The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  But he was doing his utmost not to think of Rose…and how she’d nearly gone out of her mind at the sight of Bridgewater in danger. And how she’d let the duke whisk her away for a private word.

  And how she’d probably already accepted his proposal.

  She would be a duchess, and Kit would be shattered and alone.

  Crossing in front of the Great Chamber in a bitter haze, he glanced up see who was making such a racket, then stopped and stared. The shrill voice did belong to Rose. There she stood, banging her fists on the huge oak doors that led to the bridge over Hampton Court’s moat.

  “Rose!” The shout was ripped from his throat as his legs carried him forward of their own accord. “Wherever do you think you’re going?”

  She turned, her hands clenched at her sides. “To the gardens, if a guard will ever be pleased to let me out. I wish to take a peaceful, solitary walk.”

  He stepped deeper into the musty passageway. Her eyes shone with a luster that matched the pearls on her fancy gown—and with a touch of hysteria that brought Kit up short. “It’s not wise to go out there alone at night,” he ventured. “The privy garden would be safer.”

  What was wrong with her? Shouldn’t she be rapturous and triumphant over her betrothal? For that matter, shouldn’t she be with her betrothed?

  Those lustrous eyes flashed. ”I cannot enter the privy garden. Don’t you know the meaning of the word privy?”

  “I can get you inside. I’m on my way there now.”

  “To do what?” she asked, with a pointed glance at the assortment of items he carried. She was obviously struggling to rein in her temper. Her cheeks glowed red, and her breaths came out in little puffs.

  “My project is there. The new apartments for the king’s old mistress, her grace the Duchess of Cleveland.” He sighed as his other source of vexation—besides Rose, that was—came rushing back. “I wish to check…everything.”

  A trickle of water dripped from somewhere overhead. “Have you found something amiss?” she asked.

  “Not yet. But I’ve a feeling in my bones that something’s wrong. I intend to measure every square foot of the building.” It was a fool’s task, he feared, as well as a long, tedious one. But he wouldn’t rest easy until he’d completed it. And he needed to do it when no one was watching, trying to distract him—or worse, covering something up. “Come along. Their Majesties are at court, so the garden will afford you the solitude you’re seeking.”

  She seized a lantern off the ground. “I shall help you measure.”

  In the torchlight that danced on the old brick walls, he gazed at her. “Why?”

  Her dark eyes grew hooded. “I have nothing else to do. I’ve no wish to return to court and I’m not ready to retire. And your task would go faster with help, would it not? I’ve been called selfish, but I like to think I would be there to help a friend.”

  He wondered about some of her brave speech, not least why she was avoiding court. But he focused on her last sentence. “Are we friends, Rose?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly, and then more uncertainly, “I hope so.”

  A part of him—the part that didn’t know when to give up—still hoped for more than her friendship. But it would do for now. “Come on, then,” he said. “Lead the way.”

  She raised the lantern and started across Base Court, teetering a little on the cobblestones in her fashionable high heels. Such a lady, his Rose.

  “Does this feel like a cloister to you?” he found himself asking.

  She glanced around as they walked. “Maybe. A little. Why?”

  “I keep thinking Cardinal Wolsey built this place like an Italian cardinal’s palace. Something about the feel of it, the layout. Henry the Eighth would have ruined it when he rebuilt, but underneath…”

  They crossed Clock Court, Rose’s measured steps matching the cadence of King Henry’s great astronomical timepiece. “Are there records of the construction?”

  “None of which I’m aware.” He sighed. “Someday I hope to see an actual cardinal’s palace. To journey to Italy and stand in the middle of one and see if I’m right, if it feels the same as this.”

  He waited for her to say she’d like to come with him, but she didn’t. Her skirts swished against the cobblestones, and as they passed the fountain with its paltry gurgle of water, hoots of revelers filtered down from the Presence Chamber.

  “The court seems in high spirits following the duel,” he remarked.

