Rose (Flower Trilogy) (14 page)

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I have nice moves as well.” She tried to gain some distance, but he pressed her even closer. “Especially,” he added, “in bed.”

She forced a girlish giggle. “Oh, my lord! There is no bed here.”

He raised a brow. “We can find one,” he murmured as his hand slid down to her bottom. And pinched.

“My lord!” She twisted subtly out of his embrace, not wanting to make a scene. “That is not appropriate,” she told him in a voice colder than the ice sculpture that decorated the refreshment table.

“But, my lady—”

“Hush up and dance!”

She held herself in check, though she wanted to rant and rave—and perhaps bash him over the head with something good and heavy. The Chinese vase on that silver table would do nicely. The nerve of him, touching her bottom!

When the dance ended, she muttered a stiff “Thank you, my lord,” and took off for the solitude of the terrace.

“ She’s distressed,” Lady Trentingham said, standing with Kit in a dark corner of the drawing room. “And alone.

Go to her.”

“I’d wager she’ll not be alone for long,” Kit predicted. A safe bet, given the Duke of Bridgewater was meandering toward the door already.

“Take her away from here for a while. She’ll appreciate it.”

“Away?” Rose’s mother never failed to surprise him.

A short laugh escaped her lips—or maybe it was a snort.

“Not for the night—just for an hour. You can find solitude, yes? You know this castle better than anyone.” She gave him a little push. “Now, go. I’ll keep an eye on Ellen.”

He went, quickly, feeling like a poltroon as he elbowed his way past the more sedate duke and handily beat him outdoors. This entire courtship was beyond humiliating. Lady Trentingham had made it clear she approved of him pursuing her daughter, and he shouldn’t be needing her encouragement—or worse, her nagging—to make every move.

He’d always gone after what he wanted with no holds barred, and from now on, he’d do the same with Rose.

Silhouetted in the moonlight, she stood at the edge of the terrace, gazing over the darkened Thames Valley.

“Rose,” he called softly as he approached.

She started, then turned, looking amused. “Kit? You always turn up.”

A glance back told him the duke had made it out to the terrace. “Would you fancy a stroll?” Without waiting for a reply, he started walking.

She followed without hesitation. “Where would you take me?”

“Around the courtyards, or—”

“Lady Rose!”

“ ’Tis Bridgewater,” she whispered, quickening her steps.

“Ignore him.”

“Do you not like him?”

“Of course I like him! He’s a duke!” She walked even faster, amazingly fast considering her high heels. “I just need to leave Court for a while, that is all.”

Her mother really was quite perceptive. “And why is that?” he asked, steering her around a corner.

“I am making a fool of myself here,” she said with a sigh, never one to mince words. “I wish to break the cycle.”

He laughed, then glanced back, but thankfully they’d lost the duke. “A fool? I think not. ’Tis quite obvious all the men like you.” He hadn’t enjoyed watching that popinjay kiss her.

“And all the ladies hate me.”

“They’re only jealous.”

“I know that.”

As he led her through a small courtyard, he laughed again, enjoying her candor.

“They’re vulgar bores, anyway,” she declared. “But a woman needs friends. I miss my sisters. I enjoyed talking with Ellen,” she added.

“She enjoyed you. She’s in a much better mood than when we arrived. Thank you for that.”

She waved a hand. “I cannot think what I did, besides possibly offer friendship.”

“She needs friends, too. Of late, she spends all her time with
that
man.” He steered her around the Round Tower.

“What was the title of the book she brought along?”

“I’ll not know until I translate it,” Rose said glibly.

So glibly he suspected it was a fib. That book was making him more and more curious.

She stopped before the castle gate, turning her face up to him. Torchlight danced over her fine features, highlighting her puzzled smile and the charming little indents it made in her cheeks. “Where are we going?”

He hadn’t known, but suddenly he did. “To the river, if it pleases you.”

Although Lady Trentingham had suggested he take her daughter to a secluded part of the castle, surely the river would do as well.

Rose knew she shouldn’t have left the castle, especially with a man. But she’d wanted so much to escape. And Kit was a friend.

She’d never had a male friend before.

