The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Now, as Rose and Gabriel performed the complicated steps of the galliard, she was aware of all the gazes on the two of them. Jealous gazes. The ladies were jealous because she’d captivated the most coveted bachelor at court. The gentlemen were jealous because he’d made his intentions crystal clear—and one didn’t elbow aside a duke.

  All the attention was positively heady, and part of Rose was thrilled beyond belief. A duke, and such a handsome one at that!

  If only the man could kiss.

  She’d allowed four more attempts, trying vainly to coax him to change his style. When that hadn’t worked, she’d tried—really tried—to learn to enjoy his technique. Because, truth be told, she couldn’t imagine why she didn’t. It seemed to her that his kiss wasn’t actually all that different from Kit’s.

  Some of the others had been positively boorish in their approach, but Gabriel didn’t fit in that category. He wasn’t too slobbery, his breath was pleasant, and he had the manner of a gentleman, if an impassioned one. So she couldn’t put her finger on what Kit had done specifically that made his kiss magic while Gabriel’s had no effect on her at all.

  Or at least not the desired effect.

  There was only one solution: She’d have to allow Kit to kiss her again. Once she’d discerned his method, it ought to be a simple matter to explain to Gabriel what she wanted. Practice, after all, should make perfect.

  If only the practice weren’t so disagreeable.

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said kindly when the dance came to an end. She loved calling him your grace, not to mention imagining being called your grace herself. She noticed the musicians set down their instruments. “Is the dancing over so early?” she asked with a frown.

  “Only temporarily.” Gabriel gestured to another corner of the room. “I believe Nell is about to grace us with an entertainment.”

  Chairs had been arranged to leave the corner open as a stage of sorts. Rose and the duke drifted closer as the performance began, a clever comedy mocking court life and filled with bits of song and dance. It seemed Nell had brought friends, for other actors and actresses took the makeshift stage along with her. When the brief play ended, the chamber burst into applause, the king’s the loudest of all.

  “Extraordinary!” he exclaimed, the remnants of laughter still on his face. “Extraordinary!”

  Laughing herself, Nell swept him an exaggerated bow. “Then, sir, to show you don’t speak like a courtier, I hope you’ll make the performers a handsome present.”

  Charles made a great show of patting his velvet clothing. “I have no money about me.” He turned to his brother, the Duke of York. “Have you any coin, my dear James?”

  His eyes dancing, the duke shrugged. “I believe, sir, not above a guinea or two.”

  Laughing harder, Nell turned in a circle, her arms outstretched. “Od’s fish,” she cried, borrowing the king’s favorite oath, “what company have I got into?”

  Rose laughed along with everyone else. Nell’s charm was difficult to resist.

  Gabriel tucked a hand beneath her elbow. “Shall we adjourn to the North Terrace?” he asked politely.

  Not again. Her high spirits quickly faded. “I think not. I feel, um, a bit peaked. I should like to find my mother and see if she’s ready to leave.”

  “Already? The gaming hasn’t even started.”

  And she’d wanted to try that. But not as much as she wanted to escape now. Somewhere—anywhere—where she could find a few moments of peace.

  “I believe I saw my mother head in that direction,” she said, indicating the portion of the castle that was under construction—an area she suspected the fastidious duke would have no wish to enter. “I thank you for the dances.”

  Without looking back, she hurried away, hoping he wouldn’t follow and heaving a sigh of relief when she made it into the unfinished vestibule without hearing any footsteps behind her. Thinking to hide herself even better, she slipped into the half-built dining room and sagged against an exquisitely carved wall.

  This late at night, she’d expected the room to be deserted, but it wasn’t. Across the chamber, Kit and Ellen were having words.

  “Let me see it,” he said, reaching toward his sister. “Why should it be a secret?”

  “It’s mine,” Ellen shot back, clutching a book to her chest. “Why do you have to stick your nose into everything that’s mine?”