  “I’m sure they are,” she replied dryly. “Louise de Kéroualle said it was the most exciting thing that’s happened in weeks.”

  “Why aren’t you with them?”

  She clamped her lips and walked faster, entering Cloister Green Court.

  And there she stopped. “Listen. Do you hear the king’s dogs?” She cocked her pretty head. “The sound is coming from that wing next to the queen’s. How odd—King Charles usually keeps his spaniels with him at court.”

  He suppressed a smile. “You’re not hearing the king’s dogs.”

  “I am. Can’t you hear them yipping?”

  “It’s not dogs you hear, Rose. It’s people.”

  “People? Doing what?” Her eyes narrowed and then widened. “You cannot mean…”

  Though his face felt hot, he couldn’t hold back a grin. “Yes.”

  “Oh.” She froze, her mouth open in a little O shape. Until, in a complete reversal of mood, she burst into giggles.

  Kit laughed along with her, from surprise as much as mirth. He’d expected shock and embarrassment or even offense. But perhaps after everything she’d seen and experienced at court, Rose was no longer so easily shaken.

  “It’s a couple in the marriage bed?” she gasped, wiping teary eyes. Trust Rose to say out loud what he’d made a point of politely skirting. “Gemini, do people really sound like that?”

  Though he doubted the couple’s bed was a marriage bed, he wouldn’t burst Rose’s innocent bubble. “Evidently some people do,” he said, struggling to maintain his dignity.

  As the yipping went on, he grabbed her hand and hurried her across the courtyard. Her giggles filled the open space, mad giggles, giggles that warmed his heart. “I-I’m n-never g-going to s-sound like that,” she choked out.

  He was laughing hard enough to make his stomach hurt. He’d never in his life laughed so much as he had since he met Rose. It felt good. Her hand in his felt good, too.

  “With anyone else,” she chortled as the yipping sounds faded out of range, “I’d have pretended I didn’t hear that.”

  “You thought it was dogs,” he reminded her. “You couldn’t have pretended.”

  “Well, a courtier wouldn’t have pointed out my mistake.”

  Kit’s laughter died off into the night.

  “I didn’t intend that in a negative fashion,” she said quickly in the sudden quiet. “I’m very glad we’re friends.”

  Kit was glad, too, but he feared that was all they’d ever be.

  After a spell of silence, she drew a deep, audible breath. “I feel small here,” she whispered. “In the dark with the towering buildings all around looming over us.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I know what you mean.”

  “Look at all the different shaped chimneys silhouetted against the sky.” She gazed up for a quiet moment, then darted a glance at him. “It must be wonderful to create something so monumental.”

  She knew. She knew how he felt. “I’m only creating one building,” he reminded her.

  “Still, it will be part of this whole.” Her sigh sounded wistful, calmer than before their bout of laughter. “Show me what you’re creating.”

  He led her out the back of the palace, nodding to the sleepy guard. Before them, lime trees stretched into the dark distance, and moonlight reflected off Charles’s Long Water, a manmade canal inspired by one at Versailles. Kit drew Rose to the right, where at the corner of the palace another guarded gate marked the entrance to the privy gardens.

  “Harriet!�
�� Rose exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  In the torchlight from the gatehouse, her maid blushed. “Just passing the time, milady. Your mother introduced me to Walter.” Harriet motioned to the guard. “You haven’t need of me, have you?”

  “I certainly do…not.” Rose shook her head. “No, not right now.”

  When Kit pushed open the gate, Walter cleared his throat. “The garden is for the king’s pleasure only, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m here to work,” Kit said succinctly.

  “At this hour?” The man looked between them. “With her? Pardon me, Mr. Martyn, but it doesn’t seem as though—”

  “She’s volunteered to assist me.” Kit raised his supplies.

  “Ah, let them go,” Harriet cajoled with much more familiarity than Kit expected from one so newly introduced. “Trust me, Walter, my mistress won’t be dallying with the likes of him.”