“ ’Tis quiet out here,” she said. Other than the nobility, most folk rose with the dawn and went to bed shortly after the sun did. The hill was steep, the uneven cobblestones treacherous. “And ’tis dark, too,” she added, a little wobble in her voice matching a sudden lurch in her gait.

He reached to steady her. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

“No,” she snapped, then added, “Well, maybe. A little,”

when she caught him looking at her sideways. What was it about this man that made her spill her most embarrassing secrets?

She waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t. “I’d know the way with my eyes closed,” he said. “Here, take my hand.”

She did, though she knew she shouldn’t be doing that either. But Kit’s fingers felt good linked with hers, comforting instead of intimidating. Warm skin, his palm rougher than those of the other men who’d touched her tonight.

Work-worn, she supposed. And while she was holding his hand, the night didn’t seem so dark.

At the bottom of the hill, rowdy laughter drifted from a tavern called Bel and the Dragon. The sound of common men thick with drink. Kit was common, too. But for now, she didn’t care. ’Twas peaceful here away from Court, and no one was threatening to kiss her.

Not even the man she wished would.

When they reached Kit’s house and he turned and started up the steps, Rose pulled her hand from his. “You said we were going to the river.”

“We’re only stopping here a minute.” He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door; ’twas late enough that Graves wasn’t there to open it. “Wait here,” Kit whispered, ushering her into the entry. He reclaimed her hand, raising it to his mouth, pressing warm lips to the back. She knew she shouldn’t allow it. But his kiss on her hand felt different from Lord Hathersham’s, so different it made her shiver. “I’ll be back,” he added before leaving her.

She rubbed her hand while she watched him walk deeper into the house, then hugged herself while she waited.

Through an open window, more laughter floated from the river, faint and joyous. People celebrating on a barge, she imagined, watching a dark shape move slowly in the distance.

She didn’t have to wait long. A minute later Kit was back, a cloth sack in one hand and a cloak in the other.

“Ellen’s,” he explained. “I thought you might be cold.”

He moved close and settled it over her shoulders, wrapping her in its warmth. Fine gray wool with black and silver braid, it was much heavier than her own velvet one and smelled faintly of Ellen, a light, carefree fragrance compared to her own heavier perfume. But Kit being so near, his own scent seemed stronger—woodsy, masculine, and heady enough to overwhelm her. She was on the verge of asking for a kiss again when he stepped away.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as he guided her back outdoors. “ ’Twas very kind of you to take me for a walk.

Away from . . . all that.”

“I needed a break from my work. And now that I’ve taken it, I’m realizing I’ll be needing sleep soon, too.”

Ellen was counting on that, Rose thought, wondering why she suddenly felt disloyal. Whose side was she on in this brother-sister tug of war? She wasn’t sure. She only knew that right here, right now, she was in the right place.

The streets were deserted this time of night, the river slow and dark, the moon illuminating its ripples. Kit guided her past the bridge that led to Eton, its shops dark and shuttered. They came to a wooden gate with white lettering that gleamed in the moonlight. “Romney Walk,”

Rose read.

It creaked when Kit opened it. “There’s a place near Trentingham named Romney as well, is there not?”

“There are many such places, I believe.” Beyond the gate, the path angled closer to the river. She allowed Kit to keep a steadying hand on her elbow although the moon provided enough light that she could tread on the packed dirt without tripping. “The name derives from a Saxon word,
rumnea,
meaning water.”

He looked at her admiringly. “You know ancient languages, too?”

She smiled, liking that look. She couldn’t remember a man ever admiring her for more than her appearance. ’Twas the difference between a suitor and a friend.

“No, Rand told me about that. I’m not so much interested in old tongues—I’d rather learn languages I can use someday when I travel. What is in the sack?”

“Bread. For the swans.” Several had been following them as they walked, gliding soundlessly on the water. One of them honked now, as though he’d heard Kit and knew food was in the offing. “I thought you might like to feed them.”

“ ’Twould never occur to me to bring bread. Lily would think like that.”

“She loves animals, doesn’t she?”

“Almost as much as she loves Rand.” She wondered, briefly, what her sister was doing now. In the middle of the night, so soon after her wedding . . . Rose was afraid she knew. She’d lay odds Lily was doing those things that were still a mystery to her, those things that she feared would be distasteful . . . except when she thought about doing them with the man here with her now.

