The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “What on earth is going on out here?” he said. “I thought I heard a ghost.”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Rose said peevishly.

  “Obviously,” Kit drawled, “you have never torn down an old building.”

  “Obviously,” Rose returned, “you have a lively imagination.”

  Kit only laughed. Lightning strike her down, Chrystabel thought, if these two weren’t perfect for each other.

  No lightning bolts came down the chimney.

  “Are you hungry?” Rose asked.

  “I could eat.”

  There wasn’t a male alive who couldn’t find space for food, no matter how recently his belly was last filled. Chrystabel credited her daughter for knowing the way to a man’s heart.

  But as they made their way downstairs, her own heart sank. A jovial family midnight snack was not what she’d had in mind for Rose and Kit. And she might have few, if any, chances left to arrange another meeting before her daughter wised up and figured out what was going on.

  A lot of terms could be used to describe Rose, but slow-witted wasn’t one of them. And Chrystabel knew well what would happen should her daughter discover that she and Kit were in league. The marriage would never occur.

  She shut her door and made her way back to bed, her mind churning with plans once more.

  FORTY-FOUR

  AS KIT AND ROSE approached the kitchen, they heard laughter. Boisterous, rollicking laughter.

  Kit peeked in the door to find nearly the entire Ashcroft family around a big, scarred wooden table. Pies, bread, and leftover dishes from supper littered the surface. Ale and chatter flowed.

  Deciding he wasn’t hungry, he shut the door quietly, muffling the laughter to a dull roar. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go for a walk instead.”

  Rose’s dark eyes looked huge in the light of the single candle she was carrying. “Outside? In my night rail in the dead of the night?”

  “It’s been unseasonably warm. I’ll wait while you get your cloak.”

  “We’ve no shoes!” she protested, making Kit look down in surprise. Suddenly he could hardly fathom that he was here in Rose Ashcroft’s home in bare feet.

  Though her night rail and dressing gown revealed less skin than the current fashions—court fashions most especially—there was something undeniably intimate about the ensemble. Something that made him belt his own robe more tightly.

  “We can go back upstairs for our shoes,” he suggested.

  “I think not.”

  For a moment, he thought she would open the kitchen door and join the impromptu party. It had been her idea to come down here, after all. Looking forward to some quiet time with her in this noisy house, he’d agreed—but perhaps her interest in food surpassed her interest in him.

  Happily, in the end she didn’t disappoint him. “I have another idea,” she whispered, taking his arm to lead him away. “We can walk in my father’s orangery.”

  “Your father grows oranges?”

  “Not very successfully. That’s why he’s so keen to get that greenhouse.”

  The orangery was a long, narrow chamber that occupied the entire ground floor of the west wing. “It used to be called the Stone Gallery,” Rose told him as they entered. There were candlesticks mounted on the walls at intervals, and she lit them as she walked. “I suppose that after you build the greenhouse we’ll call it the Stone Gallery again.”

  Tall windows, dark now, lined the gallery along the west side and half of the east as well. The ceiling was intricately carved oak. Kit recognized it and the chamber as dating from Tudor times—a room the occupants would have used to take exercise in inclement weather. But now it was filled with a variety of trees and plants, all interspersed with statuary that looked like it had been brought from Italy.

  “Would you like an orange?” Rose asked laughingly, pulling a small, rather shriveled example from a scraggly branch. “Don’t worry—they don’t taste as bad as they look.”

  He peeled it as they walked, the black and white marble floor cold beneath his bare feet. “It’s quiet here,” he said.

  “Yes.” She sounded amused at the observation. “It’s not easy to find a quiet place at Trentingham, is it?”

  “You’ve a large family. But I like it,” he added, realizing suddenly that he did. “Even the noise. There’s a lot of life here. Vitality.”

  He’d felt that lack of vitality since his parents’ deaths. He’d been busy, yes—but there was a difference.

  “It’s real,” he added, tossing the peel into an empty clay pot.

  “Real?”

