Rose (Flower Trilogy) (13 page)

Kit was up on a ladder inspecting something or other.

He’d taken off his surcoat and wore only shirtsleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. His forearms were muscular and sprinkled with crisp black hair.

The blasted man looked better than ever.

“Did you two have a nice visit?” he asked. As he climbed down the ladder, Rose saw muscles rippling under his thin white cambric shirt, too. She hadn’t sipped any champagne tonight, but her stomach seemed to think she had, anyway.

“Very,” Ellen said, but Rose couldn’t remember what that was in response to. She was thinking about how she’d decided to let Kit kiss her again, to find out what he did differently from Gabriel.

And she was thinking about the pictures in the book.

Oh, this wasn’t good at all!

“How did the translation go, then?” he wondered, his gaze on the book in Rose’s hands.

She knew he was hoping to get
his
hands on it. “ ’Twas more difficult than Ellen had anticipated, so I’m going to take it home to work on it. Please excuse me. I must go find my mother.”

She felt very relieved to escape. At least until she walked back into the drawing room and two men immediately headed toward her.

Gabriel and someone she had yet to meet. Though the stranger wasn’t as handsome as Kit, he might be a good kisser. But she didn’t have the will left to find out. Not to mention she was holding a lewd book clutched to her chest.

She had to get rid of it.

When Gabriel got to her first, the other man turned away dejectedly. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” she said quickly. “I was just heading to the ladies’ attiring room.”

“Are you quite all right?” Gabriel asked, his blue eyes radiating concern.

He really was terribly nice. “Oh, yes. I’m just feeling a bit, um, peaked.”

“Still?”

“ ’Tis all the excitement, I’m certain,” she told him with a practiced, romantic sigh.

He smiled, and she knew she’d succeeded in convincing him he was responsible for her excitement. He leaned close and lowered his voice to an intimate murmur. “I do hope you’ll be feeling better soon.”

She didn’t care for his perfume. ’Twas too flowery. “Oh, I’m certain I will,” she said blithely and sailed out of the chamber.

Blessedly, the attiring room was empty. She stuffed the book under her cloak and then dropped onto one of the green baize benches.

She really
was
feeling a little bit peaked.

“Kit,” his sister said a few minutes later, “I need to talk to you.”

“One moment, Ellen.” He turned back to inspecting the latest materials that had arrived.

She yelled across the courtyard, “I need to talk to you
now.
”

“ ’Twill do nicely,” he told his new foreman, then took a deep breath and strode over to his sister, thinking, not for the first time, that it had been a bad idea to bring her along while he worked. “What in your little selfish world is so important you had to interrupt me?”

Instead of bristling, she looked smug. “Lady Trentingham wishes to see you.”

He slanted her a suspicious look. “Lady Trentingham doesn’t even know who you are.”

“Could that be because you weren’t polite enough to introduce me?” She straightened her slim eighteen-year-old shoulders. “Well, she noticed me, anyway. Came right up and introduced herself, then asked where she might find you. I gather she looked in the dining room, but of course you were out here.”

“Where did she find
you
?”

“On the terrace. She’s waiting for you there.”

He headed in that direction, wondering just what Ellen had been doing out on the terrace now that she no longer had her book to occupy her. He admitted to himself that it probably hadn’t been fair to expect her to entertain herself all evening long.

But he hadn’t felt as though he’d had a choice. If he’d left her at home, she’d surely have run off to spend the evening in the company of that damned pawn dealer. Doing God knew what.

He
certainly didn’t want to know.

Life had been much simpler when he was off at school and Lady St. Vincent was still alive and caring for Ellen.

He and his sister had spent glorious times together during the weeks he’d been able to visit. They’d never argued.

Well, rarely. Only when she’d begged him to take her with him back to school.

He stopped in the dining room long enough to shrug back into his surcoat before stepping out to the terrace.

Lady Trentingham turned in a swish of golden brocade skirts. “Kit. Ellen found you.”

“I apologize for not introducing you earlier.”

She waved that off. “I knew at first glance you were related. She looks just like you. A little prettier,” she added with a smile.

He grinned back. “I should hope so.”

