by Lauren Royal
He hadn’t thought to ask the same of Rosslyn.
Her brown eyes lit with intrigue. “I had the most lovely conversation with the guard at the gate. It seems he is lonely and desirous of a wife. Since by all appearances he’s a perfectly nice young man, I promised to send Rose’s maid Harriet over to meet him after I complete my business here. Lovely girl, Harriet.”
“I’m sure she is.” The privy garden was supposed to be private to the king. Kit wondered if he should alert King Charles that his guard was so easily bribed. “And what is your business?”
“Oh, I just wanted to see how you were faring. My husband, naturally, is anxious for you to get back to work on his greenhouse.”
“Naturally.”
“So how are you faring?”
“Without my presence here the project has fallen slightly behind schedule, but not so far that the time cannot be made up.” The bonuses he’d promised would ensure it. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“Seems?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “This nagging voice in my head keeps insisting something is wrong.” Something he was missing. No matter that his countless inspections proved otherwise, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should reject what was on the surface.
“Hmm. And with Rose?”
He would never get used to the countess’s abrupt changes of subject. “Rose?”
“Are you making progress there?” Her tone made it clear she thought not.
He felt his face reddening as he recalled the excruciating scene in the orangery. He’d made progress, all right. “I’m working on it.”
“Such a shame your work has kept you so occupied.”
“Yes. Well…” Perhaps it was time to clarify this point. “Architecture is my life, Lady Trentingham. Though I hope to make Rose my life, too, she will always have to share my attention with my work.”
“I wouldn’t want to see her wed an idle fool…too much attention can be as detrimental as too little. But I hope you wouldn’t ignore her, either.”
“Never.” Small chance of that. Rose Ashcroft was the type of woman no man could ignore.
“I’m glad of it.” Her eyes scanning the room, the countess tapped her fan against her chin. “I’ve been thinking about my Rose. I do believe she’s the most romantic of all my daughters.”
“Romantic?”
“Indeed. Violet, you may not know, is quite pragmatic and logical. And Lily, bless her heart, is straightforward as they come. Love, for Lily, either is or isn’t…though if a being is alive, she’s likely to place it in the former category.” She smiled, the soft smile of a doting mother. “But Rose…”
“You’re saying a bit more”—Kit swallowed—“romancing is in order?” What might that entail? Flowers? Sonnets? He’d had never had much room in his life for romance.
”It would certainly not be amiss.”
“I see. Well.” He would have to think more on this tomorrow, after he’d satisfied himself that the Cleveland project was flawless. “My lady, I’m afraid I have much to do…”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that. Given that my daughter has already received several proposals this evening—”
“What?” Kit felt as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. “B-but—proposals?”
Lady Trentingham smiled. “I’m glad you grasp the urgency of the situation.”
“Has she…?”
“Accepted? Heavens, no. But the Duke of Bridgewater has only just made an appearance.”
A rushing sound filled Kit’s ears as he tucked his sketch of Rose into the building’s plans and hastily rolled them up together. “I believe I’m finished for the moment.” He turned to Lady Trentingham without a trace of irony. “May I escort you back to court?”
The twinkle in her eye revealed amusement at his sudden change of plans. Clearly this was a woman who enjoyed watching her puppets dance at the ends of her strings.
”I’d be delighted,” she said, taking his arm. “But might we first make a tiny detour to my apartments?”
Kit gritted his teeth. “By all means, my lady.” Despite his feeling of urgency, courtesy forbade refusing such a reasonable request.
Her smile widened, telling him she saw through his polite facade. “It won’t take a moment to fetch Harriet and see that she meets the charming guard at the gate.”
At least she wielded her powers in the name of love rather than villainy.
THIRTY-FOUR
AS THE EVENING wore on, Rose received a brooch in the shape of a bow set with precious gemstones, a locket filled with a hopeful suitor’s hair, another bouquet of flowers, and two more proposals. Every bachelor at court, it seemed, had proposed.