  Dazed, Rose just watched. It struck her that in his fine but plain suit, with his gleaming black hair free instead of tucked beneath a wig, Kit looked anything but aristocratic. His skin was browned from working outdoors, and he carried his lean, rangy form with a steady ease, not the controlled posture necessary to carry off the weight of layers of heavy fabric and ornamentation.

  In an odd way, she found the lack of fussiness appealing. But she wanted an aristocratic husband.

  It was a good thing he was just a friend.

  “Rose!” Ellen exclaimed, spotting her and abandoning Kit to hurry over. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”

  “Were you?” Rose asked.

  “I brought a book I’d like you to translate.”

  “Did you?” Her gaze still fastened on Kit, Rose seemed to be reduced to two-word responses.

  “Will you try?” Grabbing Rose by the arm, Ellen pulled her down the length of the chamber. “I’m dying to find some fresh air—this place is filled with sawdust.”

  Before Rose could protest, Ellen had propelled her out a door at the end of the chamber. As it shut behind them, Rose sneaked another glance at Kit. The last she saw of him was those glittering green-brown eyes.

  It should be a crime for a commoner to be so attractive.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ELLEN LED ROSE down a long back corridor, around a corner, and out into a small brick courtyard. Unlike Horn Court with its uniformed guards and staircase to the king’s chambers, this area was lit by a single torch and held nothing but stacks of building supplies and a weathered wooden table with two chairs. Rose gratefully dropped onto one of them, amused to hear assorted bangs, scrapes, and curses coming from the building to her right.

  “We’re nearly back where we started, aren’t we?”

  Ellen took the second chair. “The dining room is on the other side of that new wall, yes.”

  Despite the sounds of construction, the courtyard seemed private enough. “So…why wouldn’t you show Kit the book?”

  “He wouldn’t like it. He’d probably lock me in my chambers so I could never see Thomas again.”

  “Oh?” Though Rose felt drained, her curiosity was stronger. “May I see it?”

  “In a minute.” Ellen laid the book on the table and ran a finger over the gold lettering that gleamed in the torchlight. “Kit drew a picture of you.”

  “I know. I saw it. It was very well done. I had no idea he was an artist.”

  “He’s not. Or not anymore. He used to draw all the time, and paint, too.” Ellen’s voice was so melancholy, Rose’s throat tightened just hearing it. “Da used to bring extra wood home from his work—he’d spend hours sanding it smooth and cutting it to size so Kit could paint on it. And Mama would bring home old paints. The lady she worked for painted landscapes as a pastime.”

  “They sound like they were very devoted parents.”

  Ellen nodded, still absently tracing the gilt title. “They were. But Kit hasn’t painted since they died. Not anything. He says he’s too busy, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “He does seem very busy,” Rose said gently.

  Ellen’s eyes, so like Kit’s, went from sad to furious in a heartbeat. Brown to green. “All he wants to do,” she said between gritted teeth, “is make money and add it to my dowry. He thinks he can buy me a titled husband. I don’t want a titled husband. I want Thomas.”

  Rose had never been afraid to ask questions when she wanted answers. “How much is your dowry?”

  “He adds to it constantly. Half of every penny that comes his way. Last I heard, it
was up to eleven thousand.”

  “Pounds?”

  “Pounds.”

  “Gemini,” Rose breathed, stunned. “Mine is only three thousand.” Hardly a pittance—three thousand pounds was ten years’ income for a gentleman. “I have another ten from my grandfather, but that money is mine to control.”

  Ellen pushed back her unruly dark hair. “Kit doesn’t let me control anything.”

  “He only wants what’s best for you.” Rose was sure of it. She was also sure Kit was going about it in a typical male, pigheaded way, but she wouldn’t say that, at least not now.

  “What’s best for me is Thomas. I’ve told Kit that over and over, but he won’t listen. He thinks he knows better than me.”

  “Well, you are still fairly young—”

  “But I’m not a baby. Why can’t he see that I’ve grown up? I hate being at odds with him. I hate the harsh words. I love him—but I love Thomas, too.” Ellen fought back tears. “Will you help me persuade him?”

