The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “Not all wives,” she said archly. “I’ll have you know my family’s motto is Interroga Conformationem.”

  “Question Convention?” he translated, looking amused.

  Rose smiled, pleased. On top of everything else wonderful about him, the duke knew his Latin.

  After a few more dances with gentlemen who failed to measure up to Gabriel, Rose crept off toward the ladies’ attiring room, needing a moment to catch her breath. Did court always last so long? She’d been here for hours, and the assembly showed no signs of slowing down.

  As she approached the small chamber, Nell Gwyn’s distinctive laughter drifted out. “Aye, my ladies, the tale is true.”

  “Tell us,” someone squealed.

  “Yes, do tell!” came a veritable chorus.

  Wondering just how many ladies were crowded into the attiring room, Rose stopped outside the door and listened.

  “I took His Majesty to a bawdy house,” Nell confided, “and encouraged him to run up a bill treating everyone to drink. Incognito, of course—it wasn’t the type of place his associates frequent, you understand.” That was met with titters of laughter. “By and by, I took him up to a room and got him undressed—and then ran away with his clothes.”

  “You’re a bold one, Nelly Gywn!” someone hooted.

  “Hush,” said another voice. “What happened next?”

  “Well, the brothel owner didn’t believe this man wrapped in a sheet was her sovereign—you cannot blame the poor fool, can you? He carried no money, so to pay his debt and for something to wear, he offered an emerald ring as security. It was all he had on him, you see.”

  “And fair enough,” a lady pointed out.

  “Well, the proprietor refused, claiming it was paste for certain. Our dear king nearly burst a vessel, he did, when fortunately someone recognized him and convinced the owner as to his identity. So all was well.”

  “He must have been furious,” someone breathed.

  “You don’t know my dear Charles,” Nell declared. “Once it was over, he thought it a fine jest indeed!”

  Howls of laughter greeted Rose when she stepped into the room. “Good evening, ladies,” she said to the nearest cluster of women.

  Her smile slowly faded as the chamber fell silent and, in a rustle of expensive fabric, the occupants shouldered their way past her and out the door one by one.

  Finally only Nell was left. She shrugged and made her way to Rose. “Don’t pay them no mind, milady.” Like a man, she held out a hand. “I’m Eleanor Gywn, Nell to my friends.”

  “I know,” Rose replied guardedly. Nell’s hand felt small and warm for the brief moment she clasped it. “I’m Rose Ashcroft.”

  “Lady Rose Ashcroft, I’ve been told.” Nell’s twinkling eyes nearly closed when she smiled. “They’re only jealous of your beauty. And afraid you’ll steal their men.”

  “Gemini!” Rose exclaimed. “Most of them are married!”

  “Ah, a babe in the woods.” Nell gave a theatrical sigh. “Here at court, that makes no difference. The women consider all male courtiers fair game, and the men hunt amongst the women just as freely. Fidelity went out with Cromwell,” she concluded, then wiped her tongue and spit, having uttered the hated name.

  Rose grimaced, torn between abhorring such vulgarity and appreciating the kind intention underneath. She slanted Nell an assessing glance. ”You don’t seem to worry that I’ll help myself to a courtier or two.”

  Nell’s giggle was infectious. “Bloody right, sweetheart, what do I need with the pompous fools? I bed with the king. It doesn’t get any better than that!”

  The shock must have been plain on Rose’s face, because Nell’s giggle rang out louder. Still, Rose couldn’t help wondering at her meaning. The aging King Charles wasn’t so handsome as he’d once been. Did he possess some sort of special aptitude in the bedchamber?

  She was on the verge of asking when another lady barged in, her china-white complexion mottled with angry red. Giving Nell a glare that could curdle milk, she plopped onto a green baize bench with her back to them both, her dark ringlets shaking with barely controlled fury.

  Nell made a rude noise, then sailed out the door with a reluctant Rose in tow.

  “Who was that?” Rose kept her voice low and her shoulders hunched. Though relieved to escape the attiring room’s tension, she didn’t fancy the prospect of being seen on Nell’s arm.