  He divided the little orange and handed her half. “Charles’s court, for example, is lively. But it’s forced gaiety, don’t you think? The liveliness here is real.”

  “Ah. Yes. I see,” she said thoughtfully.

  Popping the juicy, sweet fruit into his mouth, he hoped she also saw that court was a life she’d just as soon live without—because she’d have to if she married him. Even supposing he got his knighthood, he hadn’t the time to flit from one place to another at the whim of his monarch. He had his lifework to pursue.

  And no matter that it was fashionable, he had no intention of living a separate life from his wife.

  He heard her swallow. “Are you not happy, Kit?”

  She sounded like she cared. He hoped it was as more than a friend. More than like a brother, but better. “I’m happy right now,” he said, licking his fingers.

  “And Ellen is happy now.”

  “I don’t want to think about Ellen.”

  “But you must.” They’d reached the end of the gallery. She lit the last candle and set the one she’d carried on top of a headless statue. “I know you’re angry with her, with what she did. But you cannot remain estranged, you cannot remain silent—”

  “I’m not angry. Disappointed, yes, but not angry.” He took her arm, turning her to stroll back the direction they’d come. “And I’m not the one who isn’t talking.”

  “You cannot really mean to keep all that money—”

  “Will you be quiet, Rose?” he asked and then turned her toward him to quiet her with a kiss.

  She wound her arms around his neck and cooperated fully. She tasted of Rose and orange, a flavor uniquely hers. A flavor he couldn’t get enough of.

  He backed her against one of the walls between two windows. Above their heads, a haughty Roman emperor gazed down from a terra-cotta medallion—a souvenir of earlier times. Kit wanted to make new times with Rose. A new life, a happy life—one full of the vitality he’d been missing.

  He kissed the sweet stickiness from her lips, then he kissed her chin, then her long, slender throat. He felt her pulse beating in the silky hollow where her shoulder met her neck. When her eyes drifted closed and she breathed his name, his own pulse leapt in response.

  He pulled her closer, relishing how soft she felt in his arms. Suddenly he realized there were naught but two thin layers of fabric between his hands and her skin. No stiff stomacher, no intricate lacing, no thick, quilted stays. The thought made him warm all over.

  Then she was the one pressing closer, leaning into him, her intrepid hands roaming over his shoulders and back and leaving a trail of heat. When he felt a fiery shock, he realized one of those hands had slipped beneath the collar of his robe to graze bare skin.

  “Rose,” he groaned against her lips. “You feel too good. Too good…”

  “Mmm,” was her only response, but it was a sound of such perfect contentment that it made his heart swell with emotion.

  “I love you,” he heard himself saying, and it sounded true. Sounded right. The phrase was only three simple words, but somehow it encapsulated everything he was feeling. Everything that had changed inside him as Rose gradually became a part of his life. The most important thing in his life.

  The love of his life.

  Love was a true thing of beauty.

  “You what?”

  Kit slammed back to reality t
o find Rose recoiling from him, her eyes filled with pain and confusion, her contentment turning to panic. “No. I…no. Gemini, what am I doing?” Shuddering, she wrapped her dressing gown tighter and crossed her arms over her torso like a shield. Or like she was going to be sick. Either way, she looked utterly miserable. “I’m sorry. I must go.”

  She pushed past him and ran from the chamber, her bare footfalls slapping all down its long length. At the other end, he heard the door slam shut.

  And then he was alone with the flickering candles and his tight throat and his disturbed thoughts.

  And his crushed heart.

  Blast Rand and Ford for encouraging him! He’d known Rose wouldn’t have him—at least not in his current circumstances. But he’d let himself fall prey to their false optimism. He’d let his actions be guided by emotion rather than judgment, and now he may have scared her away for good.

  What would Lady Trentingham say?

  And more importantly, what would he do?

  The candlelight that had seemed so intimate earlier now seemed harsh. He slowly moved to douse the many small flames. Should he tell Rose of his pending knighthood, even with his project deadlines approaching and all the problems threatening his appointment? Not to mention the fact that a knighthood might not be enough for her, anyway. The Deputy Surveyor post was only a first step—it could be years before he raised himself further.

