The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “Making her fall,” Chrystabel said, “will be Kit’s problem, and I’ve no doubt he’s up to the task. I need only provide the opportunity.”

  “You cannot push, Chrysanthemum.”

  Her laugh tinkled through the darkness. “I would never. I know full well our daughters pledged to avoid me arranging their marriages. Yet I managed to match both Violet and Lily without either being the wiser, didn’t I? Have no fear, darling—Rose’s romance will follow suit. And she’ll have no idea I was behind it.”

  FIVE

  KIT STOOD in a corner of Windsor Castle’s soon-to-be new dining room, watching two carpenters affix carvings of fruit to the paneled wall. The piece, exquisitely worked by Grinling Gibbons, was made of supple lime wood, a fine material.

  He wished he could say the same for the rest of his project.

  His gaze went to the sagging ceiling on the side of the room that had recently been part of a brick courtyard. Jagged cracks ran this way and that, and bits of broken plaster littered the floor underneath. On his orders, men were hastily erecting scaffolding to support the damaged ceiling until it could be repaired from above.

  All day, Kit had measured and figured, tearing out parts of the ceiling to search for causes, to find where his planning had gone wrong. It hadn’t, he’d finally discovered—the plans had been perfect. That was, if they’d been executed with the high quality materials he’d used in his calculations.

  But Harold Washburn, his project’s foreman, had apparently not seen fit to order those materials, no matter that he’d been supplied with the funds. Instead, the new portion of the room had been built with inferior goods that weren’t strong enough to support the ceiling. Kit had found beams made of wormy wood that had obviously been hit by lightning, weakening it; and cheap, substandard plaster that might look fine on first inspection, but wouldn’t hold up over the years, sagging ceiling or not.

  And Washburn, no doubt, had pocketed the savings. Making Kit look the fool.

  Calculations in hand, he stalked toward the foreman. “Washburn!”

  The older man swung around, his beady gaze hooded. “Aye, young Martyn? Have you a plan to repair the faulty addition?”

  “Faulty?” Seething, Kit loomed over the balding old cur. Washburn may have had the advantage in years, but Kit had the height. ”The only thing faulty here is your honor—or appalling lack thereof. Do you know what the penalty is for bilking the Crown?”

  Washburn had the gall to feign innocence. “Sir? What are these accusations? I would never—”

  “Never again for me, at any rate,” Kit interrupted. He gestured with his rolled-up sketches. “Be gone.”

  The man’s breath huffed in and out through a large nose crisscrossed with tiny red veins. “You think you can just dismiss me?” he growled.

  “Would you rather be swinging from the gallows? Or buried under several tons of wormy wood?” Kit spit on the ground at the man’s feet. “You’re lucky I’m only dismissing you.”

  Astonishingly, Washburn simply shouldered past him and marched out.

  Was it Kit’s imagination, or did the old cur actually look smug?

  Kit consciously unclenched his jaw, reaching for the scrap of brick in his pocket. His fist clenched around it; he’d been itching for a fight.

  In the end, though, the anger faded, replaced by relief. In truth, the crisis had resolved far more quickly and easily than he’d feared.

  He took a deep breath, promoted a grateful mason to take Washburn’s place, then headed to the small chamber he’d been given to use as an office, revising the schedule in his head. The project would still finish on time.

  That there were greedy men in the world wasn’t news to Kit. He wouldn’t let this particular one cost him the Deputy Surveyor post.

  It would take worse than the likes of Harold Washburn to stand in Kit Martyn’s way.

  SIX

  “HURRY,” ROSE said. “Or by the time we get to court, the presentations will be finished.”

  “Stop worrying, dear.” Seated together with Rose at the single dressing table in the rooms they’d been assigned at Windsor Castle, Mum held very still while her maid, Anne, used hot curling tongs to put the final touches on her hair. “We’ll still be admitted, even if we’re late.”