  “Oh, just the high and mighty Louise de Kéroualle.”

  ”The Duchess of Portsmouth?” Another of King Charles’s mistresses. It seemed Rose couldn’t turn a corner without running into one.

  “She’s hated by the people, you know,” Nell said with relish.

  “Because she’s a shrew?” Rose scanned the room surreptitiously, worried Gabriel might spot them.

  Nell guffawed. “Nay—though she is, of course. But it’s her Catholicism they hate. Her grace could be the soul of compassion and they’d still hate her, whilst I get cheered through the streets because I’m the Protestant whore.”

  Rose was startled into laughter—though she’d not be repeating the jest to her mother.

  “Poor Squintabella is in a snit,” Nell explained, “because she arrived today after a long journey from Bath, but although Charles took dinner with her, he didn’t invite her to stay the night.”

  “Squintabella?” Rose echoed weakly, her head spinning with all this lurid court gossip.

  “Did you not notice the slight cast in the duchess’s eye? I was here at court before her, and I’ll be here long after she’s gone. She’s managed to send Barbara running across the Channel, but she won’t do away with me so easily.”

  “Barbara? The Duchess of Cleveland has left England?” Rose was having trouble keeping up. Barbara Palmer was Charles’s longest-standing mistress, having accompanied him home for his Restoration.

  “She’s on the outs now, thanks to Louise. Living in Paris. But she’ll return—she always does. And no matter what she’s done, Charles always forgives her.”

  “You must find that maddening,” Rose said.

  “Nay, it’s Barbara. She’s had him wrapped around her finger for seventeen years. I know better than to expect that to change now.” Nell grinned and pecked Rose on both cheeks, sang “Good luck in the woods!” and disappeared in the crowd.

  No sooner had she left than Louise de Kéroualle took her place. “Enjoying court, Lady Rose?”

  Rose turned in surprise. “Very much,“ she said distractedly. Baby-faced with almond-shaped eyes, full red lips, and enough jewelry hanging all over her to stock a small shop, the duchess would make any girl feel unsightly next to her beauty.

  But her manner rather spoiled her looks. “You’d do best,” she sneered in a lisping French accent, “not to fraternize with such as she.”

  “Do you speak of Nell Gwyn, your grace?” Rose couldn’t help but notice the small squint Nell had mentioned.

  “I cannot credit that he’s taken up with such a coarse, common orange wench.” Everyone knew that as a young girl, before she’d stepped on stage at the Theatre Royal, Nell had been employed there selling oranges. “She has no respect for her betters. Calling His Majesty Charles the Third—”

  “The third, your grace?”

  Her smile was full of venom. “The wench’s former lovers include Charles Hart—a common actor—who then passed her to Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. She called him her Charles the Second, and now the king has become her Charles the Third.”

  Rose’s lips twitched.

  “It’s not amusing,” the duchess said with a sniff. “Charles deserves his due—not least from a guttersnipe like her.”

  Rose bristled. Louise de Kéroualle, daughter of a distinguished house, quite obviously considered herself much above Nell Gwyn. But the duchess’s virtue was just as stained as her rival’s. In Rose’s estimation, that made them equals—and at least the guttersnipe was nice.

  Pretty is as pretty does, Mum had always told her three girls. R
ose was watching the Frenchwoman’s flawless face shrivel up to match her bitter insides when Gabriel appeared.

  “Did you not promise me the next dance?” he asked Rose, although she hadn’t. He nodded toward the duchess. “Your grace.”

  The pale beauty nodded back, a smile curving those blood-red lips. “Your grace,” she echoed, her voice as sweet and smooth as honey.

  The woman, Rose realized, was a natural-born predator. Though she knew tongues would wag when the duke led her off toward the dance floor yet again, she went more than willingly.

  As she took her place across from him, her spirits soared with renewed excitement. She’d always said it was as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, and the Duke of Bridgewater certainly had a title worth falling for.

