by Lauren Royal
He waited a beat, hoping Rose would say he was the best, as good as all the titled lads at school. But she didn’t, of course. She hadn’t been raised in a world that believed that.
Glancing down to their connected hands, she looked startled and pulled hers back. “You enjoyed your time at Oxford,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“I was anxious to finish and get on with life, but Oxford was hardly a trial. Rand was there—we’d been friends since childhood. And a few of my friends from Westminster School ended up there, too. Gaylord Craig—”
“The Earl of Rosslyn?” From the tone of her voice, he gathered she didn’t like the fellow. “I met him last night. He’s your friend?”
Kit grinned. “Rosslyn ruffles some people’s feathers. We’re not close friends, but I’ve always got on with everyone.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said, returning his smile. She had adorable dimples. He felt a sudden urge to kiss those two little indentations.
“Someone’s here,” she said.
He heard footsteps on the marble in the entry, and the low murmur of Graves’s voice followed by one with a higher pitch.
“That will be my sister, Ellen,” he told Rose, rising. “Will you excuse me?”
FIFTEEN
AS ROSE WATCHED Kit leave the room, closing the door behind him, a clock somewhere in the house struck the hour, chiming six times.
Where had the afternoon gone? The bookshop would have closed by now, and she’d wanted some reading material to pass the long, empty days at the castle. Court would be commencing soon, and she’d wanted time to rest. And she needed time to choose a gown and ready herself.
Mum must have been very tired, because surely she’d have come to fetch her if she wasn’t still napping.
Voices sifted through the drawing room’s closed door. Rose couldn’t tell what Kit was saying, but he didn’t sound happy. She couldn’t understand his sister’s replies, either, but the girl was clearly giving as good as she got.
Rose hadn’t even met Ellen, and she liked her already. Smiling to herself, she idly reached for Kit’s sketch board and turned it face up.
Her heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t been drawing Greek temples or Roman theaters. He’d been sketching her.
And he’d captured her perfectly.
Transfixed, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. The young woman gazing back at her wasn’t the flirting Rose, the one with the big smile. Instead her lips curved as though she shared a secret. And her eyes glittered not with forced gaiety, but with simple pleasure in what she was doing.
Translating a book. Sharing a quiet afternoon.
It wasn’t a painting, nor a work of careful artistry. The black ink on white gave no hint that her gown was a rich purple, her cheeks were pink with carefully applied cosmetics, her lips were dyed red and ripe. The drawing was plain and stark. True.
It was a Rose very few people ever saw.
How had he seen the real Rose? she wondered. And what had made him sketch her while she was describing how to draw classical buildings?
She blew out a shaky breath as Kit and his sister barged in.
“I’m entitled to live my own life,” the girl said, continuing their argument as though Rose were invisible. “And you had no right having me fetched home as though I were your property.”
“You are my property,” Kit ground out. “Until you’re wed—”
“Let me wed, then, and we’ll both be happier.”
“Not if you wed him.”
“Him?” Rose asked.
They both turned to look at her, fire and surprise in their matching eyes.
“Thomas Whittingham.” Kit’s sister tossed her head of long jet hair. “The love of my life.”
“He’s a pawnbroker,” Kit spat.
Rose set down Kit’s sketch and stood. “I’m Rose Ashcroft,” she said to the girl, who looked to be about a year or two her junior.
“My apologies for not introducing you.” Kit’s gaze nervously snapped between Rose’s face and the drawing he’d done of her. He took a deep breath. “Lady Rose, this is my sister, Ellen. Ellen—”
“Lady Rose,” Ellen drawled before her brother could complete the belated introduction. “Do you not think, Kit, that you’re aiming a bit out of your range?”
“We’re just friends,” Rose rushed to clarify.
Surprisingly, she really did feel Kit was a friend. The pleasant afternoon had changed her view of him entirely.
And she found herself wishing to be Ellen’s friend, too. With her sisters both married and moved away, and the women at court giving her the cold shoulder, she desperately needed a female friend. And she sensed Ellen could be one. She liked this forthright girl.
She sat again and patted the cushion beside her. “Tell me about this Thomas of yours.”
Ellen slid onto the settle and folded her hands in her lap, a female version of Kit dressed in an innocent shade of yellow. “He’s kind and generous and handsome, and I love him.”
“She wants to marry him,” Kit said derisively. He swept the sketch board off the table and crossed the room to place it facedown on the desk. “I will not see her wed to a pawnbroker. To go from this”—he waved a hand, indicating the house, the life he’d built for the two of them—“to living above a pawnshop, is—”
“—what I want,” Ellen rushed to finish for him. Then she met Rose’s eyes, her own pleading.
Apparently they were friends already.
“How old are you?” Rose asked.
“Sixteen.”
“You’re young yet,” she said gently. “Can you not put off marriage for a little while? Perhaps you’ll meet—”
“I love him. Kit has no right to dictate my life.”
Ellen was wrong; legally, Kit had every right. When Rose looked to him, he spread his hands in an exasperated gesture. She turned back to Ellen, who looked so much like her brother. Just as hot-tempered too, from all indications. They probably butted heads precisely because they were so much alike.