  That perspective, unfortunately, Kit did expect. As he ushered Rose through the opened gate, the fragile closeness he’d felt in Cloister Green Court disappeared like sawdust in the wind.

  “Trust my mother to find a suitor for my maid,” Rose grumbled. “She thinks she can match every last soul with his or her perfect mate.”

  Kit shut the gate. “Do her introductions often result in marriages?”

  “Usually, which is annoying as anything.”

  He hid a smile. “Not to the happy couple, I’ll wager.”

  “Hmm, I don’t think I shall take that bet.” She hurried toward the new construction. “Show me what you’re building.”

  He walked her through the new apartments, the main rooms and all the bedchambers for Barbara Palmer, the Duchess of Cleveland, and the five children she’d borne for King Charles. Most of them were all but grown already, but the king had granted them titles, and he played a large part in their lives.

  “The chambers are bare yet,” he told Rose, “but they will be rich. King Charles is sparing no expense.”

  “Isn’t her grace living in Paris now?”

  “Yes, but he knows she’ll be back.”

  “I understand he doesn’t stay at Hampton Court often. Word has it he prefers Windsor and Whitehall.”

  “All the more reason to give her a home here,” he said, lifting a brow. It was common knowledge that the king was long finished with his old mistress, though he valued their offspring and would support her so long as she should live.

  After the tour, Rose held the lantern for Kit while he measured and made notes.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Something off. Not to plan. I won’t be able to tell here, but I’ll take the notes back to my quarters and review every inch.” Her lovely rose scent was distracting. “What did you mean,” he asked, “when you said earlier tonight that you didn’t want to be responsible for the earl’s death?”

  Though he was busy measuring, he heard her tight swallow. “The duke wouldn’t have been fighting the earl if not for me.”

  “You?” Jotting a note, he looked up. “The duel was over you?”

  “Yes.” Her face looked pale in the lamplight. “The earl took…liberties that were out of line.”

  “Liberties?” Kit looked away, stretching his rope to make another measurement.

  “With my person. He was trying to…”

  She didn’t need to say more. Fearing the heat of his temper, Kit counted the knots spaced at one-foot intervals, added swiftly in his head, and recorded the sum before allowing himself to speak. “Bridgewater should have killed him,” he said quietly.

  “Not you, too,” Rose grumbled, yanking the rope from him and moving to another beam. “Men will be men.”

  Following her, he took one end of the rope and pulled it taut. “Not around you, they won’t,” he said with an aggressive streak.

  “Especially around me. The whole court thinks me a loose woman, merely because I had that wretched book and asked a few gentlemen to kiss me—”

  “A few?”

  “Only the unmarried ones,” she said, managing to sound indignant.

  The rushing sound returned to his ears. “All the unmarried ones?”

  “There aren’t that many. And heavens, Kit, they were just kisses.”

  Kit darted her a glance. Her too-defensive tone told him she was regretting those kisses. Shaking his head, he thought, much as it pained him to admit it… “I’m thankful the duke came to your rescue.”

  “He didn’t rescue me—I rescued myself quite well, thank you. I believe the earl has my handprint on his face to prove it.” He’d finished counting the knots, so she dropped her end of the rope. “The duel is the result of a misplaced sense of possession. The duke wishes to marry me.”

  In the midst of writing another measurement, Kit froze. Here was the truth he’d been dreading. ”Bridgewater proposed, then?”

  “Yes.” Rose adjusted the lantern for a moment that felt like the longest of Kit’s life. “I refused him.”

  His heart reawakened in his chest. “You seem to make that a habit,” he managed to say coolly, though a chorus of angels had replaced the rushing in his ears.

  “I do, don’t I?” she said with a sigh.

  He wished he knew what that sigh meant.

  “MY, HARRIET, you’ve been out here a long time.”

  The maid startled and pulled her lips from the guard’s, smoothing down her skirt. “Please forgive me, Lady Trentingham.”

