by Lauren Royal
“I’m not giving up without a fight,” he said low. “We’re too good together. I want you.”
God help her, she wanted him, too, and not just because his touch made her forget who she was and what she was after. He was the only man she’d ever met who appreciated her for more than her beauty—who valued her for her intelligence, who was awed by her talent with languages. She wanted Kit more than she’d imagined a woman could want a man.
But in the end, she said nothing, because a duke had offered for her hand. And risked his life defending her honor.
How could she accept an architect over a duke?
The diamonds felt hard in her fist. “I think we’d best go back.”
He scooped his cravat off the ground and stuffed it into his pocket.
She straightened her gown. “How do we get out? The right-hand rule?”
His expression eased to the point where he almost cracked a smile. “How about the rule of knowing the way you came in?”
“How many times have you been in this maze?”
“Just the once. But it’s a pattern. Geometry.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re good at geometry.”
He met her gaze, his own steady. “If you ever give me a chance to show you, you’ll find I’m good at a lot of things. Follow me.”
He led her out without one misstep.
Without running into one dead end.
Without any more kisses.
FIFTY-TWO
LATER THAT DAY, Kit was in the midst of a calculation when a knock interrupted.
“One minute,” he called, pausing to scribble down a number.
He rose and stretched for a brief moment, then padded across his small lodging to open the door. “Lady Trentingham.” He blinked.
How had she found him? The courtiers weren’t lodged near Master Carpenter’s Court.
“May I come in?”
“Of course,” he said, suddenly aware of his state of half-dress: no shoes, no stockings, no coat, no cravat. Just breeches and a shirt, the latter unlaced at the neck and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He began turning them down.
“No need to do that for me,” she assured him as she stepped inside. “I’ve seen a man’s arms and feet before. And a chest.” Her brown eyes danced with mischief. “Has Rose seen yours?”
“No!” he said quickly.
She gave a mournful shake of her head. “Then you’re not doing a very good job. However do you expect her to be consumed by lust if you’re always dressed to face a snowstorm?”
He couldn’t believe the conversations he found himself in with Rose’s mother. He waved her toward one of the two chairs that flanked the Spartan room’s small table and took the other for himself. “I gave my word that Rose would remain chaste.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” She sat, fluffing her skirts. “But a little temptation wouldn’t be amiss. This is going to take more than kisses.”
How did she know he’d scaled it back to kisses? And was she right? Had that been a mistake?
“Have you tried some romance?” she asked.
“I picked her up and carried her. And I carved our initials into a tree trunk. The mere act had me choking back laughter, but she loved it.”
“Excellent. You must do some more of that.”
He wasn’t sure he could come up with anything more. “I’m a very straightforward kind of fellow, Lady Trentingham. I wasn’t raised here at court. I’m not good at gallant gestures.”
She glanced at the carefully drawn plans he’d spread on the table. “You seem creative enough to me. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll do just fine.”
Designing buildings wasn’t creative—it was logical, mathematical. Certain requirements had to be met, certain loads had to be supported, certain shapes were inherently beautiful.
But he’d learned by now there was no arguing with Lady Trentingham. “I’ll try,” he told her.
“Excellent. The fact that Rose refused the duke’s proposal after he dueled on her behalf—I take that as a very good sign.”
“The duel…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I realize it’s not my place to say this, my lady, but matters at court seem to be getting a bit out of hand. I think it might be best if you took Rose and left—as soon as possible.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow. Her friend Judith is marrying later this week, and she’d never forgive us if we missed her wedding.”
“No, I mean you should leave today. Before…” Hoping Rose would forgive him, he plunged on. “Are you aware that your daughter is in possession of a book? A very—”
“I Sonetti?” she interrupted.
“She shared it with you?” He couldn’t imagine a mother-daughter relationship like that, but then nothing about the Ashcroft family seemed normal.
Question Convention, he thought with an internal sigh.
Lady Trentingham’s lips quirked. “Of course she didn’t share it. But she’s carried it from place to place for days. I’m not unobservant.”
