The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “They’re vulgar bores, anyway,” she declared. “But a girl needs friends. I miss my sisters. I enjoyed talking with Ellen.”

  “She enjoyed you, too. She’s in a much better mood now. Thank you for that.”

  She waved a hand. “I cannot think what I did, besides possibly offer friendship.”

  “She needs friends, too. Of late, she spends all her time with him.” He steered her around the Round Tower. “What was the title of the book she brought along?”

  “I won’t know until I translate it,” Rose said glibly.

  So glibly he suspected it was a fib. That book was making him more and more curious.

  She stopped before the castle gate and turned to face him. Torchlight danced over her fine features, highlighting her puzzled smile and the charming little indents it made in her cheeks.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He hadn’t known, but now he did. “To the river, if it pleases you.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  ROSE KNEW SHE shouldn’t have left the castle, especially with a man. But she’d wanted so much to escape. And Kit was a friend.

  She’d never had a male friend before.

  “It’s quiet out here,” she said.

  “Unlike your friends at court, most of the townfolk rise with the dawn and seek their beds when the sun sets.”

  “I guess that’s why none of the windows are lit.” The hill was steep, the uneven cobblestones treacherous. “It’s so dark.” A little wobble in her voice matched a sudden lurch in her gait.

  He reached to steady her. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

  “No,” she snapped, then added, “Well, maybe. A little,” when she caught him looking at her sideways.

  What was it about him that made her spill her most embarrassing secrets?

  She waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t. “I’d know the way with my eyes closed,” he said. “Here, take my hand.”

  She did, though she knew she shouldn’t be doing that either. But Kit’s fingers felt nice linked with hers, comforting instead of intimidating, though his palm was rougher than those of the court gentlemen. Work worn, she supposed. And while she was holding his hand, the night didn’t seem quite as dark.

  At the bottom of the hill, rowdy laughter drifted from a tavern called Bel and the Dragon. The sound of common men thick with drink. Kit was common, too, but for now she didn’t care. It was peaceful here, away from court. And no one was threatening to kiss her.

  Not even the one person she wished would.

  When they reached Kit’s house and he turned and started up the steps, Rose pulled her hand from his. “You said we were going to the river.”

  “We’re stopping here only a minute.” He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door; it was late enough that Graves wasn’t there to open it. “Wait here,” Kit whispered, ushering her into the entry. A single oil lamp burned on the small marble-topped table. “I’ll be right back.”

  Hugging herself, she watched him walk deeper into the house. Through an open window, more laughter floated from the river, faint and joyous. People celebrating on a barge, she imagined.

  She didn’t have to wait long. A minute later Kit was back, a cloth sack in one hand and a cloak in the other. “Ellen’s,” he explained. “I thought you might be cold.”

  He moved close and settled it over her shoulders, wrapping her in its warmth. Fine gray wool with black and silver braid, it was much heavier than her own velvet one and smelled faintly of Ellen, a light, carefree fragrance compared to her own bolder perfume. But Kit being so near, his own scent seemed stronger—robust, woodsy, and deliciously overwhelming.

  She was on the verge of asking for a kiss again when he stepped away.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly as he guided her back outdoors. “It was very kind of you to take me for a walk. Away from…all that.”

  “I needed a break from my work,” he said too quickly, as though he’d readied the excuse in advance.

  She slanted him a sidelong glance. Had he sought her out for a different reason? Or was it something else he was keeping from her? “Then you mean to return to work afterwards?” she asked in a neutral tone.

  He shrugged. “Likely not for long. Lack of sleep is finally catching up with me.”

  Ellen was counting on that, Rose thought, wondering why she felt disloyal. Whose side was she on regarding this brother–sister tug of war? She wasn’t sure. She only knew that right here, right now, she was in the right place.