Except the duke.
There were a few new gentlemen in attendance here at the palace, but they seemed ruder than those Rose had met at Windsor. One of them hadn’t even asked her name before attempting to maneuver her behind the tall, exquisitely painted screen that set off one end of the Presence Chamber, serving the same purpose as the curtains in Windsor’s drawing room.
She hadn’t allowed any kissing tonight, recoiling from the prospect of intimacy with these boorish men. Perversely, just as I Sonetti had mended her relations with the court ladies, it had gone and spoiled them with the gentlemen. Rose wished heartily that she’d never laid eyes on the troublesome book.
All her life she’d yearned to come to King Charles’s dazzling court, but now that the shine had worn off the place, it was beginning to seem rather bleak. When she ought to be dancing and flirting and falling in love, instead she found herself dodging offensive proposals and seeking refuge in the company of the king’s notorious mistresses.
“My lady.” Another suitor bowed before her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”
“Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she said flatly, barely stifling a yawn. Her flirtatious nature seemed to have deserted her somewhere around the fourth or fifth proposal.
He swept her an even deeper bow. “The Earl of Featherstonehaugh. Would you honor me with a dance?”
He’d said the magic words. “I’d be delighted.“ A pity to saddle herself with such a preposterously long name—which she knew from an item in the Gazette was spelled Featherstonehaugh though it was pronounced Fanshaw—but she’d long since given up searching for perfection. At least he was polite enough to ask for a dance. And he hadn’t mentioned the blasted book. Perhaps, being a newcomer, he hadn’t heard about it.
She downed the rest of her wine, handed her cup to a serving maid, then let him lead her onto the dance floor. The musicians were playing a lively country tune, and the accompanying dance was performed in two lines, not affording much chance for conversation. Instead, she sized up the earl as they progressed.
He was a certified fop. His wide, powdered periwig draped in curls down his fuchsia brocade-clad chest. Long rows of fancy solid gold buttons adorned both his coat and waistcoat, and the coat flapped open with the movements of the dance, flashing a blinding yellow satin lining. In addition, there was enough white lace spilling from his cravat and cuffs to choke a horse.
His outfit, she decided, would look much better on the Duchess Mazarin.
But if he turned out to be a good kisser, perhaps she could teach him how to dress more to her liking. It would no doubt prove easier than teaching a good dresser how to kiss. Feeling a bit more cheerful, she gave him a wide smile as the dance ended.
Evidently he took her smile the wrong way, because the next thing she knew, she found herself propelled behind the screen. Heaving an internal sigh, she tilted her face up for his kiss. As long as he had her here, she might as well get the assessment over with. No sense mentally ordering new clothes if the fellow was lacking in other areas.
But he surprised her by lowering himself to a cushioned stool and pulling her onto his lap.
She let out a yelp of surprise. ”What are you doing?”
One arm curled around her waist while his
other hand reached for the hem of her skirts. He tilted her head back and fastened his mouth to hers.
“Let go!” she cried, wrenching her lips free. ”What the deuce do you think you’re doing?”
His fingers began inching their way up the front of her bodice. “Engraving Ten, my lady. Haven’t you been dying to try it?”
With an outraged gasp, she twisted off his lap and whirled to slap him on the face.
As her hand connected with his cheek, the priceless screen crashed to the floor, the musicians stopped playing, and Gabriel arrived like an avenging angel. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she spat out, rubbing her palm where it hurt. “He, however, is a rutting lout!”
The duke nodded, then turned to Lord Featherstonehaugh, murder in his eyes. “Choose your second,” he grated through gritted teeth, his fingers working to untie the peace strings that prevented his sword from being drawn.
The entire court had gone quiet, frozen as though in a tableau. The Earl of Featherstonehaugh remained silent. All that could be heard was Gabriel’s harsh breathing and the scraping sound of his rapier as he pulled it from its scabbard.
