Rose (Flower Trilogy) (11 page)

“You’re in good hands, my dear.” Looking pleased, he linked an arm through hers and started guiding her toward the terrace.

Good God, the blasted terrace again.

“Would you not rather dance?” she asked, then whirled at hearing the meaty sound of a fist connecting with someone’s skull.

Nell Gwyn’s voice carried across the chamber. “Don’t make me sorry I talked Charles into releasing you from the Tower!” she spat as she stalked off.

The Duke of Buckingham stood watching her go, his mouth hanging open, one hand held to the spot above his ear where petite Nell’s punch had apparently landed.

What a woman. Rose wanted to applaud.

Gabriel reclaimed her arm. “Come along.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“The idiot tried to kiss her.” The duke managed to harrumph in a genteel manner. “Everyone knows that unlike Louise and Barbara, Nell is totally devoted to Charles.”

“Is she?” Rose wondered, gratified to discover that this was possible even at Court.

“Oh, yes. She has never slept with another man since Charles made her his mistress. Nine years, almost.”

Gabriel’s apparent amazement at that feat gave Rose pause, but she consoled herself that at least he sounded admiring. She glanced back at the Duke of Buckingham, who still stood rooted in place. Even with his long black periwig all mussed, he looked entirely too dignified to have recently been a prisoner. “Why on earth was he in the Tower of London?”

“He’s not the first man Charles has clapped in there, and he certainly won’t be the last. ’Tis political, my dear. You wouldn’t understand.”

Certain she
would
understand, Rose was about to ask for an explanation when he added, “Are you and your lovely mother coming along to Hampton Court tomorrow?”

Rose blinked, effectively diverted. “Hampton Court?”

“Have you not heard? The Court is moving—getting ever closer to London as it were. The household will spend a few weeks at Hampton Court and then move to Whitehall for the winter, in time for the Queen’s birthday celebration on the fourteenth of November.” He guided her toward the door. “Will you be coming along?”

“I know not. I suppose I will have to ask my mother.”

“Well, I certainly hope she’ll agree. I would feel bereft without your company.”

He sounded sincere, and she couldn’t help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller— not to mention the highest ranked.

There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.

’Twas worth a try, she decided as he drew her out to the blasted terrace. She was getting nowhere in her search.

“ Burning the midnight oil, eh, Martyn?”

Working in the blaze of torches and candelabra for the second night in a row, Kit looked up from his plans to see the Earl of Rosslyn. He offered his old friend a wry smile. “Oil lamps are a bit dim for my purpose, but you’ve got the gist of it, yes.”

Rosslyn paced the chamber with an elegant swagger, his tall walking stick clicking as he progressed. He paused, watching men and supplies go in and out of the two sizable holes cut in the ceiling that gave access to the area above, where Kit’s crew was busy reinforcing the structure. “ ’Tis coming along nicely.”

“Thank you.” While unsurprised that his rival should check on his progress, Kit was pleased with the man’s pleasant tone. “And your own projects?”

“Oh, fine, fine.” Rosslyn pulled a tortoiseshell snuffbox from his pocket. “You’ve done an excellent job recovering here, Martyn. But then, you always were up to the task, weren’t you?”

Kit could remember a few occasions, back in their school days, when Rosslyn
hadn’t
been up to the task. But then, he’d had no compelling reason to excel, as Kit had. The secure life of a nobleman had been awaiting him.

“What made you become an architect?” Kit asked.

Having partaken of a pinch of snuff, Rosslyn sneezed.

“Monuments.”

“Monuments?”

“I wish to leave something behind. Something so men will say there went Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn.”

The man wasn’t as shallow as Kit had thought. “Your theater in London is a masterpiece,” he conceded.

“I rather prefer my last church. But I thank you.” Rosslyn tucked the snuffbox back into his pocket. “Well, the ladies are waiting. I shall leave you to it.” He turned on a high heel and swaggered toward the door, letting loose another sneeze followed by an “Oof!”

“Pardon me!” Lady Trentingham exclaimed.

“My apologies, my lady.” Holding his walking stick in a wide stance, Rosslyn swept her a deep bow. “I was just leaving.”

She turned and watched the man mince away.

“Lady Trentingham,” Kit called over the bangs and scrapes of construction.

Rose’s mother looked over and smiled. “Good evening,”

she greeted him, her own voice carrying well. He supposed that came of dealing with her half-deaf husband. She walked farther into the dining room, lifting the hem of her gown to step over a few boards and skirt her way around a sawhorse. “My, that scaffolding went up quickly.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he told her, shooting a glance to his crew. “I long ago learned that my presence makes all the difference.” He rolled up the plans. “Can I help you with something?”

She met his gaze, her own forthright. “I am wondering what happened this afternoon with my daughter.”

Kit slanted a look at Ellen. She’d stopped sulking and had her nose buried in her book. He would have to take a look and see what she was finding so fascinating.

In the meantime, though, he’d rather not have her hear his answer to Lady Trentingham’s question. In fact, he was damned uncomfortable at the thought of answering the question at all. No matter that she’d encouraged his suit, the Countess of Trentingham was unlikely to approve of Mr. Christopher Martyn kissing her high-born daughter before there was a formal commitment.