  With all the last minute preparations, they’d left home today much later than they’d planned. Mum had needed to leave instructions for the running of the entire household, and Harriet, Rose’s maid, had taken forever to pack. It had been dark by the time they’d reached Windsor, and Rose, dying of curiosity, had hardly been able to see anything of the enormous castle as a warden showed them by torchlight to their small apartments.

  “I don’t want to be late,” Rose complained. Beneath wine-colored satin sleeves fastened at intervals with jeweled clasps, her skin prickled with suppressed excitement. “I want to meet the king and queen.”

  “You will, dear.” Mum met her gaze in the dressing table’s mirror. “You look very pretty.”

  “Yes, you certainly do,” Harriet added as she wove matching burgundy ribbons through the bun on the back of Rose’s head. “And just think of all the new men you’re going to meet! I can hardly believe I’m here, so far from Trentingham.”

  Actually, it wasn’t far at all—little more than a couple of hours downriver. Though Rose had never been inside the castle before, she and her sisters often came to Windsor to visit the shops. But Harriet had been born at Trentingham Manor and, at age nineteen, had never gone farther than the nearest village before today.

  Rose reckoned that was half the reason for their late start. Harriet had been so flustered, she’d been unable to keep her mind on the preparations.

  “You just might meet a nice young man, too,” Mum told Harriet, a familiar light coming into her brown eyes. Chrystabel Trentingham was always happiest when matchmaking. She didn’t care whether the couples were royalty or servants, so long as—thanks to her—two people were finding true love.

  “Do you think so?” Harriet’s fingers fumbled with the ribbons as a wistful expression unfocused her pale green eyes.

  Rose had never thought of Harriet as pining for romance. Harriet was just Harriet, a sturdy girl with frizzy red hair and a wide face full of freckles.

  But now that face had gone soft and dreamy. “How I would love to fall in love,” the maid sighed.

  “I shall keep that in mind,” Mum promised her.

  “There, Lady Trentingham, you’re finished,” her own maid Anne said. “And you look wonderful, too. As for Harriet,” she added, aiming a wink at the girl, ”my lady will find you someone special to love.”

  Anne’s husband had been a coachman at the Liddington estate before Mum’s ministrations brought the pair together. Now they both resided happily at Trentingham, and so far they had produced one boisterous stableboy-in-training and a darling little chambermaid-to-be.

  Mum stood and smoothed her peach silk skirts, looking to Rose. “Come along, dear. Do you mean to make us late?”

  Though a retort danced on the tip of Rose’s tongue, she clamped her mouth shut and leapt to her feet. As she followed her mother across the Upper Ward, excitement churned in the pit of her stomach.

  She was about to meet the king and queen of England.

  When they reached the open courtyard called Horn Court, where two red-and-white liveried footmen stood guard at the door, she paused and pulled a curl forward to rest artfully on one shoulder. Her breath was coming short, and it had little to do with the rigid stomacher that stiffened the front of her bodice.

  “Shall we?” Mum asked, gesturing toward the door.

  One of the footmen pulled it open.

  To Rose’s disappointment, the monarchs weren’t waiting right inside. Instead, she followed her mother into a tall, wide hall that held nothing but a staircase. But what a staircase. “Oooh,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful!”

  “It’s in the French style,” Mum whispered back. “While exiled on the Contin
ent, King Charles was much taken with Versailles.”

  French or English, Rose thought the staircase was magnificent. Twin flights of steps rose to their right and left, meeting at a central landing above. The rooms they had been given here were rather ancient, with plain plastered walls, but these walls were covered in colorful painted murals depicting Greeks and Trojans. Giants battled on the deeply coved ceiling that towered over her head.

  As Rose climbed the steps, carefully holding her skirts, she felt very small and insignificant. She supposed that was the desired effect. Even here, outside his chambers, the king would want to project strength and power.

  At the top of the stairs, she held her breath while another liveried footman opened another door.

  But she was disappointed again. Beyond lay an enormous rectangular room with no furniture—and no king or queen, either. A handful of courtiers stood in little clusters, absorbed in low, murmured conversations.