She released a long sigh. “Lily is nice to everyone and everything, human and animal alike. I could never live up to her perfection.”

“No one is perfect, Rose. Not Lily or anyone else.” He reached into the sack and handed her a few cubes of stale bread. “Shall we sit?”

The bank rose here, forming a little grassy hill that overlooked the river. Rose lowered herself to the springy ground, tucking Ellen’s cloak beneath her. She tossed a bread cube out on the water and watched the swans rush to gobble it. “I wonder what it is about you that makes me so glib,” she mused.

He sat beside her. “You don’t seem tongue-tied with anyone else.”

She blushed, thankful for the cover of darkness. “I don’t generally admit to people that I’m imperfect.”

“Oh,” he said. “I imagine they could figure that out without you informing them.”

Laughing, she shoved at his shoulder, then tossed more bread. Swans honked, demanding still more. Across the river, a tiny bridge was barely visible over small rapids gleaming white in the moonlight. The sounds of running water were soothing.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked.

“Shy as usual,” Kit teased, sounding pleased as he reached for her.

Her heart suddenly started pounding. “I don’t mean . . .”

Agitated, she scrambled to her feet. “Good God, I just want to see how you do it.”

He stood and moved closer. “Like any other man, as I told you.” He leaned down, his face next to hers, his warm breath brushing her lips. “A kiss is a kiss.”

“Oh, no,” she breathed. “It isn’t.”

Then she couldn’t say more, because his mouth had met hers.

She tried to concentrate on his technique, truly she did.

But as his work-roughened hands cupped her face, as his gentle pressure turned into more, as the kiss deepened and his tongue tangled with hers, she couldn’t seem to think straight.

Was he more tender? Not really—not at all when the caress turned more demanding. Was he more skilled? She had to think so, but she couldn’t discern how. Did he taste different? Well, certainly. He tasted like Kit, only Kit . . . the most divine flavor ever to grace her lips.

She heard a moan and realized it was hers, and then she couldn’t think at all. She could only feel. A wonderful heat began spreading, claiming her. She wound her arms around Kit’s neck and threaded her fingers into his hair, pressing her body against his. It seemed she could feel his pulse, his lifeblood, beating in tandem with hers. A perfect moment.

A thing of beauty.

When he broke the kiss, she tugged him back for another.

After obliging her a moment, he drew away with a low laugh. “So I’m different, am I?”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed. “I just cannot figure out how. I . . .

I don’t
like
deep kisses.”

“Oh,” he said, “I think you do.”

“Only yours.” He was kissing her neck now, little wet kisses that should disgust her, but they didn’t. Instead, they made her shiver. “How do you do that to me?”

“Maybe,” he said, his tongue teasingly warm on one earlobe, “I do that to you because we belong together.”

“No.” That couldn’t be it. She couldn’t
belong
with a commoner. Kit was her friend, that was all. “No.”

“No?” He nibbled lightly along her jaw. She should hate this, but she didn’t. His lips inched closer to her mouth, making her own lips tingle with anticipation. “Shall I kiss you again to prove it?” Closer, but not quite there.

Frustrated, she took his head in both hands and turned his mouth to meet hers. With another low laugh, he set to proving his words right.

’Twas a kiss to sink into. This time his arms went around her. His hands spread on her back, pressing her close. She molded her curves to his body as the fluttery bubbles in her stomach became a hot, insistent ache.

Then his hands moved lower and cupped her bottom. She would swear she felt their warmth through her gown and Ellen’s cloak, along with an odd, exciting tingling. The viscount had touched her there, and she’d hated it. But Kit’s hands pulled her closer, and the tingling increased. She felt a hardness where their bodies met, a hardness that made her think of the engravings in
I Sonetti.

“Rose.” He tore his mouth from hers to open the cloak and press kisses to her throat, her chest, the tops of her breasts where they were displayed in her low decolletage.

Lord Cravenhurst had touched her there, and she’d felt nothing but revulsion. But now her skin prickled, and beneath her chemise and the long, triangular stomacher that covered her laces, her nipples tightened.