Rose had fancied herself in love many times. But she knew now, having seen her sisters with their husbands, that she’d been mistaken. She knew now that she’d never been in love at all, not even once.
Ellen was young yet. And Rose had never before felt so old.
“Do you know, Ellen,” she said carefully, “it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.”
“Oh!” Ellen cried. “You don’t understand!” Tears sprang to her eyes as she jumped up and ran from the room.
Rose and Kit listened to his sister’s footsteps until they faded up the stairs. “She likes you,” he finally said.
“And our navy will conquer the Dutch tomorrow.” Rose sighed. “I think I’d best return home.”
SIXTEEN
“HOME” RIGHT now for Rose was Windsor Castle. That was what Kit wanted for Ellen: the rank that would give her the security of feeling at home in a royal castle. Or anywhere. The rank that would assure she’d never again be left behind.
And yet, when Rose had supported his position, he’d found himself not grateful, but vexed.
Her voice still echoed in his ears, so measured and reasonable: It’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.
Never mind that it was exactly what Ellen needed to hear, Rose’s stance didn’t bode well for his own suit.
The sun was setting as he walked Rose back to the apartments she shared with her mother, the two of them chatting amiably. All the way past the Round Tower, into an Upper Ward building, and up a staircase, he listened to her amusing banter and watched her fluttering lips.
Those lips…
When she reached for the door latch, he stopped her with a hand over hers. She turned and looked up at him, her dark eyes questioning.
“Thank you for a pleasant day,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over her face from the single torch that illuminated the deserted corridor. “And also for the translation. It
was much appreciated.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said, looking relieved. “I enjoyed myself.”
When he felt her trying to draw her hand away, he held it tight in his. There was something between them, whether she knew it—or wanted it—or not.
“I’m happy to hear that,” he told her.
She offered him a tentative smile. “No, I mean I truly enjoyed myself. I can see why Rand is happy to count you as a friend.”
He flushed with pleasure—and a touch of guilt. He still didn’t feel quite right about his furtive encounter with Lady Trentingham. But if he confessed, would his hopes be dashed?
As it turned out, he needn’t have fretted, because his hopes were dashed anyway by the next words out of Rose’s mouth. “You’re the best, Kit,” she said, giving him a friendly pat on the arm. “Like a brother, but better.”
A brother? He didn’t want to be her brother.
Had the countess misread her daughter’s feelings? She’d seemed so certain they were right for each other. Then again, she had also endeavored to check his expectations, warning him that Rose would be resistant. Her mother could scheme and maneuver all she wanted, but in the end, the decision belonged to Rose alone.
Like a brother.
He had to respect that, didn’t he? Respect her. His heart heavy, he released her hand, then leaned to give her an innocent, brotherly peck on the cheek.
When his mouth brushed her silky skin, he smelled flowers. And he felt something—a jolt of energy between them, an involuntary shift of her body toward his—that made all his resolve simply melt away.
Then somehow his lips were on hers, and something else inside him melted, too.
And Rose’s world turned over.
She didn’t like kissing. She’d always found it messy and awkward and unpleasant. But this kiss was…none of those things. These lips were soft and warm and seemed to fit hers. They moved with her lips, using just enough pressure to guide her, as if he were leading her through a dance. A dance that was slow and intimate, that made her knees feel weak, that sent dreamy swirls of sensation through her body.
A thing of beauty, she thought dizzily.
When it ended, she didn’t feel relieved. She felt let down. And stunned. And like she wanted Kit to keep kissing her.
Kit? Gemini, had those lips really been Kit’s?
His eyes glittered green in the torchlight, his gaze piercing into her as though he could read her thoughts. Which seemed unlikely, since she could scarcely begin to decipher them herself.
His mouth curved into a faint smile that might have been the slightest bit smug.
“Good night,” he said and walked away.
SEVENTEEN
ROSE CLOSED the lodging’s door and leaned back against it, releasing a long, long sigh. Then she was grinning from ear to ear.
She didn’t hate kissing! There was nothing wrong with her after all.
Apparently, she’d just never kissed anyone who was any good at it—until today.
She was still astonished that it was Kit Martyn who had finally made her feel all those wondrous things her sisters talked of. Who would have thought? But she supposed kissing ability had little to do with one’s birth. And though Kit had had no business kissing her, she couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry he’d done so. She’d watched him walk away, knowing she should call after him, berate him for taking such liberties, inform him in no uncertain terms that he was never to do so again.
But she’d been too busy being so, so very happy. Everything had changed. Kissing wasn’t dreadful. She wasn’t doomed to a lifetime of forced participation in a romantic ritual she found revolting.
She’d actually enjoyed it!
She could hardly credit that she’d ever imagined herself defective. How silly she’d been to jump to such a conclusion. Obviously one’s enjoyment of a kiss depended upon the skill of one’s partner. How lucky her sisters had been to receive their first kisses from gentlemen of such great talent. And how unlucky that she had never met a gifted man until now.
“Are you out there, dear?”
“Yes, Mum.” Rose took a deep, calming breath and crossed the small sitting room toward the even smaller bedchamber she and her mother were sharing.
