by Lauren Royal
She blushed once again—becomingly, she hoped. “My father thought me too young.”
“Young?” he echoed, sounding puzzled.
And then they had to return to their respective lines.
As she executed the simple steps, she furtively surveyed the throng. There were ladies of her mother’s age, certainly, but there were also girls of fifteen and sixteen. Or perhaps she should term them women, since they hung on the arms of grown men, flirting madly and more.
Clearly, she wasn’t too young.
The next time she met up with the king to parade down the center, she had a more plausible reason. “I’ve come to court to find a husband, Sire.”
“Ah.” His dark eyes glittered speculatively. “Interesting choice of word, my lady. Husbands we have, although many are already wed.” He smiled at his own jest. “Take me, for example—”
“I won’t be,” she interrupted archly.
Though she immediately worried that he might take offense, he only laughed. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he conceded good-naturedly.
Among this social circle filled with promiscuous spouses, her parents were known as extraordinarily devoted.
When the dance came to an end, the king raised her hand, pressing warm lips to the back. “It was a pleasure, my lady. I wish you every success here at court.”
For a moment, while he still held her hand, Rose found herself suffused with wonder. Here she was, in the King’s Drawing Room at Windsor Castle, with none other than Charles himself. A night like this could go to a girl’s head, she thought giddily.
Then he led her from the dance floor, and she watched him head straight to a girl of no more than seventeen and kiss her soundly on the lips. Rose couldn’t help but notice his queen was studiously gazing elsewhere, resignation etched on her small, foreign-looking face.
Apparently all was not lightness and fun here at Windsor Castle.
But this was Rose’s first evening at court, not a night to shoulder the worries of the world. She looked away, determined to enjoy the spectacle that was the royal court. Courtiers wore every color of the rainbow. Great lords swaggered about impressively while elegant ladies fluttered delicate painted fans.
“May I claim the pleasure of a dance?”
Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome gentleman. “I’d be delighted, my lord…?”
“Bridgewater. The Duke of Bridgewater,” he clarified with a warm smile and a smart bow.
Rose was pleased to see he wasn’t carrying one of those foppish ribbon-topped walking sticks. And he was a duke! Not only a duke, but a youngish duke—of an age, Rose guessed, below thirty.
Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old coots.
As he swept her into the dance, her heart skittered with excitement. Already she was dancing with exactly the sort of man she’d come here hoping to meet.
“My given name is Gabriel, and my family name is Fox,” he informed her quite pleasantly. “You’re Trentingham’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Rose Ashcroft,” she said, gazing up at him—for he was tall. Tall enough to make her feel nearly as petite as her sister Lily. Her gaze skimmed from the top of his very-English blond head, past blue eyes, and down a patrician nose to his smiling mouth, each detail making her even happier.
He was perfect!
She was certain she was falling in love already.
“My dear Rose—may I call you Rose?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction.”
He was not only perfect, but a perfect gentleman as well.
She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. “To be sure, your grace.” Imagine being called your grace—her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. “My mother brought me here to meet gentlemen like you.” Exactly like you, she revised silently, overjoyed to have caught the attention of such a man.
And she did have his attention. His hands gripped hers rather more tightly than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary—his possessiveness made a little thrill run through her.
Court was wonderful. Even while dancing with Gabriel—for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn’t help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeoman, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.
That observation prompted her to scrutinize Gabriel’s jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swaying a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds, and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.
Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!
When the dance came to an end, Rose felt deflated. One never danced with the same partner two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.
No sooner had he straightened than another courtier rushed over and begged the honor of a dance. She accepted happily, thinking she would be generous enough to give him a fair appraisal. Him, and any other fellow who sought her good graces.
But she knew—she just knew—that none of them would be as perfect for her as the delicious, delectable, utterly divine Duke of Bridgewater.
SEVEN
KIT WALKED briskly through the dark castle grounds toward Sir Christopher Wren’s apartments—the official apartments of the Surveyor General, apartments he hoped to occupy himself someday. Not that he’d actually live there. He had just put the finishing touches on a brand new house here in Windsor—a house of his very own, situated on an enviable plot of land on the banks of the River Thames.
In fact, his sister, Ellen, was waiting for him there now. At least, he hoped she was waiting for him. If she was off with that lousy Whittingham fellow again…
Reaching his destination, he put those brotherly concerns from his mind and gave the door two sharp knocks. When it opened, Kit was startled to see not Wren’s secretary, but the man himself, dressed in shirtsleeves and no periwig. His dark hair was disheveled, as though he’d raked his hands through it repeatedly.
Wren didn’t reside in these official apartments either, but instead used the rooms as his offices. Like Kit, Wren had recently built an impressive house for himself in town. But as the Dean of Windsor’s son, he’d been raised right here in the castle deanery, a playmate of the young Prince of Wales—now King Charles—and he and his monarch were still intimates. Kit was hoping their long-standing relationship would mean Wren could convince the king that Kit was the right candidate for the Deputy Surveyor post.