  The dance was a branle, and all the running, gliding, and skipping left her breathless. Or maybe it was Gabriel…she couldn’t be sure. She only knew that when he took her by the arm and drew her toward an exterior door, her heart gave a little lurch.

  “Are you certain we should—” she started.

  “Quite certain. Aren’t you overwarm?” His smile looked innocent enough. “I’m roasting after that dance.”

  She glanced toward her mother, who was engaged in conversation across the drawing room. Rose didn’t hesitate. Here was her chance to get the duke alone and…take a walk. Yes, just a walk. And a nice talk. Alone, together, getting to know each other. The first step toward trapping—attracting, that was, not trapping!—the perfect husband. Which was why she’d come to court in the first place.

  So why was she suddenly uneasy?

  Perhaps it was the dark. She’d never liked the dark, so she was dismayed to see naught but a few torches lighting the terrace. It was a mild evening, yet no one else seemed to be outdoors enjoying the weather.

  “Should we be out here?” she asked nervously—though there was no reason to be nervous. What could be troubling about a pleasant walk with a nice, gentlemanly duke?

  “It’s open to the public. Charles expanded this terrace recently, and he’s invited the townspeople to enjoy the views. Enormous as it is, it’s crowded as Newgate in the daytime.”

  She’d bet it was—and for no plausible reason, she found herself wishing all those people were here now.

  He took her hand and began walking. ”How long have you been here at Windsor?”

  “We only arrived today.”

  “Just as I thought—or I would surely have spotted you before now.”

  They fell quiet as Gabriel guided her toward the edge of the terrace and stopped by the railing. This castle, like most, was built on high land, and the terrace afforded magnificent views. Beneath the castle wall, parkland gave way to a few flickering lights and the moon reflecting off the Thames in the distance. Stars twinkled above.

  “It’s a lovely night,” Rose said to fill the silence.

  “Yes, it is.” He smiled down at her, his face lit by the moon, his expression perfectly pleasant. “And made more so with such lovely company.”

  That was nice. Gabriel was nice.

  There was no reason to feel uneasy, she reminded herself. No reason at all.

  NINE

  KIT HAD SIX men erecting scaffolding, two chipping off the ruined plaster, and another two hauling away the debris. At the same time, he had a team dispatched to London to fetch the building materials that should have been used in the first place. With any luck, they’d return on the morrow.

  Construction work generally halted at dusk. There were no chandeliers in the room as yet, so the men worked by the light of torches and candelabrum. If Kit could persuade the rest of his crew to remain on the job twenty-four hours a day, he would. But of course they were snug in their beds while he fretted. Artists, especially, were temperamental creatures.

  “Careful!” he warned, one eye on the late-night crew while he reworked the schedule again in his head, planning contingencies in case the new materials arrived late. “Your haste is appreciated, but I won’t have injuries. Or a fire.”

  “Pardon me!” a musical voice exclaimed. He turned to see a swish of peach-colored skirts as Lady Trentingham swiveled away, narrowly missing being whacked in the head by three men carrying a beam. “I’ve apparently stumbled into the wrong room.”

  Emerging from the shadows, Kit strode toward her, his footfalls muffled by the protective tarpaulins on the new oak flooring. “It’s perfectly all right, Lady Trentingham.” Taking her arm, he drew her over to a safe corner.

  “Mr. Martyn!” she said warmly. “I was searching for my daughter—”

  “Lady Rose? I thought I glimpsed her earlier. What a surprise to find you both here.”

  She turned slowly, inspecting the chamber. “I’ve brought her to court to find a husband.”

  It was just as Kit had feared. He itched to know more—had Rose taken to anyone? That irksome blond fellow? Was he accident-prone, perchance? Or incurably ill?—but the countess cruelly kept her counsel. Instead of answering Kit’s burning questions, she admired the room, her eyes widening with appreciation.

  “This ceiling will be exquisite,” she commented, gazing up at the half-painted details on the portion of the room that wasn’t ruined. “A banquet of the gods, am I right? Fish and fowl…and look, a lobster! How very charming.”