Mum was seated at the heavy carved wood dressing table. While her maid Anne twisted the back section of her hair up into a bun, she tore a small sheet of red Spanish paper from a tiny booklet and rubbed it lightly on her cheeks. “Did you have a nice time, dear?”
Feeling heat flare in her face, Rose was glad her mother was busy looking in the mirror. “It was a fine day,” she said carefully, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic.
She certainly didn’t want her mother finding out she’d allowed Kit—a commoner!—to kiss her.
Mum set down the Spanish paper and lifted a kohl pencil. “What did you do?” she asked, carefully rimming an eye.
“Oh, we had dinner and then I translated part of the book.” The sound of an ungraceful snore drew Rose’s gaze to Harriet, dead to the world on a pallet laid out on the floor. Shaking her head, she crossed to her trunk and rummaged through it herself. “I met Kit’s sister, Ellen.”
“Was she nice?”
Rose held up a frosty pink gown and then rejected it; she was feeling much bolder than that. “I liked her. But she’s sixteen and fancies herself in love. With a pawnbroker.”
“Perhaps she is in love. And in a bustling town like this, a pawnshop is likely to be a thriving business.”
“Surely she can do much better than to live life above a pawnshop. Look at the house she’s living in now!”
Mum turned to her, raising one kohl-darkened brow. “You liked it, then.”
“Kit’s house?” Rose shook out a bright red gown. Perfect. She laid it on the old canopied bed. “It was very impressive. It must be lovely to live right on the river like that and yet in a bustling town, too. And the house is beautifully designed.”
Another thing of beauty, she thought, standing over her sleeping maid. “Harriet,” she called softly.
The girl bolted upright. “Yes, milady.” She scrambled to her feet. “Forgive me, milady. I was tired.”
Rose waved a dismissive hand, thinking she was a mite tired herself.
“You like the house’s designer, too,” her mother said.
“Kit? He’s pleasant.” Memories flashed: his smile, his laughter, his eyes…his lips. Rose shivered, then made a show of rubbing her arms, moving closer to the fire on the grate. Curling tongs sat heating in the embers. “It’s cold in this stone building, don’t you think?”
“Not particularly.”
Her mother’s gaze was making her uncomfortable, so she turned to let Harriet unlace her gown. “I’ve been thinking, Mum…”
Shifting back to the mirror, her mother opened a little jar of pomade. “Yes?”
“You’ve always cautioned us to kiss a man before we agree to marry him. I think that is excellent advice. I believe that if I see Ellen again, I shall tell her. Perhaps she’ll find she doesn’t love the pawnbroker, after all.”
Mum slicked the pomade on her lips, then stood and waved Rose toward the stool in her stead. “Love has to do with more than kisses, dear.”
“Well, of course it does!” Rose settled herself, watching in the mirror as Harriet slid the pins from her hair. “But since a wife is expected to kiss her husband, she should at least make sure she likes his technique.”
Leaning forward, Rose darkened her lashes with the end of a burnt cork while Harriet used the hot tongs to fashion perfect ringlets. What a pity the Duke of Bridgewater was such an abysmal kisser. He’d seemed so perfect.
Well, there were other suitable, handsome gentlemen at court. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to kiss them all before she found one as talented as Kit.
“Ah, kisses,” Harriet murmured with a sigh.
Mum stepped into high Louis-heeled shoes fashioned of golden brocade to match her gown. “Have you met any you
ng men here at Windsor yet, Harriet?”
The girl’s freckles went three shades darker. “Not yet.”
“Harriet’s shy,” Anne put in.
“Well.” Mum straightened and gave her skirts a shake. “We shall have to see about an introduction.”
Rose rolled her eyes. Whoever heard of “introductions” for servants? Only her hopelessly romantic mother would even think of such a thing.
“Mum,” she started.
”Yes, dear?”
On the other hand…at least Mum didn’t seem to be foisting any introductions upon her. Perhaps it was a blessing that the matchmaker had found someone else to torment with her schemes. Better Harriet than Rose.
“Never mind,” Rose said lightly.
The last thing she needed was her mother interfering in her love life.
EIGHTEEN
THREE DAYS later, Kit looked down the hill toward Ellen dragging along behind. “Come along, will you?” Walking backward, he squinted at her in the darkness. “What is that you’re carrying?”
“A book.”
“A book?” He stopped to wait for her to catch up. “Since when do you spend your time reading?”
“Since you went stark raving mad and decided I should spend half the night watching you work. Since then.”
He chose not to respond.
It was too dark to see her expression, but he could hear the pout in her voice. After returning home to find her absent one time too many, yesterday he’d finally decided to bring her with him to work so he could keep an eye on her. She’d acted positively feral, shouting and disrupting the worksite, so tonight’s pouting was a vast improvement. Perhaps she was learning resignation.
“Why won’t you let me stay home?” she suddenly shrieked.
Then again, perhaps not.
“I’d let you stay home if you would stay home. But I know you, and you won’t. I’d return to find you’re at the pawnshop again.”
“I love him,” she said for the hundredth time. Or maybe the millionth.