“Outside,” he demanded. “Now.”
And then everyone seemed to be moving.
Stunned, Rose just stood there a moment as it slowly sank in that the duke had challenged the earl to a duel.
Over her.
Ignoring all etiquette, Gabriel hadn’t given him till morning. Instead he dragged the earl from the building and into Clock Court. The courtiers followed en masse. Rose snapped from her trance and hurried after them, fearing for the duke’s life.
She heard the clash of swords before she reached the courtyard, but the cheers and catcalls from the crowd of onlookers were even louder. The gentlemen’s rapiers flashed in the torchlight. Her heart pounding, she wedged herself into the circle, wincing at each ringing bash.
It wasn’t long, however, before her concern for Gabriel turned to terror on behalf of the poor earl.
The fellow obviously paid more attention to his wardrobe than his swordsmanship, because it rapidly became clear that the duke was but toying with him. A flick here, and a few of his precious buttons went missing from his coat. A swipe there, and half his lace cravat fluttered to the stones. Lord Featherstonehaugh waved his own sword so ineffectively that Rose reckoned even she could do better.
Raging anger was evident in Gabriel’s eyes, in his clenched jaw, in his carefully controlled movements. Panic clutched at Rose’s throat. The rutting lout had acted abominably, but she had no wish to witness his death, most especially if it happened in defense of her.
“Gabriel!” she shouted, taking a step forward and then another when he paid her no attention. “Don’t kill him! Gabriel, don’t—”
“Hush,” came a voice from the crowd. Warm arms encircled her from behind, pulling her back into the circle as a familiar scent of frankincense and myrrh enveloped her.
“Don’t distract him,” Kit said quietly in her ear. “Even an expert can falter if his attention is elsewhere. You don’t want to be responsible for the duke’s death.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for the earl’s murder, either!”
“Hush.” One of his hands came up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “This cannot be more than a tiff. It won’t come to that.”
“But what if it does?” she wailed, trying to struggle free.
His arms tightened. “Just watch. The duke is all but finished.”
And so he was. He’d run out of buttons to flick off the other man’s coat, and although not a drop of blood had been spilled, the brocade itself was in shreds. In addition to being half naked, the earl was thoroughly humiliated.
Disgust marring his fine features, Gabriel knocked the sword from Lord Featherstonehaugh’s hand with an easy twist of his wrist. Then, while the earl was busy gasping, he reached out and nicked him under his chin—a cut so tiny only a single bead of red leaked out.
“First blood,” he claimed as he shoved his rapier back into its scabbard. “You lose. Touch her again and your head will come off next time.”
It was over. Kit’s arms dropped from around Rose as babbling broke out among the assembled courtiers. She couldn’t tell whether the chatter signaled approval or disappointment. Maybe it was a bit of both.
Louise de Kéroualle turned to her, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Nothing this exciting has happened in weeks!”
Rose suspected the duchess was happy to see everyone’s attention focused on something other than her embarrassing black eye, which had made her the butt of much nasty teasing. But better everyone look to Louise for their entertainment. Now that the spectacle had ended, more than one gaze shifted Rose’s way. Ladies whispered behind their fans. She couldn’t fathom what they were saying, but she wanted no part of this.
She turned to Kit. “Take me away from here.”
“Lady Rose!” Courtiers dispersed as Gabriel strode toward her. “I’d like a word with you, if you will.”
Kit shrugged, retrieved a roll of linen off the ground, and moved a few yards away.
Rose faced the duke. “Yes?”
“In private.”
Still shaky, she let him take her arm and lead her from the courtyard, under Henry VIII’s clock tower, and into Base Court. Her high heels wobbled on the cobblestone paths that crisscrossed the grass, but Gabriel seemed happy enough to steady her. In the galleries, a few lights flickered from apartments where courtiers had sought their lodgings, but the night was still young, and most everyone was returning to the Presence Chamber.