Somehow he didn’t find that statement surprising. “Then you’ll know why you must leave. Word has gone round that Rose has this book, and people—men—have decided she’s…she’s…”
“Wild? A wanton?”
“And worse,” he snapped. He didn’t want to think of Rose like that. And he knew it wasn’t really true.
Her mother sighed. “I’m aware of that, too. It’s unfortunate, and certainly not in my plans. But she’s in no danger of being compromised—”
“I wouldn’t be so certain.”
“I’m watching her. If it makes you feel any better, keep in mind that those lecherous courtiers may be driving her straight into your arms.”
Perhaps she had a point that, in the scheme of things, all those men with wandering hands might be doing him a favor. But that didn’t mean he liked it. “Take her home,” he begged. “As soon as I’ve convinced myself that everything is right here, I’ll come straight to Trentingham. Without these unwelcome distractions, I’ll be able to concentrate my efforts on making her find me irresistible.”
“Excellent. But we’ll leave tomorrow. Rose would never forgive me if she missed the masked ball. Even now, she’s wearing her fingers to nubs sewing blooms on a gown.”
“Blooms?”
“Her costume. She’s going as a flower arrangement.”
Despite his worry, he smiled. It was so Rose. “I thought she would be sleeping.”
“She did, for a while. But then she raided the palace’s gardens and set both our maids to work. The three of them are stitching madly.”
He sighed, giving up. “What are you going as?”
“A mother. I’ll watch her, Kit.”
“You do that,” he said.
But he would watch her, too.
FIFTY-THREE
EVERYTHING looked so beautiful!
The masked ball was held in the great hall rather than the Presence Chamber, and instead of candelabra and oil lamps, the huge room was lit by liveried yeomen holding tall, flaming torches. Overhead, the gold stars on the painted hammerbeam ceiling winked on their field of bright blue.
Dancers twirled in the blazing light. King Arthur was paired with a glittery-winged butterfly, and Robin Hood danced with Aphrodite. An angel and a devil seemed to be getting along well, and Zeus was kissing Anne Boleyn.
Decked out in a gown covered neckline to hemline with fresh flowers, Rose watched from a corner, drinking in the splendor and trying to puzzle out everyone’s identity. All the faces were covered by full or half masks, but a few courtiers weren’t difficult to spot.
Beneath Caesar’s crown of laurel leaves, his half mask failed to cover King Charles’s mustache, and as the tallest man in the room, the monarch’s height would have given him away regardless.
The Duchess Mazarin had come as a shepherdess, and her servant Mustapha was her little black sheep. Apparently shepherdesses wore no stays of any sort, because Hortense’s ample breasts jiggled agains
t the thin fabric of her peasant blouse every time she laughed—which was often.
Rose was trying her best not to stare.
Other ladies were skimpily garbed as well. A tavern wench’s nipples peeked from her low, frilled bodice. A blowzy doxy flitted about in dishabille. A Greek goddess’s robes couldn’t seem to stay fastened—
“Enjoying yourself?” someone asked, and Rose turned to see Nell Gwyn. Since she was the smallest woman in the chamber, her identity wasn’t in doubt. Her half mask of black matched her lovely black gown. But it was, after all, just an ordinary black gown, much like the one she’d made fun of Louise de Kéroualle wearing yesterday.
Rose cocked her head. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“I’m in mourning,” Nell said gaily, “for poor Louise’s lost hopes.”
Rose laughed and looked for Louise. There she was, as a haughty Cleopatra. But Caesar, surrounded as usual by spaniels and toying with the loose-breasted shepherdess, seemed distinctly uninterested.
Lost hopes, indeed.
“What a clever costume,” Nell said. “I don’t believe anyone has ever before come as a flower arrangement.” She leaned closer to Rose. “You smell delicious.”
Pleased, Rose smiled beneath her mask. “You know who I am?”