  Rose’s and Mum’s high-heeled shoes made clicking sounds on the planked floor as they crossed the chamber. Rose huffed out a sigh. “Where are the king and queen?”

  “We’re getting there, dear. This is the Guard Chamber.”

  She might have guessed. Military trophies covered every inch of the walls: helmets and drums, shields and armor, guns and lancets, swords and knives. “Are there any weapons left for the army?” she whispered.

  Mum’s laugh broke the hush of the chamber. “I certainly hope so!” She met Rose’s gaze, her eyes glittering. “It’s an impressive display, but all the same, I expect we’re still well defended.”

  The painted ceiling featured Jupiter and Juno seated on thrones at either end. In the center, a glassed octagonal opening provided a view of the stars and, Rose imagined, a great splash of natural light in the daytime.

  Reaching the door at the far end, Mum paused. “Lady Trentingham and Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she announced, her voice laced with quiet dignity.

  Finally. As one of the six guards bowed and opened the door, Rose lifted her satin skirts.

  But the next room was deserted, save for an usher at the far end.

  “What’s this?” Rose demanded.

  “The King’s Presence Chamber.” Mum curtsied in front of the sumptuous red velvet throne, taking Rose’s hand to make certain she did, too.

  Thinking it the most ridiculous thing she’d ever done, Rose pursed her lips as she straightened. “Despite the name of the chamber, the king,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the empty throne, “does not seem to be present.”

  “Come along,” her mother said with a half-concealed smile.

  Rose looked to the heavens for patience, seeing instead an elegant painted ceiling where Mercury was presenting a portrait of the king to the four corners of the world.

  A red-and-white-garbed usher grandly opened the next door. By now, Rose wasn’t expecting to see Their Majesties on the other side. She’d probably be a wrinkled old crone by the time she actually met them.

  “The Audience Chamber,” Mum intoned softly. “You’ll curtsy to this vacant throne as well.” She glided toward the canopied seat. “Charles does sit here to receive visitors in the daytime.”

  “Does he never sit in the other throne?”

  “That throne is only symbolic, dear. Ceremonial.”

  Rose was still questioning the necessity of all the empty chairs when she glimpsed the next chamber. Her jaw dropped open—and it had nothing to do with the elaborate ornamentation, or even the spectacular clothing and jewels that adorned all the lords and ladies milling about.

  Unable to avert her gaze, she drifted slowly through the room by her mother’s side. There, in that dark corner, a woman sat sprawled on a man’s lap, her head thrown back in laughter. Across the chamber, a fluttering curtain left the distinct impression that action of some sort was going on behind it.

  Nearby, another couple was kissing with what one might call great enthusiasm. Rose’s cheeks heated—and it took a lot to make her blush. She’d always pulled faces at her parents’ shows of affection, but they’d never behaved anything like this…

  Gemini!

  The man’s gaze had met Rose’s for a moment. Or at least she thought it had—she couldn’t be sure, given how quickly she’d shifted to focus on the ceiling overhead. But the artwork above did nothing to erase the shocking images in her head. There, the painted King Charles rode in a chariot, entirely surrounded by naked—

  “They’re angels, dear. You needn’t gawk.” Her mother’s hand squeezed her arm. “We’re about to be announced.”

  “Announced?” Rose had been so distracted, she hadn’t even realized she’d finally made it to the chamber where Their Majesties waited.

  Rose had always considered herself unshockable, but quite suddenly she felt like an innocent country mouse. Father had been right all along, she thought. Court was no place for a well-bred young lady.

  Good thing she wasn’t so young anymore.

  The couple in front of her bowed and curtsied and moved out of the way, and she found herself approaching a red-canopied dais.

  “Lady Trentingham!” the stuffy usher called. “Lady Rose Ashcroft!” Rose held out her skirts—so plain compared to the jewel-encrusted gowns of the other ladies—and dropped into a deep curtsy. When she came up, she managed to smile at King Charles, a bit startled to find that he seemed to be an actual human being.

