by Lauren Royal
“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.
His gaze was more wicked than ever.
“Here,” he said. “Paint me.”
She gave a startled laugh, then stroked the brush down his chest, leaning to lick off the sweets with a long, hot swipe of her tongue. Cream and sugar and strawberries and Kit.
This kind of painting she could do.
“HOW ODD,” Chrystabel said as she crawled into bed that night. “By the time of the wedding, Rose didn’t seem anxious at all.”
Glad to see she hadn’t bothered with a night rail, Joseph skimmed a hand down her body. “You didn’t seem anxious, either, my love.”
She sighed, half with memories, half with pleasure. “I knew this match was right.”
“And here I thought the prewedding night worked,” he teased, one hand fondling a breast while the other trailed between her thighs.
“It did,” she breathed. “But I think a postwedding night is in order, anyway.”
SEVENTY-THREE
“LOOK AT ALL the people crowding the balconies!” Rose exclaimed.
Everyone who was anyone seemed to be at the queen’s birthday celebration. Musicians played at the far end of the chamber while courtiers danced, all dressed in their finest and wearing every jewel they could lay their hands on. From the upper level, more aristocrats and dignitaries looked on.
Kit watched Rose’s gaze sweep the classical white and gold room and the stunning ceiling painted by Sir Peter Paul Rubens. “Good God,” she said, “this must be the most beautiful building in all of England.”
“More beautiful than mine?” he teased, enjoying her reaction to Whitehall’s Banqueting House. In truth, he only hoped to build something as magnificent as Inigo Jones’s masterpiece someday. While Rose would be happy here for hours, he couldn’t wait to leave and begin their journey to the Continent, where he’d finally get the chance to study the architecture that had inspired Jones.
And yet, this appearance was somewhat of a triumph for him, too. “Shall we dance?” he asked and guided his new wife into the throng. And there he was, plain Mr. Christopher Martyn, dancing at Queen Catharine’s birthday ball.
Rose felt like heaven in his arms, tall and slender and his. He could still hardly believe he’d won her.
When Nell Gwyn waved at her and winked, she grinned back. “Imagine,” she mused. “Nell was born in a bawdy house and ended up the mother of one of the king’s sons.”
“Very like me.” Kit whirled her around. “I was born in a cottage and ended up wed to an earl’s daughter.”
He’d meant it humorously, but it seemed she was in a reflective mood tonight. “It’s odd, don’t
you think, the way people crave the opposite of what they have? Nelly makes Charles happy because her house is his home. A regular home, and a real life when he’s with her. She throws parties where he’s a guest, not a king. None of his other mistresses do that for him. They take what he has to offer without giving back in return.”
Delighted, Kit gave her a quick kiss, right there in front of the king and queen and everyone. “And where did you come by all this information?”
“The ladies here at court. They like me very much, you know. Ever since I started supplying them with lurid sonnets.”
He laughed. “The men like you, too. A bit too much for my comfort.”
“No need to worry on that account. I don’t even see them anymore.” She closed her eyes and leaned into him. “For me, you’re the only man in this room.”
He laughed again and kissed her again, and thanked God again that he’d won her. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy.
“Even the queen looks happy tonight,” Rose said, as though she were reading his mind. She smiled in Catharine’s direction. Dressed in a magnificent cloth-of-gold gown, the queen danced with Charles, gazing up at him with calm satisfaction. At thirty-nine, she finally seemed content in her unusual marriage.
But William of Orange and his new princess didn’t look so happy. Kit watched them move desultorily around the dance floor. William was shorter than Mary and seemed to have a consumptive cough. Although he was only twenty-seven, deep lines marred his face.
“Poor Mary has been crying again,” Rose said with a melancholy sigh.
“Again?”
“I saw her on her wedding day in London. She looked terribly unhappy.”
Kit drew her closer. “Their marriage was arranged for diplomatic purposes. Neither of them really had a choice. That’s the fate of the important.”
Her mood seemed to lighten. “I’m so glad you’re not important.”
Once that might have hurt, but rank now seemed insignificant next to the joy of wedding Rose.
When they came off the dance floor, Christopher Wren was waiting and handed them both glasses of champagne. “To our queen,” he said. “And your successes. The chapel turned out beautifully, just as I’d envisioned it.”
Kit toasted him back. “You gave me excellent plans to work from.”
“But Windsor’s dining room was your own. A masterpiece.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry about the appointment.”
“That’s water under the bridge,” Kit said, meaning it. He had a new life, new plans.
The Earl of Rosslyn sidled up, a champagne glass in one hand and his ever-present walking stick in the other. “Martyn,” he slurred.
Kit wrapped an arm around Rose’s shoulders. “Rosslyn. I take it life is treating you well?”
“I find myself overburdened with too much work.” He drained the glass and snagged another from a passing maid. “So sad that I won the post in your place.”
Kit shrugged and began to turn away. The man had won the post fair and square, but that didn’t mean he had to listen to his backhanded boasts.
“A shame you miscalculated the length of that span at Hampton Court,” he heard Rosslyn say behind him.
Swiveling back, Kit exchanged a startled glance with Wren. The older man knew Kit had done all his measurements and calculations in private—that besides the two of them, only the perpetrator would know exactly what had been wrong with the building. And Wren had promised to keep that knowledge to himself.
Aghast, Kit turned on Rosslyn. “What sort of man would sabotage another’s reputation in order to obtain an appointment?”
Rosslyn was drunk and slow, but Kit saw the horror dawn in his eyes as he realized he’d given himself away.