“I wanted to let you know that Rose is in the ladies’ attiring room. I thought, considering our earlier conversation, you might want to be there when she comes out.”

He’d almost convinced himself he’d dreamed that conversation. This whole day seemed naught but a dream born of wishful thinking . . . everything going right with King Charles, the wonderful afternoon with Rose, the kiss, his materials showing up in a timely fashion, Lady Trentingham encouraging him to seduce her daughter . . .

No, he was still fighting with Ellen.
That
was no dream.

And neither, apparently, was this. Lady Trentingham leaned closer to straighten his cravat. “Shall I show you where Rose will be coming out?”

“She’s looking for you,” he said. “She mentioned that the last time I saw her.”

“Well, she is going to find
you
instead.”

Rose had almost steeled herself to venture forth from the attiring room when two young women walked in.

“Oh,” the blond one said when she spotted her. “
You’re
here.”

Rose didn’t care for her tone. She wanted to slap her across her pinched face. But she also wanted to be liked here at Court, so she plastered on a smile. “I’m Rose Ashcroft. And you are . . . ?”

“Lady Wyncherly.” The woman fetched her drawstring purse and pulled out a tiny silver box.

“And I’m Lady Wembley.” The other woman joined her friend at the large gilt-framed mirror. Her hair was so black Rose imagined she dyed it
and
used a lead comb.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady . . .”

Willoughby? Wemperley?
“Ladies. You’re both married, then?”

“Yes,” they said in unison, and then the dark-haired one added, “and you’re not.”

Rose could think of worse things than not being married.

Like being one of these shrews.

The blond Lady W touched a pimple on the other’s face.

“Right there,” she said.

The woman glared at herself in the mirror. “Hell and furies, another one.”

“Here, choose a patch.”

While the pimply Lady W rummaged through the little oval box with a fingertip, the blond one turned to Rose.

“Why are you not busy kissing someone?”

Rose was rapidly concluding ’twas just as well none of the women here seemed to like her, because she certainly didn’t like them. But she decided to ignore the slur. “I am resting until the gaming.”

“There will be no gaming tonight,” pimply Lady W said, choosing a crescent-shaped patch.

“No gaming?” Rose echoed, crestfallen.

Blond Lady W pulled some adhesive from her purse and dotted it on the back. “Have you not heard?” She stuck the black velvet on her friend’s face. “This will be an early evening, because we’re all leaving tomorrow for Hampton Court. Will you be coming along?”

She sounded as though she hoped not.

“I’m not sure,” Rose told her. She’d found no opportunity to discuss it with Mum yet. Half of her wanted to go to Hampton Court just to spite these women, but the other half thought the peace of Trentingham Manor would be heaven in comparison.

Unfortunately, there were no potential husbands at home.

The blonde chose a patch for herself—a cupid—even though she was wearing nine already and had no pimple to cover. Patches were quite in fashion, and Rose wore one herself—a small heart at the outside edge of her right eyebrow—but she thought the woman’s face looked diseased with all those black shapes all over it.

Maybe she
was
diseased. Maybe most of the patches were hiding hideous smallpox scars. Although Rose knew it wasn’t nice of her, the thought of that made her smile.

“What?” the Lady Ws barked together.

Rose just shrugged and walked out of the little chamber.

She was certain they started talking about her the moment she cleared the door—and she doubted they had anything good to say.

She stepped into the drawing room and stopped short when she saw Kit, who was standing there gazing into space and looking uncomfortable. Well, he didn’t belong here at Court, so that wasn’t such a surprise. Perhaps the King wanted the drawing room renovated too, and he was studying it.

She noticed he was taller than she, but not terribly much taller. Maybe half a head, while she only came up to Gabriel’s chin. Kit didn’t make her feel petite like the duke did.

He finally took note of her. “Rose,” he greeted with a smile.

No
Lady.
Did that mean he considered her a friend now?

“Kit.” She nodded, then suddenly remembered her plans.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked.

“Here? Now?” His eyes widened, becoming more green than brown.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rushed out, cursing herself silently for her habit of speaking before she thought. “I just . . . well, I just want to see how you do it.”

His smile turned amused. “Like anyone else does it, I imagine.”

