by Lauren Royal
“I want better for you,” he said for the millionth time, too.
As they passed through the gate at Windsor, the drowsy old scarlet-uniformed guard snapped to attention. “Evening, Mr. Martyn.”
“Evening, Richards.”
The man narrowed his rheumy eyes. “Who goes with you?”
“My sister.”
“Pretty thing.” He smiled, displaying half a mouth of teeth. “Go on through.”
“My thanks.” In the torchlight of the gateway, Kit glanced again at the book clutched to Ellen’s chest. “Where’d you get that? It’s not even English.”
She clutched the book tighter, as though she were afraid he might snatch it from her hands. “You don’t want to know.”
“Whittingham?”
“Maybe.”
“Can pawnbrokers even read? Why would he give you a foreign book?”
He thought perhaps she blushed, but they were still walking and had left the circle of torchlight, so he couldn’t be sure.
“I’m hoping your friend Rose can translate it for me,” she said, neatly evading his question.
“Rose isn’t my friend.” He didn’t want to be Rose’s friend. He didn’t want to be her brother, either. He hoped he’d made that clear three nights ago when he’d kissed her on her doorstep.
“You drew a picture of her.”
“You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“It was good,” Ellen said grudgingly. “You should draw pictures more often. Of things besides buildings, I mean.”
“I’m too busy trying to make you a good life.”
Her reply to that was sullen silence.
He sighed as they skirted the Round Tower. “You cannot see Rose tonight. You’ll be at my construction site. She’ll be at court.” He wouldn’t walk Ellen through the king’s chambers—they’d take the long way around. “Ellen Martyn doesn’t belong at court. Until, that is, she marries a title.”
“I’m marrying a pawnbroker,” she said.
NINETEEN
ROSE HAD KISSED three gentlemen since Kit—one last night behind the huge bay window’s velvet curtains, one in the little unfinished vestibule the evening before, and one out on the terrace the evening before that…and all three nights had ended in failure.
It seemed good kissers were exceedingly rare at court.
But at least her quest was getting easier. The first two gentlemen had been pleasantly shocked when she’d asked them for a kiss, but the third had come to her.
And here came another, swaggering her way. Trying to appear casual, she leaned a hand on the solid silver table by the wall where she stood. It felt cold—and very expensive—beneath her fingers.
“Lovely table, isn’t it?” the fellow asked, coming to a stop before her. She looked him up and down. Although he wasn’t any taller than she, he wasn’t shorter either, and he had a pleasing face.
“The engraved top is nice,” she said, unable to summon yet another charming and flirtatious reply. Court chatter was exhaustingly repetitive.
He tried again. “Louis the Fourteenth has silver furniture like this all over Versailles.”
“Does he? Gemini, that palace must be even more overblown than this one.”
The gentleman appeared nonplussed. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”
She lazily waved her fan while she considered him. He was young enough. His hair was covered by a long, curled periwig, but she guessed from his fair complexion that it was blond. His periwinkle suit wasn’t too ostentatious, adorned with just enough jewels to make known his wealth.
He would do.
“Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she replied with a calculated smile.
He took her free hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back. A bit wet, but not totally disgusting. “Lord Cravenhurst, at your service.”
His voice wasn’t too grating, and, unlike the last fellow, she guessed he’d bathed within the week. His perfume was light and not too cloying. Perhaps he’d ask her to dance before claiming a kiss. That would be nice.
But she was not to be so lucky. He leaned close, sneaking a peek at himself in the silver-framed mirror above the table. “I hear you enjoy kissing,” he uttered in a confidential tone.
Rose fluttered her lashes. “Why, yes, actually, I do.” With the right partner.
Maybe he would be the one.
Although she would prefer a dance—or sitting somewhere alone where she could put her feet up—she allowed him to guide her behind the curtain again. She wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of kissing a virtual stranger, but after three wasted evenings, her patience was dwindling. Wasn’t it silly to spend hours getting to know a gentleman if her lips could rule him out in ten seconds flat?
Nervous, she turned toward the window and pretended to admire the view over Eton. It was a nice view, but apparently Lord Cravenhurst didn’t feel like looking. One arm clamped around her tight, and his mouth descended on hers.
Her fan dropped to the floor. He tasted funny, and his mouth felt slimy. When he tried to snake a hand down her bodice, she gasped and shoved him away. “How dare you!”
He didn’t look at all fazed. “I was told you were a wild one.”
“By whom?” Taking out a handkerchief, she wiped her mouth vigorously, not caring if she offended him.
He shrugged. “It’s all the buzz.”
“Well, the buzz is wrong. A kiss is not an invitation to be manhandled.” She tossed open the curtain. “Now go out there and tell everyone they were mistaken.”
“And reveal that you refused my advances? I think not,” he huffed and stalked away.
She barely had time to catch her breath before another gentleman hurried over. The Earl of Rosslyn, Kit’s friend.
Since they’d already been introduced, he wasted no time on preliminaries. “My lady,” he said with a bow, “I have it on good faith that you particularly enjoy kissing.”
The scoundrel. “You’re married!”
He grinned. “Then you know I have much experience.”