But the look on Wren’s face wasn’t reassuring.
“This new development does not bode well,” Wren said without preamble. Waving Kit toward a chair, he settled himself against a large drafting table strewn with copious drawings, rubbing at the shadow of gray whiskers sprouting on his chin.
Though the Surveyor General was more than two decades his senior, Kit counted him a friend. Wren had been his favorite professor at university, while Kit had been Wren’s prized pupil. After Oxford, Wren had done what he could to champion his young protégé—and thank heaven for that, or Kit would probably still be designing pantries instead of palaces. Unlike his more privileged classmates, he hadn’t started his career amidst a heap of impressive commissions. He’d actually had to earn his reputation.
“Until this unfortunate mishap,” Wren continued, “you were the front-runner for the Deputy Surveyor appointment. But King Charles hasn’t the patience for costly errors—the monarchy, I’m afraid, is as cash-strap
ped as ever.”
Kit rubbed the back of his neck. “The error wasn’t strictly mine—my foreman chose to use substandard materials. Not,” he rushed to add, “that I don’t take responsibility. Quite clearly I erred in hiring the man in the first place. I will make up the losses.”
Wren nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes sympathetic. “Last I saw, the dining room was coming along brilliantly—impeccable craftsmanship, exceptional eye to detail.” His lips thinned. “Regardless, I’m now under pressure to award the appointment to Rosslyn.”
Gaylord Craig, the young Earl of Rosslyn, had been a classmate of Kit’s—and not a particularly stellar one. But he came from a prominent family of staunch Royalists, one of many such families King Charles owed for their support in the Civil War. And it was far cheaper to repay those families with political appointments than with gold.
Kit’s fingers curled around the bit of brick in his pocket. “Can the king’s mind be changed?”
“Anything is possible. Charles plans to inspect the project tomorrow, so if you can make certain the site is safe and any debris is cleared—”
“Of course.”
“—perhaps we can divert his attention to the impressive design.”
“I’ll have everything under control,” Kit assured him.
If necessary, he would comb the town for extra hands to work through the night. Sufficient scaffolding would be erected to assure no safety concerns, and the site would look pristine, whatever it took to make it that way. “What time have you scheduled the visit?”
“Noon.”
“Then I shall be ready by ten.”
“Make sure you are.” Though Wren’s words sounded serious, he tempered them with a small smile. “With any luck, we can pull this off.”
“I’ve never put much stock in luck. Hard work and persistence have done well by me so far.” Kit returned the smile with a wry one of his own. “But I suppose a little luck wouldn’t come amiss just this once.”
Wren rose and opened the door, giving Kit a companionable slap on the back as he ushered him through it. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m counting on it,” Kit told him.
Hard work and persistence. He’d always believed that with both, anything could be his.
The castle grounds were quiet this time of night, the Round Tower on its huge mound of earth looming tall and imposing between the Lower and Upper Wards. Kit’s footfalls echoed off the cobblestones as he skirted the circular structure and cut through Horn Court on the way back to his site.
Nodding a familiar greeting, the usher there opened the door to admit him to the King’s Staircase. Kit hurried up the steps and through the progression of chambers—rooms he didn’t belong in, if one went strictly by rank. But as one of the king’s architects, he had free access.
His mind on the hectic night ahead, he fairly sprinted through the Audience Chamber and into the King’s Drawing Room, where court was in full swing this evening. There, he stopped short at the sight of Rose Ashcroft on the dance floor.
He very nearly tripped over his own feet.
Rose was stunning in burgundy satin. Her wide neckline exposed creamy skin, and her jewel-studded bodice tapered to a narrow, elegant waist. Most striking of all, her face was flushed with excitement, her rose-red mouth beaming. He’d never seen her looking so happy. As if she hadn’t a care in all the world.
He wanted to be the one making her look that way.
But she was dancing with a gentleman—a tall, blond, and exceedingly aristocratic one. Kit hated him on sight.
As she spun in the stranger’s arms, jealousy crawled over Kit’s skin. Which was absurd, aggravating, and utterly unproductive. She would never be his—at least not until he had the one thing that could make a lowly commoner worthy of someone like Lady Rose Ashcroft.
A title.
There was reason to hope a knighthood might accompany the Deputy Surveyor appointment—Kit’s good friend Sir Christopher Wren hadn’t been born a knight, after all. If the king was sufficiently impressed with Kit’s work, he might judge it prudent to raise his rank, granting him the status of a member of the court.
Which had, as it happened, always been Kit’s long-term goal. Holding a title meant the Martyns would forever after be members of the enviable gentry class. Never again would he, his sister, or their descendants suffer the desperation and humiliation of poverty. The degradation of being pitied. Looked down upon. Inferior.