  The streets were deserted this time of night, the river slow and dark, the moon illuminating its ripples. Kit guided her past the bridge that led to Eton, its shops dark and shuttered. They came to a wooden gate with white lettering that gleamed in the moonlight. “Romney Walk,” Rose read aloud.

  The gate creaked when Kit opened it. “There’s a place near Trentingham named Romney as well, isn’t there?”

  “There are many such places, I believe.” Beyond the gate, the path angled closer to the river. Although the moon provided enough light that she could trod the packed dirt without tripping, she allowed Kit to keep a steadying hand on her elbow. “The word derives from a Saxon word, rumnea, meaning water.”

  He looked at her with admiration. “You know ancient languages, too?”

  She smiled, liking that look. She couldn’t remember a gentleman ever admiring her for more than her appearance.

  It was the difference between a suitor and a friend.

  “No, Rand told me about that. I’m not so much interested in old tongues—I’d rather learn languages I can use someday when I travel. What’s in the sack?”

  “Bread. For the swans.” Several had been following them as they walked, gliding soundlessly on the water. One of them honked now, as though he’d heard Kit and knew food was in the offing. “I thought you might like to feed them.”

  “It would never occur to me to bring bread. Lily would think like that.”

  “She loves animals, doesn’t she?”

  “Almost as much as she loves Rand.” Rose released a long sigh. “She’s nice to everyone and everything, human and animal alike. I could never live up to her perfection.”

  “No one is perfect. Not Lily or anyone else.” He reached into the sack and handed her a few cubes of stale bread. “Shall we sit?”

  The bank rose here, forming a little grassy hill that overlooked the river. Rose lowered herself to the springy ground, tucking Ellen’s cloak beneath her. She tossed a bread cube out on the water and watched the swans rush to gobble it. “What is it about you that makes me such a chatterer?” she wondered.

  He sat beside her. “You don’t seem tongue-tied with anyone else.”

  Pursing her lips, she tossed another cube. “I don’t generally admit to people that I’m imperfect.”

  “I hesitate to disillusion you,” he said wryly, “but I imagine they could figure that out without you informing them.”

  Laughing, she shoved at his shoulder. Swans honked, demanding more bread. Across the river, a tiny bridge was barely visible over small rapids gleaming white in the moonlight. The sounds of running water were soothing.

  After a moment of silence, Kit reached over and took her hand. When she didn’t pull away, he raised it to his mouth and pressed his warm lips to the back.

  She knew she shouldn’t allow it. But his kiss on her hand felt different from Lord Hathersham’s, so different it made her shiver.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No. Will you kiss me?”

  “Shy as usual,” Kit teased, looking rather pleased with himself.

  Though his tone made her blush, it was anticipation making her heart pound. “I didn’t mean…” Agitated, she scrambled to her feet. “Gemini, I just want to see how you do it.”

  He rose, too, moving closer. “Like anyone else, as I told you.” With a hand beneath her chin, he tilted her face up. His breath teased her lips. “A kiss is a kiss.”

  “Oh, no,
” she whispered, “it isn’t.”

  Then she couldn’t say more, because his mouth was covering hers.

  She did her best to concentrate on analyzing his technique. But as his hands came up to cradle her cheeks, as his lips coaxed hers with slow and deliberate care, as her fingers gripped his solid shoulders, then gripped harder when she feared her knees might buckle…

  What was it she was supposed to be concentrating on, again?

  Kiss, her muddled mind reminded her. How…

  Mmm. Was he more gentle? Not really—and not at all once he’d gathered her into his arms, pulling her closer to deepen the kiss. Was he more skilled? She had to think so, but she couldn’t seem to discern how. Did he taste different? Well, certainly. He tasted like Kit.

  She felt his heart beating, and then she couldn’t think any longer. She could only feel. She shifted so that her own heartbeat was next to his. They were beating in tandem. A perfect moment.

  A thing of beauty.

  When he broke the kiss, she tugged him back for another. He obliged her briefly before drawing away with a laugh. “So I’m different, am I?”