  She’d seen paintings, of course, but of a younger man, and somehow not such a real one. The king was forty-seven now, and a bit of gray-streaked hair peeked out from beneath his long, curled black periwig. His dark eyes were as sharp as ever, though—or at least as sharp as Rose had always heard. They swept her from head to toe, a gaze both approving and more than a bit flirtatious.

  Well, he was known for that.

  In contrast, Queen Catharine’s eyes were a warm, liquid brown. She wasn’t a beauty, but her appearance wasn’t displeasing, either—she looked sad, and a little world-weary.

  After fifteen years of marriage, she had yet to present her husband with a child.

  Standing before Catharine, Rose imitated what her mother was doing with Charles and lifted the queen’s hand to press a kiss to the back.

  She was rewarded with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Catharine told her in flowing, Portuguese-accented English.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Rose returned sincerely. Really, she couldn’t imagine why her sisters had gone all fluttery over the prospect of meeting the monarchs. They were just people!

  She switched sides with her mother and bent her lips to the king’s hand.

  He surprised her by gripping her fingers. “You’re as lovely as your mother.”

  Mum blushed. Rose grinned at Charles. “Your reputation is well deserved, Your Majesty.”

  Still holding her hand, he grinned back. “My reputation, my dear?”

  “As a ladies’ man.”

  Mum gasped. When Charles threw back his head and laughed, Rose shot her a triumphant smile.

  Charles glanced around the room. “It seems you’re the last to be presented,” he said, looking not displeased by that fact. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

  Now it was Rose’s turn to gasp. She knew the protocol was for ladies to ask His Majesty to dance, not the opposite. Feeling light-headed, she curtsied again. “It would be my honor, Sire.”

  “The second dance, then,” he said, rising from his throne. He held out a hand to Catharine, and she rose as well and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor, the gems on her exquisite lavender gown twinkling as she moved.

  The incessant chatter in the room ceased as everyone turned to watch the king and queen dance the first dance. Rose drifted to join the small crowd that ringed the dance floor, hugging herself with excitement. After the king danced with her, surely other gentlemen would want to do the same. Maybe one of them would end up her husband.

  In fact, before the first dance even ended, she felt a light tap on her shoulder.
The hand’s owner was tall, fair, and handsome, his attire dripping with lace, his manner oozing aristocracy.

  He struck a pose, one hand resting lightly on the jeweled hilt of his court sword, the other on the head of his high, beribboned walking stick. “Lady Trentingham, may I have the honor of an introduction?”

  Though the stranger seemed near in age to Rose, she wasn’t surprised he was an acquaintance of her mother’s. The woman made friends with everybody—young or old, rich or poor, male or female. Mum probably had more friends than Father had flowers.

  She laid a hand on Rose’s arm. “Lord Rosslyn, may I present my daughter, Lady Rose Ashcroft? Rose, this is the Earl of Rosslyn.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” the earl murmured, lifting Rose’s hand to his lips. “I hope you and I shall—”

  “And may we offer our congratulations, my lord?” Mum went on pleasantly, as if he hadn’t spoken. Her smile showed all her teeth. “You must be delighted with your new bride.”

  Lord Rosslyn didn’t bat an eye, or even drop Rose’s hand. “Indeed, my lady.” He inclined his head toward the left, where Rose saw a young woman entwined with a man wearing a bright pink suit. “We are perfectly compatible.”

  I’ll say, Rose thought, half tempted to bash him over the head with his own walking stick. But she’d only just managed to extricate her hand when King Charles appeared by her side and bowed. “My lady?”

  Rosslyn’s eyes widened, making Rose feel rather smug as she joined the king on the dance floor.

  It was a country dance, performed in two lines, one of women, one of men. When it was her turn to parade down the center with Charles, their joined hands held high, Rose felt the eyes of the entire chamber on her.

  The king’s eyes were on her as well. Dark and glinting, they captured hers quite effectively. The fabled Stuart charm. “It’s a pleasure to have a new face at court, my lady. Especially one as lovely as yours.” Charles danced superbly, quite graceful for so tall a man. His voice was just as smooth. “Why have you never graced us with your presence before?”