He was wrong,
so wrong,
about that. As he moved closer, the little bubbles began dancing in her stomach. He was very, very wrong.

His gaze locked on hers, now purest green with just flecks of brown. Flecks she was close enough to see. His scent wasn’t heavy but it still overwhelmed her, that woodsy perfume mixed with the clean sweat of hard, honest work. “Are you certain you want a kiss now?” he teased. “Right here, in front of the entire Court?”

“Have you not heard?” another man cut in. “Our Lady Rose quite enjoys kissing.”

Startled, Rose turned to find Lord Davenport standing behind her. She’d kissed him earlier and been disappointed, but at least he hadn’t been rude. “Greetings, my sweet Lady Rose,” he said and kissed her again, right there—as Kit had said—in front of the entire Court.

’Twas a chaste kiss, but it snapped Rose out of her trance. What had she been thinking, asking Kit Martyn—a common architect—for a kiss before England’s finest?

“Thank you,” she told Lord Davenport, meaning it. If only she liked kissing him, she would give him another for saving her from humiliation.

“My pleasure,” the man said, reaching for her again.

Hearing a throat clear, she turned back to Kit, but he was gone.

The Duke of Bridgewater was there instead. “Ah, Lady Rose. You promised me this dance, did you not?”

She hadn’t, but before she could say so he’d started leading her away. Lord Davenport just shrugged. Apparently he didn’t feel up to challenging the duke.

“I don’t like seeing other men kiss you,” Gabriel said.

“Then don’t look,” she suggested, laughing when he started to protest. “I didn’t encourage him.”

“Shall I call him out, then?”

“Gemini, no!” She laughed again, furtively searching for Kit. He was nowhere to be found. “Lord Davenport isn’t worth your time, Your Grace.”

The duke’s pretty blue eyes sparkled, telling her he liked hearing that.

They danced an almain and once again received jealous glances from men and ladies alike. Gabriel was a perfect gentleman. But after the dance, when he contrived to draw her behind the curtains, she sighed. If only she enjoyed his kisses instead of dreading them, life would be so much better.

They weren’t the only couple in the big bay window. In one corner, a man had his hand down the front of a lady’s bodice, and if Rose could judge from the woman’s moans, she was enjoying that very much.

As she watched, Rose felt her own breasts begin to tingle, and a strange, lazy warmth stole through her body, weakening her knees. She licked her lips, imagining a man doing that to her.

But the man wasn’t Gabriel.

“Don’t look,” he whispered, turning her to face the other corner.

There, a man had his hand up a lady’s skirts! The lady had raised one of her legs and wrapped it around his. Rose suddenly pictured one of the engravings in Ellen’s book.

She needed air.

“I wish to go outdoors,” she told him.

“Excellent idea. There is a distinct lack of privacy in this area.”

She hadn’t meant with him; she’d submitted to four of his kisses tonight, and she didn’t intend to allow a fifth. Not until she’d kissed Kit again and figured out how to teach the duke to kiss her better.

As they emerged from behind the curtains, Rose looked around for rescue, relieved to meet the gaze of Viscount Hathersham. She’d kissed him, too, and from what she could remember, it hadn’t been
that
bad.

Not bad enough that she couldn’t risk encouraging him a little if it might save her from another private outing with the duke. “Lord Hathersham!” she called, waving him closer. “I completely forgot that I’d promised you the next dance.”

She hadn’t, of course, but thankfully he wasn’t dim enough to say so. Instead he bowed and took her by the hand, raising it to his lips. His kiss was a bit more blubbery than she’d remembered, but at least it was to her hand, not her mouth. “ ’Twill be my pleasure, Lady Rose. Well worth the wait.”

As they moved toward the dance floor, Rose sent Gabriel what she hoped he would take as an apologetic glance.

“I never asked you to dance,” the viscount said in a low tone that she imagined he thought was seductive.

“Well, you should have,” she told him with a smile.

“You feel we are suited, then?”

“For a dance.”

A vigorous country dance would have been more to her liking, but the musicians had chosen a minuet. As the dancers went to their toes, the viscount pulled Rose near. “I am hoping I can persuade you we are suited for more than a dance.” One of his hands slipped around her and rested on the small of her back. “You move nicely,” he said.