  “Somehow.” She sighed. “But I cannot figure out the difference. It makes no sense. I don’t even like kissing!”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “Only with you—so far.” He kissed her neck now, and she liked that, too. Little damp kisses she should have loathed, but she didn’t. Instead, she shivered with delight. “What’s your secret?”

  “Maybe,” he murmured, his lips warm against her throat, “the secret is that we belong together.”

  “No.” It couldn’t be. She couldn’t belong with a commoner. Kit was her friend, and she liked kissing him, and that was all. “I think not.”

  “No?” He raised his head to meet her gaze. But then the intensity in his eyes suddenly dissipated. He adopted a lazy smile. “Shall I kiss you again to prove it?”

  “Oh, Kit,” she scolded, half grumble, half sigh. She wondered what he’d almost said before he’d changed his mind.

  He pressed a warm, clinging kiss to her mouth. “Hmm?”

  “I think we should go back.” She didn’t want to go back, but she had to. This wasn’t where she belonged. “Please, take me back. I don’t think this is right. I mean…we aren’t right.”

  It was a long, heart-stopping moment before he drew away. Then he took her hand and started down the path. She didn’t pull her hand from his. She knew she should. But she didn’t.

  “I think we are right,” he said after a while. “And I think that in time you’ll agree.”

  It was a good thing he was just a friend, because she feared she might agree already.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “LADY TRENTINGHAM?”

  Chrystabel turned to the Duke of Bridgewater and took note of his troubled expression. “Yes, your grace?”

  “I thought I should let you know your daughter is missing.”

  “Oh?” Poor young man, he really seemed to care. “Whatever makes you think that?”

  “She went off more than an hour ago. I was hoping she’d return within a reasonable time, so I’d have no need to alarm you—”

  “Did she go off with Kit Martyn?” Feeling sorry for him, she laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Martyn is a friend of the family. I asked him to escort her.”

  “Back to your apartments?” When she didn’t answer, he apparently took that for an affirmative. “She did say she felt peaked. Will she be returning later this evening?”

  “I’m not certain,” Chrystabel said slowly, feeling a twinge of guilt for misleading him.

  But she hadn’t really lied, had she? She’d merely allowed him to jump to a conclusion. He truly did seem concerned. A pity he was all wrong for Rose—too dull and unchallenging.

  Although her daughter would make her own decision, Chrystabel had no doubt that, with her subtle help, in the end Rose would choose the right husband.

  Bridgewater suddenly frowned. “It seems that, besides Lady Rose, a number of other ladies have gone missing.”

  Chrystabel looked around, surprised to find he was right. There were noticeably fewer women than earlier. The abandoned gentlemen shifted restlessly, standing in little groups and talking about God knew what.

  “Do you expect they’re all feeling peaked?” Bridgewater asked. “Perhaps the prawns were bad.”

  “You men ate prawns, too, did you not?” Dull, just as she’d thought. But his heart was in the right place. Looking over to her right, she brightened. “Oh, here comes Rose now.”

  Her daughter’s step was lighter, her cheeks pinkened from the fresh night air—and perhaps a tender moment with Kit.

  Chrystabel could only hope.

  Bridgewater swept Rose a bow. “We missed you, my lady.”

  “Did you?” she murmured distractedly.

  Chrystabel took that as a good sign. If Rose was failing to flirt with a duke, she must have someone else on her mind.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.

  “I…um…not really, I’m afraid. I…I just returned for my cloak.”

  “You’re wearing a cloak,” he pointed out.

  “Oh.” She blinked. “I borrowed this one.” She unfastened the gray wool garment and shrugged it off, handing it to Chrystabel. “Will you both excuse me?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE ATTIRING room was so crowded, Rose had to edge her way inside.

  “Marry come up!” a lady was saying. “Will you look at this? And this”—there was a pause during which Rose heard pages flipping—“how would this even work?”