“You set the fire, didn’t you?” Kit pressed. “And altered the plans at Hampton Court. I expect you counted yourself lucky that Harold Washburn’s greed took care of Windsor for you. By purchasing inferior materials, he lined his pockets and delayed a project without you lifting so much as a finger.”
“I paid him to do that,” Rosslyn said smugly.
Kit’s jaw tensed. No wonder Washburn had been able to throw around so much money.
“Guards!” Wren called.
Leaning heavily on his ribbon-topped walking stick, Rosslyn glared at Kit. A wild sheen in his eyes said he wasn’t all there. “Your loss, my gain,” he growled. “At last I’ve proven myself better than you.” When a red-coated guard stepped up to restrain him, he twisted from the man’s grip. “All those years in school, no matter how well I did, that upstart Kit Martyn always did better—”
He was cut off when a second guard grabbed him and the two began dragging him away. Rosslyn kicked, drawing every gaze in the room with his shouted curses, his useless walking stick banging along the planked wood floor.
Long after everyone else had returned to their revelry, Kit stared after him. “I always thought we were friends,” he murmured, stunned.
Rose squeezed his hand. “He never seemed very friendly.”
He blinked and looked at her. “Acquaintances, then. Perhaps casual ones. But there was never any animosity.”
“On your part.”
Wren took Kit’s empty glass from his hand and shoved a full one into it. “Drink up. I’ll be back.”
Numbly, Kit followed his advice, taking it a step further by making his way over to a delicate gilt chair and lowering himself gingerly onto it. Learning that childhood competition could lead to treachery all these years later was a shock he was finding hard to absorb.
Rose followed and stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “He’s talking to King Charles.”
“Rosslyn?”
“No, Wren. The two of them are making their way outside. Out the same way Rosslyn was taken.”
Kit rose to see, but the men had already exited the building. Feeling drained, he turned to his wife. “Let’s leave. I’ve had enough. We can get a good night’s sleep before we start our journey tomorrow.”
“Wren said he’d be back.” She peered over Kit’s shoulder. “Look, he’s coming now. With Charles.”
Kit drained his glass and set it down as the men approached. Rose took his arm, a silent show of support. The king wasted no time with greetings. “Martyn. I’ve just learned that in the face of betrayal, you put Barbara’s life, and those of our children, before your own interests. I’m very grateful.”
Kit’s gaze flicked to Wren. “I told him,” the older man admitted.
“I can see that.” Kit looked back to Charles. “The building was flawed. I did only what needed to be done. Any other man would do the same.”
“Not any,” Charles disagreed. “Only the sort of man I was searching for to appoint Deputy Surveyor. I believe I’ve found him.”
A tiny gasp escaped Rose’s lips, and her hand tightened on Kit’s arm. It took a moment for the king’s words to sink in before Kit swept him a deep bow. “My thanks, Your Majesty.” It had happened so fast, he could scarcely believe his old goal had been reached at last. “I shall endeavor to assure you chose the right man.”
“I expect no less.”
“There’s more,” Wren said.
Charles nodded. “I’ve stripped Gaylord Craig of his title and properties. I wish to grant them to you. You shall henceforth be known as the Earl of Rosslyn.”
Dumbfounded, Kit looked between the king and Wren. “It seems only fitting,” Wren said graciously.
Kit’s knees locked. He felt all the blood draining from his face.
“Sit down.” With a laugh, Rose pushed him back onto the chair.
Clearly enjoying his own magnanimity, Charles grinned. “I’ll accept your thanks later, Rosslyn.” Rosslyn. “My queen is awaiting a birthday toast.”
“Congratulations, my lord. My lady.” Wren bowed and walked off.
As Kit watched them both go, his world slowly stopped spinning and righted itself. Almost.
“Deputy Surveyor
and an earldom,” he murmured. “Wren is Surveyor General and only a knight.”
Rose moved closer. “Wren didn’t save King Charles’s children’s lives.”
It still didn’t seem real. “You’re a countess now,” he told his wife. “Lady Rosslyn.”
There in front of all the court, she perched herself on his lap and toyed with his cravat, using it to pull him near for a quick kiss. “I don’t care,” she said gaily, adding “my lord” with an impish grin.
My lord. Two short words that meant so much. He kissed her again for good measure, feeling, at the moment, that she was the only familiar thing he had to cling to. “After all those weeks of putting up with that damned duke’s attentions, you cannot tell me you don’t care—”
“I don’t,” she repeated. “You’ve been vindicated, and we’re off to explore the world together, and that’s all that matters.”
That sounded wonderful, but too simple. A maid came by with more champagne, and he took a glass, still dazed. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly.
“Sure of what?”
“Anything. Where the Rosslyn lands are, for starters.”
“Good God,” she said with mock alarm, “I hope it’s not Northumberland.”
“And what it will take to care for them.”
“I can help you with that.” She looked both startled and pleased at that thought.
“And whether I can go off to explore the world when I’ve just been appointed Deputy Surveyor.”
Now genuine alarm widened her eyes. “You can go. We’re going. Tomorrow. The post will wait. It will be winter soon, anyway, too cold for building, and—”
“Very well, we’ll go. Before Charles has a chance to say otherwise.” It would be the first time in his life he acted irresponsibly, but devil take it if he and Rose didn’t deserve their dream of traveling. They could cut their holiday short, but they would go.
It felt damned strange to be putting the present before his future, but maybe it was about time.
As the courtiers raised their glasses all around him, toasting the queen, he blew out a breath and set Rose on her feet, then stood and raised his own. He was one of them now, and that felt damned strange, too.