“I know who everyone is,” Nell boasted. “Except him.” She gestured toward a man standing before one of the massive gold- and silver-embroidered tapestries that covered the walls. “Handsome as sin, isn’t he?”
Rose followed Nell’s gaze, spotting a pirate. His breeches were tighter than the current fashion—skintight, as a matter of fact—hinting at long, muscular legs. His full white shirt was unlaced halfway down his chest, revealing bare skin sprinkled with crisp black hair.
“Handsome as sin, indeed.” Rose wondered if he was a good kisser. “When do the masks come off?”
“Midnight,” Nell said with a tinkling laugh, apparently divining Rose’s thoughts. “But I’ve arranged a surprise first. It should be jolly fun. In the meantime”—she lifted her black skirts—“I’m going to meet that pirate.”
As Rose watched her dance off, a medieval knight came up carrying a goblet full of warm, spiced wine. He bowed elaborately, his chain mail clanking. “My lady.”
He’d taken no pains to disguise his voice, so she knew it was Gabriel. “My thanks, Sir Knight,” she said, taking the cup and sipping gratefully.
Or gulping might be a better description.
Instead of a mask, he wore a polished helmet complete with a visor that concealed his face. How very appropriate, she thought, for him to dress as a knight in shining armor after yesterday’s duel.
And he wasted no time in reminding her. “I would slay dragons for you, my dear Rose.”
She sighed. “You recognize me?”
“But of course. I would know you anywhere.” The visor creaked when he flipped it up, his blue eyes blazing with earnestness. “You’re the damsel of my dreams…I hope you’ve reconsidered and decided to marry me.”
He was so perfect. So gallant.
Was it terrible of her to be glad the helmet prevented a kiss?
She sipped more wine. “I’m thinking about it, Gabriel.”
“I would have your answer soon. I would waste no time making you my wife.”
Why couldn’t she just say yes? She’d resolved to do so last night, hadn’t she?
But she didn’t know him. She only knew he was a duke. “Do you like to travel?” she asked.
“I visit my mother in Northumberland every year.”
Oh, wouldn’t that be exciting? “I meant overseas.”
“I get seasick in the bath.” He looked a little green at the mere thought. But then he mustered a bold face. “If you wish to travel, dear Rose, I will manage.”
She couldn’t expect more. “What’s your favorite book?” she asked, wracking her brain for some of Kit’s questions.
“I don’t read,” he said, looking bewildered.
“You cannot read?”
“Of course I can read. I simply find other pursuits more interesting.”
“Oh.” That wasn’t too bad, then, was it? She wasn’t much of a reader herself, save for newsheets and foreign books. Everyone had different tastes. “Tastes,” she murmured. “Do you prefer sweet or savory?”
His good humor seemed stretched to the breaking point. “What is it with these questions?”
“Nothing,” she muttered. “Never mind. Thank you for the wine.”
She wandered away, leaving him staring after her. So he wasn’t much for conversation. Not every man liked to talk, she told herself sternly. It wasn’t a crime to keep one’s thoughts to oneself.
She just wondered whether he had any.
Musing, she bumped into someone, crushing more than a few of her flowers. “Pardon me,” the man said in an unnaturally deep voice. A disguised voice, she decided, looking up.
It was the pirate. Her heart skipped a beat. Handsome as sin, she remembered Nell saying.
And masculine as hell.
“It was my fault,” she assured him with a flutter of her carefully darkened lashes. She hoped he could see them through the eyeholes of her mask. “I was daydreaming.”
His own masked face was expressionless. “I hope they were sweet dreams.”
Who was he? What courtier had come just today? She hadn’t heard of any new arrivals, but she’d been busy catching up on her sleep and preparing her costume.
Her fingers itched to touch the bare triangle of chest displayed between the edges of his half-laced shirt. She sipped again instead, feeling the wine go straight to her head. “Will you kiss me?” she asked boldly.
Again, that expressionless reply. “I don’t kiss strangers, my lady. And I’d advise you to follow the same rule.”