  By then it would be too late for him and Rose.

  Too, too late.

  FORTY-FIVE

  ROSE SPENT A restless, tormented night. When she awakened, the note she found slipped beneath her door did nothing to ease her distress. ROSE, it said in the neat, all-caps printing she’d seen on Kit’s architectural renderings:

  MUST CHECK PROGRESS AT HAMPTON COURT. PLEASE GIVE YOUR FAMILY MY THANKS AND ASSURE YOUR FATHER THAT THE GREENHOUSE WILL PROCEED ON SCHEDULE AS PLANNED.

  -K

  There was nothing more. No “Dearest Rose.” No “I love you, Kit,” or even just “Love, Kit.”

  Did he hate her now?

  She couldn’t begin to decipher what the note meant about his feelings. She couldn’t even begin to decipher her own feelings.

  She washed and slowly dressed without help, so lost in her thoughts she couldn’t bear conversation with Harriet. I love you. She supposed she had no right to expect Kit to repeat the declaration in a letter when his first attempt had been met with silence. No, worse than silence—with horror.

  The look on his face had nearly killed her. His words had taken her completely by surprise. She supposed, on reflection, that they shouldn’t have…

  But she’d been expecting her first declaration of love to come from a duke.

  Confusion was a weight in her chest. Did she love Kit? In the bliss of the moment, it had been on the tip of her tongue to echo those three words. But she hadn’t, because she wasn’t sure, and in any case it wouldn’t matter.

  He wasn’t the right man for her.

  He’d had no right to expect a different answer. She might have reached the advanced age of nineteen, but she wasn’t yet desperate enough to marry a commoner. She’d be a fool to do that when Bridgewater, a lofty peer of the realm, was likely to offer for her hand. She squared her shoulders as she headed down to the dining room for breakfast.

  Happy as bees in a bed of flowers, her sisters and their families were already eating, having risen early to prepare for their journeys home. The elder Ashcrofts had either slept late or already breakfasted. Rowan and Jewel chatted cheerfully, so focused on each other the rest of the room might as well have been empty.

  Everyone in this house—everyone but Rose—was in love.

  The conversation died as she scraped back a chair and plopped onto it. A footman offered a cup of chocolate, and she clenched it so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “Where is Kit?” Lily asked.

  Rose felt her jaw tightening. “What makes you think I should know?” she gritted out, suddenly visualizing herself biting her sister’s head off. She gulped the hot liquid, scalding her tongue. “He left a note. It seems he’s gone on to Hampton Court.”

  “Oh,” Lily said.

  “Did you hear a ghost last night?” Rowan asked.

  Rose imagined biting his head off, too. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Rose is right,” Ford put in.

  He could live.

  “I heard tapping,” Rowan insisted.

  “Me, too,” Jewel said, gazing at him worshipfully.

  That pixie-faced girl had fallen in love at six. Six! Off with her pixie head.

  “We heard tapping and scratching,” Rand said. “Lily and I both.”

  “And I heard a terrible scraping noise.” Violet turned to Rose. “Did you not hear anything at all?”

  A whoosh. But she’d never admit it. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Or marrying beneath her expectations, either.

  FORTY-SIX

  THE SUN WAS setting upon Hampton Court’s red brick when Rose and her mother arrived three days later. As they stood in one of Base Court’s covered galleries waiting for a palace warden to open their lodging, a woman came out of the apartments next door.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, one hand to the pillowy bosom revealed in the low neckline of her orange brocade gown. Rose couldn’t recall her name, but she remembered seeing her in the ladies’ attiring room at Windsor. “Lady Rose! I’m so glad you’ve followed us. I hope we’ll be seeing you at court this evening.”

  “Yes, you will,” Rose said, pleased. Court was going to be so much more pleasant now that the women here liked her.

  “And will you be bringing the translations?”

