth. “A thing of beauty,” she whispered, echoing his thoughts.

  Has she refused your proposal? Rand had asked.

  No, and Kit couldn’t imagine her doing so now.

  When her eyes fluttered open, looking dazed, he gave her a gentle smile. “I love you, Rose.” Watching her lips curve in response to those words, he drew a shaky breath. “Will you marry me?”

  “Marry you?” Her eyes filled with pain and confusion, the pleasure turning to panic. “No. I…no. Good God, what have I done?” She shoved her night rail down and closed her dressing gown, fumbling with the sash before giving up and hugging herself miserably. “I’m sorry. I must go.”

  She pushed past him and ran from the chamber, her bare footfalls pattering all down its long length. At the other end, he heard the door slam shut.

  And then he was alone with the flickering candles and his tight throat and his pensive thoughts.

  And his aching heart.

  He’d known all along that she’d refuse him, so why was he so crushed and demoralized? And why had he taken things so far? Never mind that her mother had tacitly given permission, it had been wrong. He cursed himself roundly. He’d been weak. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  Damn Lady Trentingham for encouraging him. He’d always known that, as matters stood, he wouldn’t be considered good enough for an earl’s daughter.

  Not by the daughter herself, in any case.

  And just his luck, he’d chosen the one woman in England whose parents let her choose her own husband.

  The candlelight that had seemed so intimate earlier now seemed too bright, too revealing. He slowly moved to douse the many small flames. He burned to tell Rose of his pending knighthood, but with his project deadlines approaching and all the problems, he was no longer confident of his chances. And for all he knew, a knighthood might not be enough for her, anyway. The Deputy Surveyor post was only a first step—it could be years before he raised himself further.

  By then it would be too late for him and Rose.

  Too, too late.

  FORTY-SIX

  ROSE SPENT A restless, tormented night. When she awakened, the note she found slipped beneath her door did nothing to ease her distress. ROSE, it said in the neat, all-caps printing she’d seen on Kit’s architectural renderings:

  MUST CHECK PROGRESS AT HAMPTON COURT. PLEASE GIVE YOUR FAMILY MY THANKS AND ASSURE YOUR FATHER THAT THE GREENHOUSE WILL PROCEED ON SCHEDULE AS PLANNED. -K

  There was nothing more. No “Dearest Rose.” No “I love you, Kit,” or even just “Love, Kit.”

  Did he hate her now? Had she lost his friendship along with her innocence?

  True, she was still a virgin, but her entire body heated when she remembered the liberties she’d allowed Kit last night. A hot, tingling ache spread, centered in that place between her legs where he’d touched her. Where he’d made her feel things she’d never felt. Never even imagined.

  She washed and slowly dressed without help, so lost in her thoughts she couldn’t bear conversation with Harriet. I love you. She supposed she had no right to expect Kit to declare so in a letter when he’d said the words out loud and been met with her silence. And then gone so far as to propose and been met with a no.

  Her first proposal.

  The look on his face had nearly killed her. His words had taken her completely by surprise. She supposed, on reflection, that they shouldn’t have…

  But she’d been expecting her first proposal to come from a duke.

  Confusion was a weight in her chest. Did she love Kit? In the
heat of the moment, it had been on the tip of her tongue to echo those three words. But she hadn’t, because she wasn’t sure, and in any case it wouldn’t matter.

  He wasn’t the right man for her.

  He’d had no right to expect a different answer. She might have reached the advanced age of one-and-twenty, but she wasn’t yet desperate enough to marry a commoner. She’d be a fool to do that when Bridgewater, a lofty peer of the realm, was likely to offer for her hand. She squared her shoulders as she headed down to the dining room for breakfast.

  Happy as bees in a bed of flowers, her sisters and their families were already eating, having risen early to prepare for their journeys home. The elder Ashcrofts were conspicuously absent; after a homecoming, they often slept late. Rowan and Jewel chatted cheerfully, so focused on each other the rest of the room might as well have been empty.

  Everyone in this house—everyone but Rose—was in love.

  The conversation died as she scraped back a chair and plopped onto it. A footman offered a cup of chocolate, and she clenched it so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “Where is Kit?” Lily asked.

  Rose felt her jaw tightening. “What makes you think I should know?” she gritted out, suddenly visualizing herself biting her sister’s head off. She gulped the hot liquid, scalding her tongue. “He left a note. It seems he’s gone on to Hampton Court.”

  “Oh,” Lily said.

  “Did you hear a ghost last night?” Rowan asked.

  Rose imagined biting his head off, too. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Rose is right,” Ford put in.

  He could live.

  “I heard tapping,” Rowan insisted.

  “Me, too,” Jewel said, gazing at him worshipfully.

  That pixie-faced girl had fallen in love at six. Six! Off with her pixie head.

  “We heard tapping and scratching,” Rand said. “Lily and I both.”

  “And I heard a terrible scraping noise.” Violet turned to Rose. “Did you not hear anything at all?”

  A whoosh. But she’d never admit it. She didn’t believe in ghosts.