  “Me?” Rose blinked. “Why should Kit listen to me?”

  “He drew you,” Ellen reminded her. “He hasn’t drawn anything but buildings in twelve whole years.”

  And he’d kissed her, too, but Rose wouldn’t be telling Ellen that. “I suppose I can try,” she promised her. “But I’m not at all sure I can make any difference.”

  Pigheaded. That was Kit. But Rose also thought he was right—at least where Thomas was concerned.

  A pawnbroker, for heaven’s sake!

  “Do you know, Ellen,” she ventured carefully, “it might be a good idea for you to kiss Thomas before you decide you want to marry him.”

  “Kiss him?” Dashing away the tears, Ellen burst out laughing. “Mercy me, that’s precious.”

  For a moment Rose was confused, but then she just felt like a fool. Of course Ellen had kissed her love. The girl was sixteen, and Rose had received her first kiss at sixteen.

  Which, incidentally, had been the last time she’d ever sought one.

  “Show me the book,” she said.

  Sobering, Ellen pushed it slowly across the table. “I’d like to read the words that go with the pictures,” she said, for the first time sounding a bit shy. “But it’s a different language.”

  “As long as it’s not another architecture book,“ Rose jested, trying to lighten the mood, “because I’ve seen enough buildings.” Her eyes scanned the title. “’I Sonetti Lussuriosi di Pietro Aretino,’” she read aloud. “It’s Italian.”

  “Ah. I was wondering.” Ellen scooted closer. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s authored by a man named Pietro Aretino, and it’s called The Licentious Sonnets,” Rose translated with some relish. This sounded good, maybe as good as Aristotle’s Master-piece, the marriage manual her older sister had brought home years ago. She flipped open the cover—and gasped.

  When her hands flew to her mouth the book fell on the floor, but it landed open at the same page. There, above the first sonnet, was an engraving of two people.

  Nude people. On a bed.

  Hearing muffled sounds, she looked up to see Ellen shaking with suppressed laughter. Suddenly, instead of feeling like the older, wiser woman of nineteen to Ellen’s sixteen, Rose felt about five years old.

  “I’m—sorry—” Ellen choked out, a few giggles spilling out along with her words. “Just—your face—” With a visible effort, she calmed herself, wiping more tears from her eyes. “You were so shocked.”

  “And why aren’t you?” Rose snapped, her temper flaring from mortification more than outrage. “What on earth is a respectable young woman doing with a book like this?” Feeling the first twinges of headache coming on, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. And mentally repeated what she’d just said aloud, wondering when she had inexplicably turned into her mother.

  “Please don’t be mad. This is the only way I can learn.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rose opened her eyes. “Learn what?”

  Ellen chewed her lip. “About…men and woman. What happens when you get married. Kit won’t tell me anything, you see, and I just want to know…”

  Rose felt for the girl. She’d grown up sheltered, too, but at least she’d had Mum to explain things. Not that she’d ever actually asked her mother about things—instead she’d got all her knowledge from the manual—but still, she’d always had Mum. Who did Ellen have?

  Wait…the manual!

  “I’ve got a better book for you,” Rose declared, crouching to retrieve I Sonetti. With an air of finality, she closed the book’s cover. “Believe me, you’ll find it much more informative than sonnets.”

  Ellen’s eyes lit with interest. “Ooo, what’s it called? Do you have it here?”

  “Well, no. But—”

  “When can you get it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to borrow it from my sister’s house, and I’m not sure when I’ll next be there. Or when I’ll be able to bring it back to Windsor…”

  “Oh.”

  Ellen sounded so deflated that Rose wanted to hug her—and she was not normally one for hugging. “Perhaps…perhaps I could give the sonnets a try. The words might not be as shocking as the pictures.”

  Ellen perked right up. “Oh, would you? I’d be ever so grateful!”

  Rose cracked the book again, quickly covering the picture with her hand. She took a deep breath and read the first line. “‘Fottiamci anima mia, fottiamci presto; Poi che tutti per fotter nati siamo.’ Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love.” She looked up. “That’s not too shocking.”