“What I know is that you’re an adulterer.”
“Why should that matter?”
Indeed. Looking around the chamber, one could observe all manner of embracing couples—and Rose had grave doubts that most of them were married. To each other, at least.
And where on earth was her mother? She might as well have come here by herself for all the chaperoning she was receiving.
She scooped her folded fan off the floor, half tempted to bash Rosslyn on the nose with it. “Go away,” she told him instead.
To her vast relief, he did. She aimed a shaky smile at two passing women, but they both pointedly avoided her gaze, whispering behind their fans. And yet another gentleman was headed in her direction.
Her tension eased as she realized it was the Duke of Bridgewater. At least Gabriel was a real gentleman. He was wearing russet tonight and looked aristocratic as ever. As he drew nearer, she opened her fan and composed herself.
“Your grace,” she greeted him with a smile. “Where have you been these past few evenings?”
“I’ve been about. It’s you who seem constantly occupied,” he pointed out good-naturedly, “and I’ve dearly missed your company. Was Rosslyn bothering you?”
In truth, she could take care of herself—hadn’t she just proven it? But she sidled up to him, waving the fan coquettishly. “I’m glad you arrived to protect me.”
“You’re in good hands, my dear.” Looking pleased, he linked an arm through hers and began guiding her toward the terrace.
Good heavens, the blasted terrace again.
“Wouldn’t you rather dance?” she asked, then whirled at hearing the meaty sound of a fist connecting with someone’s skull.
Nell Gwyn’s voice carried across the chamber. “Don’t make me sorry I talked Charles into releasing you from the Tower!” she spat as she stalked off.
The Duke of Buckingham stood watching her go, his mouth hangi
ng open, one hand held to the spot above his ear where petite Nell’s punch must have landed.
What a woman.
Gabriel reclaimed her arm. “Come along.”
“What happened?” she asked, resisting his propulsion.
“The idiot tried to kiss her.” The duke managed to harrumph in a genteel manner. “Everyone knows that unlike Louise and Barbara, Nell is completely devoted to King Charles.”
“Is she?” Rose wondered, pleased to learn that a single other courtier besides herself valued fidelity—even if Nell was a fallen woman. At least she was falling honestly.
“Oh, yes. She hasn’t touched another man since the king made her his mistress. Nearly nine years, if you can believe it.”
Gabriel’s apparent amazement gave Rose pause, but she consoled herself that at least he seemed to admire the achievement. She glanced back at the Duke of Buckingham, who still stood rooted in place. Even with his long black periwig all mussed, he looked entirely too dignified to have recently been a prisoner. “Why on earth was he in the Tower of London?”
“He’s not the first man King Charles has clapped in there, and he certainly won’t be the last. It’s political, my dear. You wouldn’t understand.”
Certain she would understand, Rose was about to ask for an explanation when he added, “Are you and your dear mother coming along to Hampton Court?”
Rose blinked, effectively diverted. “Hampton Court?”
“Haven’t you heard? The court is moving tomorrow—getting ever closer to London, as it were. The household will spend a few weeks at Hampton Court and then move to Whitehall for the winter, in time for the royal wedding on the fourth of November and the queen’s birthday celebration on the fourteenth.” He guided her toward the door. “Will you be coming along?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose I’ll have to ask Mum.”
“Well, I certainly hope she’ll agree. I’d feel bereft without your company.”
He sounded sincere, and she couldn’t help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller—not to mention the highest ranked.
There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.
It was worth a try, she decided as he drew her out to the blasted terrace.
She was getting nowhere in her search.
TWENTY
“BURNING THE midnight oil, eh, Martyn?”
Working in the blaze of torches and candelabrum, Kit looked up from his plans to see Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn. He offered his old friend a wry smile. “Oil lamps are a bit dim for my purpose, but you’ve got the gist of it, yes.”
Rosslyn paced the chamber with an elegant swagger, his tall walking stick clicking as he went. He paused, watching men and supplies go in and out of the two sizable holes cut in the ceiling that gave access to the area above, where Kit’s crew was busy reinforcing the structure. “The repairs seem to be coming along nicely.”
“Thank you.” Kit rubbed his eyes, realizing he must force himself to rest more in the daytimes. Even he couldn’t keep up this relentless pace forever. “And your own projects, Rosslyn?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” Rosslyn pulled a tortoiseshell snuffbox from his pocket. “You’ve done an excellent job recovering here, Martyn. But then, you always were up to the task.”
Kit could remember a few occasions, back in their school days, when Rosslyn hadn’t been up to the task. But then, he’d had no compelling reason to excel, as Kit had. The secure life of a peer had been awaiting him.
“What made you become an architect?” Kit asked. Surely an earl didn’t need a profession.
Having partaken of a pinch of snuff, Rosslyn sneezed. “Monuments.”
“Monuments?”
“I wish to leave something behind. Something so men will say there went Gaylord, the Earl of Rosslyn.”
The fellow wasn’t as shallow as Kit had thought. “Your theater in London is a masterpiece,” he conceded.