  ”I’m pleased you think so,” he said warmly. The countess was back in his good graces. “I envisioned it both exquisite and somewhat amusing. The painter is Antonio Verrio. You may have heard of him?”

  “Heavens, yes. The Duke of Montagu brought him from Paris, didn’t he? I arranged his marriage. The duke’s, not the artist’s.” She ran a hand down the intricate oak carving on the wall beside her, a melange of fruit and vegetables. “And who is responsible for this?”

  “Grinling Gibbons, assisted by Henry Phillips.”

  She nodded approvingly, still looking around. “The cornice is his work as well, if I’m not mistaken. Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. Martyn?”

  He blinked at the rapid change of subject. Not to mention the subject itself. “Lady Rose is indeed interesting,” he replied cautiously. “And please, call me Kit.”

  “Kit.” She dropped her gaze to meet his. “That isn’t the sort of interest I was enquiring about, and”—a little smile curved her lips—“I suspect you know it. Do you fancy Rose?”

  He wished there were furniture in the unfinished room, so he could sit down. “I, um…well…”

  “I don’t mean a passing fancy,” she clarified, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. “Would you fancy her for a wife?”

  “A wife?” Furniture or no, if this line of questioning continued, he was going to have to sit. The floor was looking mighty tempting. His knees felt weaker than the plaster that was crumbling overhead.

  And he hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of answer Lady Trentingham sought. If he said yes, would she berate him for aspiring far above his station? If he said no, would she take offense on her daughter’s behalf? He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Would he fancy Rose for a wife?

  Lady Trentingham’s smile softened as if she already knew the answer. “You would make her a fine husband, Kit.”

  He blinked. Was this a jest? Or a hallucination? Had he been whacked by that beam? Or could she truly mean…

  ”But I’m low-born,” he blurted. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  She fluttered a hand dismissively, her rings winking in the torchlight. “I know a good man when I see one, and rank rarely has much to do with it. In my opinion, that is. As for my Rose’s view…” The countess hesitated.

  Hope vanished before it had even taken shape. “She cares about rank.”

  “She thinks she does.” The woman looked as though she would have rolled her eyes if it weren’t beneath her dignity. “But with persistence and a bit of ingenuity, you may succeed in changing her mind.”

  “How encouraging.” Hands fisting in his pockets, Ki
t savagely ground a bit of plaster into dust beneath his shoe. “Forgive me, my lady, but why are you telling me all this? If I’m not what Rose wants…”

  “What Rose wants is love. And I believe she’ll find it with you.”

  He raised a brow. “I thought you believed in letting her find it herself. Rose told me she was raised to make her own choices, including the choice of who to marry.”

  “She will choose to marry you—just as soon as you’ve made her fall in love with you.”

  Kit snorted. “A minor detail.”

  “Naturally.” Perfectly complacent, the countess smoothed her skirts. “After all, you two are meant for each other.”

  Feeling a strange bubble of hysteria, Kit crushed more plaster underfoot. He still wasn’t entirely certain this conversation was real. “And what did your daughter say when you told her she was meant for me—a commoner?”

  “Good heavens, I haven’t told her. She has no idea I approve of this match. And she can never find out.”

  “I beg your pardon?“

  “Have I mentioned that I’m rather known as a matchmaker?”

  “No, but it does seem in character.”

  She cracked a smile. “Rose wants no part in my matchmaking efforts—she and her sisters vowed long ago never to become one of my ‘statistics.’ But I love my children too much to let their own stubbornness impede their happiness. I managed to arrange both Lily’s and Violet’s marriages without their knowledge, and I aim to make it three for three.”

  “So you were responsible for matching Rand with Lily?”

  Her smile betrayed a hint of pride. “And didn’t that turn out well?”

  Laughing, Kit lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I cannot deny they are exceptionally happy.”

  “You and Rose will be, too,” she said earnestly, her dark eyes so like her daughter’s, “if you take my advice.”

  “And if I conceal your involvement.” Kit sighed, watching his boots scuff the dusty floor. “You’re asking me to lie to Rose. It doesn’t feel right.”