  “Very well, I can assure you,” another lady said smugly.

  Amid laughter, Rose worked herself toward the center. And then froze. Eleven—no, twelve—courtiers were huddled over Ellen’s book.

  She was beginning to back away when one of them glanced up. “Lady Rose! Could this book be yours?”

  “Mine?”

  The pimply, black-haired Lady W held up Rose’s purple cloak. “We found it under this. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “The cloak, yes. But the book…” Oh, dash it—she couldn’t leave it here, so there was no sense in lying. “It belongs to a friend,” she said, holding her head high. After all, given the behavior these women exhibited here at court, they were hardly apt to condemn her for possessing such a book.

  “A friend? Wherever did he find it?”

  “She,” Rose corrected. “And why? Have you heard of this book?”

  “Heard of it?” a plump brunette said. “Why, I Sonetti Lussuriosi is known far and wide.” She pronounced the Italian words with a dreadful English accent. “It was suppressed by the Vatican in the last century; didn’t you know? There are few copies surviving, and many men searching for them.”

  “And women,” someone added, prompting giggles.

  “Lord Chauncey has a set of the engravings on his bedchamber walls,” one lady slyly informed them. “I’ve seen them.”

  “A crude set,” a second lady put in. “Copies. Nothing like the fine artistry of these originals.”

  “You’ve seen them, too?” a third lady asked.

  “You haven’t?” a fourth replied with an arched brow.

  From the laughter that ensued, Rose concluded that Lady Number Three—and she—were the only women at court who hadn’t found their way into Lord Chauncey’s bedchamber.

  Perversely, she was beginning to think she might have more in common with a woman like Nell than with these high-born ladies of her own class.

  A wistful sigh came from one of the women. “I do so wish I could read Italian. These sonnets must be fascinating.”

  “And far more tasteful than the pictures,” Rose said dryly.

  As one, the assembled group stopped focusing on the book and swung to her instead. A few of them sidled closer, looking at Rose with more interest than resentment for a change.

  “Can you read Italian?” one of them asked. Or rather, slurred. She was wearing the newly
fashionable plumpers—cork balls inside her cheeks to round out her face.

  Rose nodded. “Yes, I can read it.” Perhaps it wasn’t considered ladylike to study languages, but she was far past trying to impress these women.

  And oddly enough, they didn’t seem disapproving. Quite the contrary. “Will you read this book to us?” one asked.

  Rose’s face flamed at the thought. “I…I don’t read Italian that well,” she fibbed. “Not well enough to translate aloud.”

  They all sighed together rather theatrically, their good-natured expressions hardening.

  “But I’m translating the first sonnet tonight,” Rose found herself telling them. “For my friend. I could bring a copy to court, too, if you’d like.”

  The brunette’s overly made-up eyes widened at this offer. “Would you?”

  The pimply Lady W smiled. “We’d be most grateful.”

  “Mosht grateful,” slurred the woman with the plumpers.

  The blond Lady W stepped forward. “I must say, Lady Rose, that’s a very kind offer, indeed. I’m so pleased to have made your acquaintance here at court.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “DIDN’T YOU sleep well, dear?” Mum frowned as Rose yawned for the dozenth time. “Perhaps you should go back to bed.”

  “I slept fine, Mum.” And she had—for the three hours she’d actually slept. “I overslept, in fact. It’s past ten already, and I mean to visit Ellen at the pawnshop this morning.”

  “The pawnshop?”

  She crossed to the window to check the weather. “I never made it back to the bookshop yesterday, and Ellen said the pawnshop has books. Foreign books. And I need to return her cloak.” It looked sunny, so she decided against wearing her own.

  “It’s amazing how quickly you’ve become friends.” Mum sounded pleased.

  Rose made no reply. Friends didn’t lie to each other, yet she was about to do just that.

  “Sometimes friendships are meant to be,” Mum went on. “Just like some men and women belong together.”