  “Gemini!” With all the turmoil surrounding Ellen, she’d nearly forgot how she’d convinced the women to like her. “I’ll send what I’ve finished to the ladies’ attiring room,” she promised, with a nervous glance at her mother.

  “Excellent,” the lady said before sauntering off, the train on her fur-trimmed cloak dragging behind her.

  “What translations?” Mum asked.

  “Some poetry. Italian. Nothing important.”

  “Oh, I see,” her mother said as though she didn’t see at all. “Come along, then, let’s ready ourselves.”

  Their lodging was again just a sitting room and one bedchamber, no fancier than the one they’d been assigned at Windsor Castle. But at least the rooms were larger. In no time at all, Mum was settled at a creaky wooden dressing table with Anne working on her hair, while Harriet helped Rose into a new emerald gown she’d had made in London.

  When a knock came at the door, Harriet went to answer and came back with a vase full of colorful fall flowers. “For you, Lady Rose.”

  Rose rushed to take them. “Lovely!” She rearranged the greenery more evenly and moved a yellow bloom from the right side to the left before reaching for the card. “They must be from the duke.”

  But they weren’t.

  For dear Lady Rose, the card said in a heavy, dark hand. I wished for red roses to match your lips, but alas, they are not in season. Please accept this small token of my affection with my hopes of spending some time in your company this evening. Yours, Lord Somerville.

  “How did he know I was here?” she wondered.

  “News travels swiftly at court,” her mother said.

  Harriet’s pale green eyes looked wistful in her freckled face. “Oh,” she said with a heartfelt sigh. “How I would love for a man to send me flowers.”

  She’d barely finished lacing the back of Rose’s gown when another knock came at the door. This time she returned with a small wooden box. Inside was a dainty pearl bracelet.

  “It goes well with my earrings,” Rose said, wondering if she should wear the rubies tonight even though they didn’t match her green dress. “How very thoughtful of Gabriel.”

  But the bracelet wasn’t from him, either. The creamy sheet of vellum that had arrived with the box was lettered neatly in fine black ink. For Lady Rose, t
hough pearls cannot match the luster in your eyes. Passionately, Baron Fortescue.

  “Passionately?” Wasn’t Lord Fortescue the one she’d ruled out on the first night of her quest for a courtier who could kiss? Frowning, she held out her wrist so Harriet could fasten the bracelet’s clasp. “If I recall correctly, we were bored to death by one another.”

  “Oh,” Harriet said, “how I would love for a man to give me jewelry.”

  A third knock on the door brought a platter of delicate sweetmeats and another note: No sugar can match the sweetness of your demeanor.

  No one had ever called Rose sweet. “I vow and swear,” she declared, popping a marzipan swan into her mouth, “I’ve never heard such ridiculous comparisons in my life.”

  Her mother moved to give her a turn at the dressing table. “They’re just trying to impress you, dear.”

  “If any of them could kiss half decently, I would find that a lot more impressive.”

  “Oh,” Harriet said, “how I would love for a man to kiss me.”

  By the time Rose was ready for court, she had two new bracelets, a sapphire stomacher brooch, and four bouquets of flowers in addition to the half-eaten platter of sweets.

  None of it was from Gabriel.

  Hampton Court had no keeps, no crenelated curtain wall, nothing like the huge central mound of earth at Windsor with its tall Round Tower. Instead, the palace was a virtual rabbit warren of buildings surrounding courtyards large and small.

  Rose walked from Base Court through Clock Court with her mother, the pearls on her lavish new gown gleaming in the light from torches set on the walls at intervals. They climbed the Great Stairs. As they were crossing the cavernous blue-ceilinged great hall on their way to the Presence Chamber, a lord walking the other direction stopped and doffed his plumed hat.

  “I hear you have a copy of I Sonetti, my lady.”

  Rose couldn’t remember having met him, and the gentleman had a distinct gleam in his eye; one that made her uneasy. “I did,” she told him cautiously.

  The gleam faltered. “The book is no longer in your possession?”