“I rather prefer my last church. But I thank you.” He tucked the snuffbox back into his pocket. “Well, the ladies are waiting. I shall leave you to it.” He turned on a high heel and swaggered toward the door, letting loose another sneeze followed by an “Oof!”
“Pardon me!” Lady Trentingham exclaimed.
“My apologies, my lady.” Holding his walking stick in a wide stance, Rosslyn swept her a deep bow. “I was just leaving.”
She turned and watched the earl mince away.
“Lady Trentingham,” Kit called over the bangs and scrapes of construction.
The countess looked over and smiled. “Good evening,” she greeted him, her own voice carrying well. He supposed that came of dealing with her half-deaf husband. She walked farther into the dining room, lifting the hem of her gown to step over a few boards and skirt her way around a sawhorse. “My, your men are busy as bees.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he told her, shooting a glance to his crew. “I long ago learned that my presence makes all the difference.” He rolled up the plans. “Can I help you with something?”
She met his gaze, her own forthright. “I’m wondering why you’ve spent the past three days avoiding my daughter.”
Kit slanted a look at Ellen. She’d stopped sulking and had her nose buried in her book. He would have to take a look and see what she was finding so fascinating.
In the meantime, though, he’d rather not have her privy to this conversation. “Would you mind stepping out onto the terrace?” he asked Rose’s mother. “I’ve a hankering for some fresh air.”
The pounding of hammers and scraping of saws receded as they exited the room, leaving a pleasant calm in their wake. The deserted terrace was silent but for their footsteps, the thud of his heavy boots and the click of her feminine heels.
“Well?” Lady Trentingham prompted. “Tell me what’s happened. I gather you kissed her.”
Kit froze. “H-how do you know that?” He felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. Would he ever have an exchange with this woman that didn’t take years off his life? Or was this to be their last exchange anyhow? She must be furious that he’d taken such liberties with her innocent, high-born daughter.
“My lady, I offer my deepest apologies. My conduct was shameful, and I don’t—”
Her chuckle was startling. “I’m not angry, Kit. I’ve always told my daughters they ought to kiss a man before agreeing to marry him—no more than kiss, you understand,” she added sternly. But she was still smiling. “And I’d say yours was an effective tactical move, given that Rose has been babbling about it ever since.”
Though Kit’s face was on fire, his ears perked up. “About kissing me?”
“About kissing her future husband. Presently, she seems to be seeking another gentleman with your skill. Interviewing them, you might say.”
His ears were suddenly filled with an odd rushing sound. “She’s kissing other men?”
“With very little success, from what I can tell. Though she unfortunately seems to be acquiring quite a reputation. As a mother, I’m rather concerned about that. I’m considering taking Rose home for a spell, rather than following the king directly to Hampton Court. Might you come see us at Trentingham?”
Kit’s head was spinning. Though he knew full well he had no right to be vexed at Rose for kissing other men, he couldn’t control his gut reaction.
His gut didn’t like it.
But nor did it like the thought of Rose leaving court.
He drifted to the edge of the terrace and gazed over the half wall at the darkened Thames Valley. “Even if I could think of a suitable pretext for visiting—”
“Such as my husband’s greenhouse?” she chimed in sweetly, coming up beside him.
His fingers clenched the stone railing. Just once, he’d like to be one step ahead of her for a change. “Such as, yes. Still, the fact remains that I’m nee
ded here to oversee my work for the Crown. That’s why I haven’t had time to call on Rose in recent days. Raising my status at court is the best chance I have of winning her—and impressing the king is the first step toward that goal.”
The countess sighed. “I hate to separate you two just as you’ve caught her attention.”
Kit didn’t like the idea any more than she did. Though he’d spent no more than a few hours in Rose’s company, somehow—absurdly—he missed her. It seemed all he looked forward to was seeing her again. He’d never felt less enthusiasm for his work, or had so much trouble maintaining his focus. Stray thoughts kept intruding, thoughts of rosebud lips and adorable dimples and the scent of flowers…
And that kiss. That kiss had been…
He shook himself, wrenching his mind back to the present. Gripping the top of the wall so tightly that stone dug into flesh, he reminded himself that if he wanted the chance to keep kissing Rose, he had to put her from his mind for the present. He had to concentrate on getting back into the king’s good graces.
But if he neglected her too long, would he lose his chance anyhow?
“I’ve barely got this project back on schedule,” he muttered, then realized his fingers had begun to ache. He released the railing and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Give me a few days to ensure that it stays that way. Then I shall visit and pay court to Rose.”
“Very well.” Though dissatisfied, Lady Trentingham sounded resigned. “We will take our leave tomorrow afternoon.” Then she suddenly brightened. “But we still have tonight.”
TWENTY-ONE
EVEN THE KING had tried to steal a kiss!
As His Majesty and Rose had ended a minuet, he’d murmured his intentions in a low, velvet-edged voice and leaned close, apparently unconcerned that anyone might be watching. Right then, Gabriel had appeared to claim she’d promised him the next dance, which had been lucky for Rose, because she had no idea how to gracefully refuse a king.
And she’d had more than enough kissing for one night.
A good loser, Charles had gone away happily enough, smiling when he spotted Nell Gwyn sashaying into the chamber.