And suddenly it seemed vital that Kit achieve that goal now. Today. Yesterday! This very evening Rose might accept an offer from one of the many rich, eligible men who were presently ogling her. She could very soon be betrothed to the blond cur who was holding her—in Kit’s opinion—quite a bit closer than was necessary.
Not that Kit was ready to propose. Perish the thought! He barely knew her, after all. All he knew so far was that she was beautiful, clever, and challenging. And that he wanted to know more. And that the thought of never having the chance to know more made his lungs mysteriously stop working.
If he wanted to keep breathing, he would have to win that appointment.
Determination made his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists. It would take more than cleaning up Washburn’s mess to impress Charles. He must not only meet, but surpass expectations—and with Wren talking up Kit’s merits to the king, likely those expectations had been raised high.
Windsor’s new dining room would prove to be spectacular, that was a given. The renovations at Whitehall Palace and the new building at Hampton Court—apartments for Charles’s long-time mistress and their five children—would have to be equally so.
Kit tore his gaze from Rose and strode through the glittering assembly, exiting the drawing room into the small, as-yet-unrenovated vestibule that led to his project.
“Martyn.”
Kit turned to see Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn, follow and close the heavy door behind him. After the hubbub of court, the vestibule seemed quiet, the music and voices muffled to a dull hum.
“Yes, Rosslyn?”
Slim, fair, and fine-featured, Rosslyn clapped Kit on the back. “I hear you’ve run into a spot of trouble, my friend.”
Kit cast him a sharp glance. “And thought you’d come gloat over your rival’s misfortune?”
“My rival?” Rosslyn snorted. “You think I care a fig for that piddling appointment? I’m overwhelmed with commissions as it is.” His pale blue eyes raked Kit’s plain clothes. “And I certainly have no need of a knighthood. Truth be told, it would suit me quite well if you took the Deputy Surveyor job off my hands.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know my project has suffered only a minor setback. I will finish by the deadline as planned.”
“I’m glad of it.”
Kit measured his old classmate, watching him toy with the ribbons that crowned his walking stick. “You could simply refuse the appointment, you know. If you don’t want it.”
“Refuse the king? Gads, Martyn, you are new to court.” One square-toed high-heeled shoe tapped impatiently. “I shall have to serve if Charles commands it of me. But I’d much rather spend my time in more, ah, satisfying pursuits.”
Kit didn’t wonder what sort of pursuits Rosslyn had in mind. At Oxford, he and his cronies had shown far more enthusiasm for tumbling maids than attending lectures.
“Thus,” the earl went on, “if I can assist you in any way, you need only ask. I believe our interests are in alignment.” He offered a hand.
Kit shook it. “I say, Rosslyn, this is a relief. I didn’t feel quite right competing against you for the post.” Not that the two of them had ever been close. Though they’d attended Westminster School as well as university together, they’d never run in the same circles. Kit had been a King’s Scholar with his tuition paid by the Crown, while Rosslyn stuck to his own high-born crowd. Still, Kit had always got on well with everyone, and he disliked the idea of making an enemy out of a friend.
But that wouldn’t have
stopped him from doing whatever it took to beat the competition. He’d been working toward this appointment all his life. Now he was so close.
“You always were too good for your own good.” Rosslyn’s handshake was limp. “Far better than I.”
Kit grinned. “Well, then, may the best man win.”
He knew he was the best man.
Now he just had to prove it.
EIGHT
AS THE EVENING wore on, Gabriel sought out Rose for a second dance and then a third. “People will talk,” she told him as he guided her toward the dance floor for the fourth time.
“Would that trouble you?” he asked.
“Not at all, your grace.” Rose’s attention was drawn by a spectacle that was already becoming familiar: King Charles crossing the chamber followed by a bevy of yipping spaniels. Charmed, she smiled as she saw him stop before a petite woman and slide an arm around her possessively. “Who is that?” she asked.
The duke barely spared the couple a glance. “Have you never met Nell Gwyn?”
“Is that Nell Gwyn? Gemini!” Rose knew the name, of course; she doubted there was a soul in England who hadn’t heard of the brothel-born actress who’d stolen His Majesty’s heart. But she’d expected Nell to be exquisite.
Although the woman heartily kissing the king was pretty, Rose wouldn’t call her beautiful. Her small figure was lushly curvy, her hair a riot of red-brown curls. Rose’s eyes widened as King Charles backed his mistress toward a chair and pulled her onto his lap. Over the music, Nell’s delighted laughter mixed with the ever-present yaps of the king’s dogs.
“I had no idea she was allowed at court,” Rose mused. “Has His Majesty granted her a title?”
“Of course not.” Gabriel maneuvered her around to where she couldn’t stare. “But the king made their young son the Earl of Burford, and Nell herself was appointed Lady of the Queen’s Bedchamber these two years past.”
Rose blinked. “And what does Queen Catharine think of that?”
“I don’t expect our dear queen was given a say in the matter.” The duke raised a brow as he looked down at her. “Wives usually aren’t.”