  Walter’s face flamed red in the torchlight. “My lady—”

  “I saw nothing.” Chrystabel waved a hand. “I’m looking for Rose.”

  “Oh! Lady Rose is in the privy garden, working with Mr. Martyn.” Harriet hurried to open the gate.

  “Is she?” With a smile, Chrystabel reached out and shut it. “I’ll just let her be, then. I imagine they’re doing something important, and I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

  The news that Kit had managed to get Rose alone—tonight of all nights—lightened her heart. After witnessing the duel, she’d been approached by the duke himself with a complaint over Rose dismissing his suit. Even though he’d drawn his sword for her, he’d pointed out with an affronted sniff.

  She’d silently sent up a cheer.

  Things were looking up. “Thank you,” she said, turning to leave.

  “Lady Trentingham?”

  She swiveled back. “Yes, Harriet?”

  “I shall report to your lodging forthwith.”

  “Take your time, dear. I expect Rose will be busy for a spell. And you and Walter have much to discuss.”

  The maid exchanged a puzzled look with the guard. “Discuss?”

  “Will he leave the king’s employ and take a post at Trentingham, or will you find a position here? A major decision, don’t you think?”

  Chrystabel imagined both their mouths falling open as she made her way back into the palace. But she was certain their relationship would come to that, soon if not this night.

  Her matchmaking instincts were all but infallible.

  FIFTY

  BY THE TIME Kit made the last measurement, Rose had long since slipped off her high heels. Carrying them, she followed him out of the building to find the sun was peeking over the horizon, gilding the privy garden in golden morning light.

  “Parterre a l’anglais,” she murmured, mentally comparing the area to her father’s exquisitely planted gardens.

  Kit shut the door behind them. “Parterre a what?”

  “Literally it means ‘English floor,’ but you must imagine it said in a derisive French tone.” She grinned at his quick smile, adding, “It refers to the English preference for smooth turf like this, rather than their own intricate figured parterres.”

  Hampton Court’s privy garden was divided into simple, plain grass quarters, each with a single statue: Venus and Cleopatra in brass, and Adonis and Apollo in marble. In the center of it all sat Arethusa above a great black marble fountain with only a trickle of water.

  “It is rather pathe
tic,” Kit admitted. “I’ve heard the fountains in Italy gush water.”

  Rose shifted both her shoes to one hand. “I can see why King Charles is putting his discarded mistress out here—I imagine he rarely visits this garden himself.”

  “I’d wager he does,” he disagreed. “He needs places all his own, whether beautiful or not. The poor man cannot even dine or dress without people watching.”

  Rose had never thought of the king as poor, but she supposed Kit had a point. Court etiquette could be tedious, she thought through a yawn.

  “It’s morning,” she suddenly realized. “We’ve been up all night.”

  “I’m used to it,” Kit muttered.

  “I’m not. Do you know, I’ve only stayed up all night once before, and I was with you then, too—the night we deciphered Rand’s brother’s diary. You’re a bad influence,” she accused with a weary smile.

  “You can sleep today. Heaven knows nothing happens at Hampton Court while the sun shines. For the court, anyway. My crew will be arriving any minute, though; we’d best leave before we’re discovered.”

  He put a hand to her back, guiding her toward the gate, and Rose realized it was the first time he’d touched her since they’d laughed in Cloister Green Court. They’d passed the long hours of the night working and talking. He hadn’t tried to kiss her even once.

  Perhaps he’d decided to abandon his pursuit of her. Which was a good thing, she told herself firmly. She was grateful to retain his friendship, and it was easier this way, because it would be hard to keep saying no.

  But she was unaccountably forlorn at the thought of never kissing him again.

  Walter was no longer at the gate; an older guard nodded as they passed though. No sooner had they rounded the corner of the building than they heard men’s voices and the stomp of boots.

  “The workmen.” Kit grabbed her hand. “We cannot let them see us.” With that, he began running along the perimeter of the palace, pulling her along with him.

  She dropped one of her shoes. “Wait!”