  “Not at all.” Looking disappointed, Ellen reached to turn the page. “Maybe try this one.”

  When Rose saw the engraving, she slammed the book shut again. “You’ve looked at all the pictures?”

  “Of course.”

  After taking a moment to collect herself, Rose drew a shaky breath. “Where did you get this?” she asked Ellen.

  “I found it in Thomas’s shop.”

  “Someone pawned this book?”

  “People pawn everything. Jewels and pottery and pistols and swords…it’s like a treasure trove, I’m telling you. My favorite place in the world. You should pay a visit, Rose. The shop is right on the High Street.”

  Rose had never thought she’d like a pawnshop—they were seedy places, from what she’d heard. Disreputable, along with their owners. “Does Thomas have other foreign books?”

  “Not like this one,” Ellen said with a wicked smile. “But yes, I’ve noticed other books that aren’t in English. This book was part of a whole library someone pawned; I don’t think Thomas ever looked through the titles to see what he had.” Her eyes filled with hope. “Please, would you translate the rest of the first poem?”

  Rose felt her cheeks heat; in fact, she couldn’t remember blushing so much in her whole life as she’d done since coming to court.

  She was caught out. This book made her mighty uncomfortable, though the words seemed perhaps less objectionable than the pictures. Part of her felt she ought to go straight to Kit so he could take the book away from Ellen—but another part recoiled at the very idea. Given how protective he was of his sister, there was no telling how he’d react.

  Rose needed to consider this carefully.

  “I shall take the book back to my apartments,” she told Ellen, “and write down the translation. That will give me a chance to puzzle out some of the less common words.” And decide what should be done about all this, she added silently.

  And in the meantime, young Ellen would be prevented from further study of those unseemly engravings.

  “When will you bring me the translation?” Ellen asked eagerly. “Tomorrow morning, at the pawnshop?”

  “It’s past midnight already.” Rose stood with a yawn. “And will Kit even allow you to go to the pawnshop?”

  “He has to sleep sometime,” Ellen said with a mischievous smile. “And when he does succumb, he sleeps like the dead. I manage to sneak out easi
ly enough. After he wakes, though, he’ll surely drag me back here while he works all the day.”

  “And half the night,” Rose agreed.

  Kit was the hardest working person she’d ever met.

  “Probably.” Ellen sighed. “Will you visit the pawnshop tomorrow, then? In the morning?”

  “I’ll try,” Rose hedged, thinking she was rather curious to meet this Thomas Whittingham. Collecting the book, she led her younger friend back to the dining room.

  Kit was up on a ladder inspecting something or other. He’d removed his surcoat and wore only shirtsleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. Rose couldn’t help noticing he had muscular forearms sprinkled with crisp black hair.

  “Did you two have a nice visit?” he asked. As he climbed down the ladder, Rose saw muscles moving under his thin white cambric shirt, too. She hadn’t sipped any champagne tonight, but her stomach seemed to think she had, anyway.

  “Very,” Ellen said, but Rose couldn’t remember what the girl was responding to. She was thinking Kit must carry big beams all the day to have developed such muscles. And she was thinking about how she’d decided to let him kiss her again. Just to find out what he did differently from Gabriel.

  And then she was remembering how soft his lips had felt, and how he’d drawn a picture of the real Rose.

  She didn’t like where these thoughts were leading.

  “How did the translation go, then?” he wondered, his gaze on the book in Rose’s hands.

  She knew he was hoping to get his hands on it. “It was more difficult than Ellen had anticipated, so I’m going to take it home to work on it. Please excuse me. I must go find my mother.”

  She felt very relieved to escape. At least until she walked back into the drawing room and saw two gentlemen descending on her. Gabriel approached from one side, and from the other came someone she had yet to meet.

  Though the stranger wasn’t as handsome as the duke—or Kit—he might be a good kisser. But for some reason she had no interest in finding out. Not to mention she was holding a scandalous book clutched to her chest.