Well! She wanted to rip that mask off his handsome face.
Then again, she had no idea whether he was actually handsome under that mask. Maybe he wasn’t. In fact, maybe he was hideous. And if he didn’t want to kiss her, perhaps that was because he knew he had dismal technique.
Feeling better, she stalked away.
But as she danced with Henry VIII, she felt the pirate watching her. And after she kissed a jester—not enjoying it at all—she saw him glare. Wherever she went, his gaze seemed to follow.
The only person keeping a closer eye on her was her mother. Dressed in a sea-green gown with a demi-mask to match, Chrystabel watched Rose the entire evening. Since Mum had all but ignored her so far at court, Rose found the sudden attentiveness disconcerting.
She danced with a monk and then with Thor, but she wasn’t truly enjoying herself. When Merlin lifted his mask to kiss her and she discovered he was the Earl of Rosslyn—the married cur!—she almost decided to head back to her apartments.
But she wanted to see the unmasking. And Nelly’s surprise.
She was dancing with a Viking when, outside in Clock Court, the great astronomical timepiece struck midnight. Nell sharply clapped her hands. “Yeomen,” she shouted. “Now!”
As one, the flaming torches were extinguished, and the room plunged into darkness.
FIFTY-FOUR
ROSE SHRIEKED, and the Viking grabbed her by both arms. “Come here, my pretty.”
He stank. Deprived of her vision, she realized many of the people in the great hall stank—all the flowers on her gown couldn’t mask the stenches of stale sweat and too much perfume. Feeling lost, she held tight to the smelly Viking. Though she blinked and blinked, she couldn’t see a thing. Her heart was threatening to pound right out of her chest.
She’d never liked the dark. “What is this?” she cried.
“It’s naught but a bit of fun,” he said in a voice anything but soothing. Dropping one of her arms, he scrabbled at her mask. Cool air hit her face, swiftly replaced by wet, rubbery lips.
Gagging, she twisted her head. “How dare you!” She wrenched from his grasp and stalked away—or tried to, but tripped instead.
She f
ell to her hands and knees, bouncing off a body on the floor. “Ah, the flower girl,” a man murmured, his fingers grasping an ankle and working their way under her skirts. He gripped her calf and dragged her closer. “Come to me, sweet.”
Mewling with disgust and fear, she scrambled away on all fours, losing a shoe when it came off in his hand. She kept moving, darting around boots and skirts as she frantically tried to feel her way to freedom. Laughter and exclamations rang through the air along with the sounds of courtiers milling, pausing for a kiss here and a grope there, exploring one another in the dark.
It seemed an enormous, terrifying maze of debauched humanity.
Someone stepped on her hand, and tears sprang to her eyes. She crawled faster, running headfirst into a pair of legs. Large hands reached down and hauled her up.
“What have we here?” a man drawled, sniffing appreciatively. “Oh, the flower lady. I believe you know the secrets of I Sonetti?”
With that, he clamped her ruthlessly, one big hand on the back of her head and the other against her spine, his lips bruising hers as they found their target in the dark. With no further ceremony, he thrust his tongue inside her mouth.
She pushed against him and kicked his shins, but he kept her clutched tight. Reaching blindly to his right side, her fingers closed on the hilt of his sword. She pulled with all her might, but the peace strings held fast. Tears trailing hot down her cheeks, she bit his tongue. Hard.
A metallic flavor flooded her mouth.
“Damn you!” he cried, shoving her away with both hands. Spitting blood, she turned and stumbled into someone soft and fragrant—a woman. The vixen squealed and clawed at her face. Rose careened away, bumped into someone else, and screamed.
Hands gripped her shoulders and held her steady. Just held her, not grasping. An anchor in the dark sea of terror.
“Hush,” he said. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Kit. His voice, his hands. Feeling her knees buckle, she leaned against his shoulder, smelling frankincense and myrrh. Kit. Warm and yielding instead of cold and hard, but a knight in shining armor nonetheless.