He supposed there was nothing for it, but he wouldn’t humiliate himself in front of his sister. “Would you mind stepping out onto the terrace?” he asked Rose’s mother. “I feel the need for some fresh air.”

The pounding of hammers and scraping of saws receded as they exited the room, leaving a pleasant quietness in their wake. The terrace was deserted, and for a minute or so, Kit procrastinated, listening to the tandem sounds of their footsteps, the thud of his heavy boots and the click of her feminine heels.

“I know you told me Rose is innocent,” he finally began.

“But—”

Her sudden laughter was startling. “So you kissed her, hmm? Good for you. I suspected as much when she came in babbling about what an excellent idea it is for a woman to kiss a man before she marries him.”

“Before she marries him?” he echoed. His heart suddenly threatened to beat its way out of his chest. He and Rose had enjoyed a nice afternoon, and an incredible kiss, but surely she wouldn’t be swayed that easily. “She cannot be thinking to marry me,” he said, hoping against hope he was wrong.

“No. Not yet, anyway. At the moment, she seems to be looking for another man with your skill. Interviewing them, you might say.”

Now his heart threatened to stop. “She’s kissing other men?”

“Not very successfully, from what I can tell. And unfortunately, she seems to be acquiring quite a reputation. As a mother, I’m a mite concerned about that. I am considering leaving tomorrow; I believe Rose could benefit from a short break from Court.”

Kit’s head was spinning. He knew full well he had no right to be vexed at Rose for kissing other men, but he couldn’t control his gut reaction.

His gut didn’t like it.

And if Lady Trentingham wasn’t angry because he’d kissed her daughter, what did she want with him?

He slid a hand into his pocket. “Charles is leaving Windsor anyway, and everyone else will follow him, of course. To Hampton Court.”

“A perfect excuse, then, should I decide to take our leave.” She walked to the edge of the terrace and gazed over the wall at the darkened Thames Valley. “As for Rose being innocent . . .”

He came up beside her. “Yes?”

“Well, for the record, my daughter may tell you that I heartily approve of kissing.”

He blinked. “You heartily approve?”

“Yes, of kissing and—in your case—most anything else it takes to convince Rose you’re the only man for her.” She paused—for effect, he suspected. “Do you understand?”

His fingers gripped the top of the wall so tightly that stone scraped flesh. Thank God she was still looking at the landscape. “You cannot mean . . .” He couldn’t say more.

“Nothing that would get her with child—and that’s an absolute.”

“Of course,” he choked out. Lord Almighty. Could she be telling him to make love to her daughter? Not to culmination, but—

Her laughter pierced the night again, and he turned his head to find her looking straight at him. “You’ve gone white; I can tell even by this dismal torchlight. Surely that is not such a daunting task? Or an unpleasant one?”

Words stuck in his throat. She was Rose’s mother. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that seducing her daughter would certainly be pleasant, indeed.

When she laid a hand on his arm, the gesture eased some of the shock. “As my husband is fond of reminding me,” she said softly, “I was not a nun before we wed. I don’t expect my daughter to remain one, either. But I’ll not have her risking a child out of wedlock, and the decision of whom she will marry will absolutely remain hers.”

He would never—
never
—have considered telling a man to make love to his sister—even up to only a certain safe point. Even were it a fine nobleman he hoped she would marry. In fact, short of marriage, he would tell any man to keep his hands the hell to himself.

But Rose’s mother must know her very well.

“She’ll be in good hands,” he promised her.

She squeezed his arm before releasing it. “I’m counting on it.”

Even the King had tried to steal a kiss! As he and Rose had ended a minuet, he’d murmured his intentions in a low, velvet-edged voice and then leaned close, apparently unconcerned that anyone might be watching. Luckily, Gabriel had walked up right then to claim she had promised him the next dance, because Rose had no idea how to gracefully turn down the King—but she had no intention of kissing even one more man that night.

A good loser, Charles had gone away happily enough, smiling when he spotted Nell Gwyn sashay into the chamber. And 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 women were jealous because she had captivated the most coveted bachelor at Court. The men 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 her was thrilled beyond belief. A duke, and such a handsome one as well!

The only catch was his kisses. She’d allowed four more, 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. Upon close examination, it seemed to her that his kiss was not all that different from Kit’s.

Some of the men had been positively boorish in their approach, but Gabriel didn’t fit in that category. His kisses weren’t too terribly slobbery, his breath was fresh, and he had the manner of a gentleman, if an impassioned one. 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.

Perhaps she would have to allow Kit another kiss, in order to discern the difference. Once she figured that out, it should be a simple matter to explain to the duke what she wanted. Practice, after all, should make perfect.

If only the practice weren’t so tedious.

“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 setting 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 for the presentation. Rose and the duke drifted closer as the performance began, a clever comedy mocking Court life and filled with bits of song and dance. Nell had apparently 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!”

Half laughing herself, Nell swept him a bow. “Then, sir, to show you don’t speak like a courtier, I hope that you will 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. With her robust sense of humor, Nell truly was delightful.

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 has not 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 some peace and think about all that had happened this day. “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. “Thank you for the dances.”