“My dear Rose,” Gabriel started.
“A duel!” she interrupted loudly, the words echoing in the deserted courtyard. “I cannot believe you challenged that fool to a duel.”
He hurried her into one of the galleries. The corridor was breezy, but the torches along the walls gave off heat as well as light. “I will never let anyone impugn your honor,” he said gallantly.
“I appreciate your sentiments, your grace, but a duel!” The red tiles here were smoother than the cobblestones beneath her feet. She felt steadier, more in control. True, part of her had been secretly thrilled to see a man—a duke, no less!—leap to defend her honor. But a larger part had been terrified. “Not only is dueling barbaric, it’s illegal.”
As they walked past a diamond-paned window, the glass reflected his elegant shrug. “I don’t see anyone rushing to arrest me. Featherstonehaugh deserved it.”
“That may be, but I was taking care of him myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to take care of yourself.” They heard the low murmur of people talking in an apartment, and he waited until they’d strolled past it. “Rose, I want to take care of you. I wish to make you my wife.”
She stopped walking, the corridor suddenly silent without the rhythmic clicks of her heels. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
He turned to face her and crowded her against the brick wall. It felt rough and cool behind her back. “Yes,” he said. “I’m not very good at this, am I? I’m better with actions than words.”
He was a duke, and surely that was good enough. A duke, asking for her hand. He tilted his head and moved nearer, brushing her lips with his. His technique really wasn’t that bad. He didn’t smell of frankincense and myrrh, but he didn’t smell unpleasant, either. And he was a duke.
“Rose, will you marry me?”
Of course she would. She wasn’t brainless. She opened her mouth. This was what she’d been waiting for. “No.”
She blinked and felt as surprised as Gabriel looked. “I’m sorry,” she added quickly. Out of habit she almost added that her heart belonged to another, but surely that wasn’t true. “I must go,” she said instead.
Avoiding his stunned gaze, she sidestepped free and ran down the gallery toward her lodging. The heavy old door creaked when she opened it. She slammed it shut and leaned back against the thick wood, a hand to her trembling mouth.
H
ow could she have refused him? Had she not been waiting for this proposal? Had she not come here to Hampton Court hoping to receive it?
How could she have turned down a duke? And a perfectly nice one, at that! One who had fought and risked his life for her honor.
Not that his life had ever really been at risk, given the earl’s complete incompetence—but still!
There was nothing for it. She would have to seek him out and change her answer to yes.
But not tonight. She couldn’t face him tonight. Furious at herself, she straightened and wandered toward the bedchamber. “Mum? Harriet?”
It was empty. “Harriet, where are you?”
No one was here. Not her mother, not her maid, not her mother’s maid, either. She threw herself facedown on the bed.
The boned bodice of her gown poked into her, so after a moment she rolled over. But there were whalebone splints in the back, too, not to mention the bulky lacing that ran down her spine.
Where on earth was Harriet? Rose cursed the maid along with whatever fool was responsible for dictating court fashion. She’d claimed to be able to care for herself—well, she could slap an impudent courtier, all right, but she couldn’t manage to undress herself when her blasted gown was laced down the back.
The apartment was too silent. She sat up and sighed. She didn’t really want to undress—she was far too restless for sleep.
She decided to talk a walk—a calming walk, out in Hampton Court’s immense public gardens—and steel herself to change her answer to Gabriel tomorrow.
She’d bet the Duchess of Bridgewater would never find herself without a maid.
FORTY-NINE
NOTEBOOK, RULER, and rope in hand, Kit left his assigned lodging in Master Carpenter’s Court and made his winding way through the palace.
Base Court smelled of cut grass, and it was quiet after the excitement of the duel earlier. Or at least it should have been quiet. As Kit approached the covered passage known as the Great Chamber, an odd pounding reached his ears. “Open up!” a female voice shrieked. A voice that reminded him of Rose, except she was far less shrill.