Rose (Flower Trilogy) (27 page)

“Very nice.” In the master bedchamber, Rosslyn nodded at a carved mantelpiece. “Gibbons’s work, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“You always have insisted on the best.” His walking stick tapped as he continued his rambling inspection. “Winning the post of Deputy Surveyor would be best of all, wouldn’t it?”

Kit followed the man into the dining room, watching the long tails of his lavender surcoat flap behind him. “ ’Tis naught but an interim goal. I won’t be satisfied until the Surveyor General post is mine.”

Rosslyn turned to face him. “I’ll alert Mr. Wren that you’re angling to take his place.”

“
Sir
Christopher Wren,” Kit reminded him. “But I doubt he’ll find that a revelation.”

The earl waved an elegant hand. “I was jesting. Can you not take a jest?”

In long years of schooling together, Kit couldn’t remember Rosslyn—Gaylord Craig at the time—jesting even once. “Sorry,” he said. “I suppose I’m a bit serious these days.”

“Understandable, my friend.” Rosslyn smiled. “Well, I expect I had better get back to Court. Excellent job here, Martyn.” Still tapping, he retraced his steps to the entrance.

“Excellent job, indeed.”

As Rosslyn walked out, Kit was only half surprised to see Rose’s mother walk in. “Lady Trentingham.”

“Good evening, Kit.” She stared at Rosslyn’s retreating back, then turned to Kit in a swish of yellow skirts. “A friend of yours, is he?”

“An old schoolfellow. Now my rival for the post I’m seeking. He came to check out the competition.”

“From what I’ve seen, he spends all his time at Court. He doesn’t seem to be working very hard to win it.”

Kit shrugged. “An earl doesn’t have to prove himself the way a common man does.” He could be bitter about that, but he’d long ago decided not to waste his time raging over life’s inequities. Better to spend one’s energies overcoming them. “How did you get in here?” he asked. “The only way is through the privy gardens.”

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 is a perfectly nice 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 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 Lady Trentingham’s abrupt changes of subject. “Rose?”

“You don’t seem to be making much progress.”

He felt his face reddening as he recalled their intimate moments in the orangery. He’d made progress, all right. On every front but convincing her to marry him. “I’m working on it.”

“Such a shame your work has kept you so occupied.”

“Yes. Well . . .” He might as well come out and say it.

“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’d not want to see her wed to an idle fool . . . too much attention can be as detrimental as too little. But I’d not see you ignore her, either.”

“Never.” In fact, he imagined that Rose, above anything, could well prove to distract him.

She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about my Rose. Do you know, I do believe she’s the most romantic of all my daughters.”

“Romantic?”

“Yes. Violet, you may not know, is quite pragmatic and logical. And Lily, bless her heart, is straightforward as they come. Love, for her, 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 loving mother. “But Rose . . .”

“You’re saying a bit of romancing might be in order?

Along with the . . . the . . .”

“Seduction, yes. ’Twould certainly not be amiss.”

“Yes. Well. I think I’m finished here for now.” He tucked the sketch of Rose into the building’s plans and began rolling them up together. “I believe I will take this back to my rooms and go over everything once again. Can I walk you back to Court first?”

“Not to Court, but to my own apartments would be lovely. I must fetch Harriet and see that she meets the charming guard at the gate.”

*

*

*

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 unmarried man, it seemed, had proposed.

Except the duke.

There were a few new men attending Court here at the palace, but they seemed ruder than those Rose had met at Windsor. One of them didn’t even ask her to dance before maneuvering 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.

Out of curiosity she’d allowed some of the men to kiss her, but none of their kisses had affected her anything like Kit’s. More disturbingly, their hands seemed to wander boldly as they murmured about
I Sonetti
and asked if she’d share its secrets.

I Sonetti.
Taking a cup of spiced wine from the refreshment table, Rose found herself wishing she were back at Trentingham giggling over the book with her sisters. Or no—she wished she’d never seen the thing at all. It had brought her nothing but trouble . . . whoever would think she could earn a wild reputation over simply possessing a book? More than anything, she wished she could find a way to get back to Windsor and return the volume to Ellen.

All her life she’d yearned to come to Court, but now that she was here she was finding it tedious beyond belief.

’Twas a sad day when she found chatting with the King’s mistresses more enjoyable than dancing with men.

“My lady.” Another man bowed before her. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”

“Rose Ashcroft,” she said flatly, barely stifling a yawn.

Her flirtatious nature seemed to have deserted her somewhere around the fourth or fifth kiss.

He swept her an even deeper bow. “Roger Stanhope, the Earl of Featherstonehaugh. Would you honor me with a dance?”

He’d said the magic words. “ ’Twould be my pleasure.”

She hesitated to saddle herself with his too-long name and wished it were spelled Fanshaw—the way it was pronounced—but she was no longer searching for perfection.

At least he was polite enough to ask for a dance. And he hadn’t mentioned the blasted book. Perhaps 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 when the coat flapped open with the movements of the dance, a blinding yellow satin lining flashed.

In addition, the plethora of white lace that spilled from his cravat and cuffs was enough to choke a horse.

His outfit, she decided, would look much better on the Duchess Mazarin.

But perhaps, if he turned out to be a good kisser, she could teach him how to dress more to her liking. ’Twould 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.

Apparently 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 find out how he measured up in that department. No sense mentally ordering new clothes if the fellow left her cold.

But he surprised her by spinning her around so that he stood behind her, then dropping to a cushioned stool and pulling her onto his lap.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

One arm snaked over her shoulder, and his fingers slipped inside her gown and clamped a tender breast. His other hand went around her waist and started pulling her skirts up in bunches. He tilted her head back and crushed his mouth down on hers, at the same time shoving one leg between her two and twisting to wrap the other around and over her knee.

“Let go!” She tore her mouth free and reached back to brace herself, to push herself away, but his body covered the stool and her hands found no purchase. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

His fingers still working at her skirts, he surged against her until she could feel his arousal through his breeches and her clothes. “Position Ten,” he grunted. “Have you not been dying to try it?”

With an outraged gasp, she finally managed to twist 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 and Gabriel arrived like an avenging angel. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she spat, rubbing her palm where it hurt. “He, however, is a rutting lout!”

The duke nodded, then turned to 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, Bridgewater didn’t even give the man ’til morning. Instead he dragged him from the building and into Clock Court. The courtiers followed en masse.

Rose snapped from her trance and hurried after them, fearing for Gabriel’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 men’s rapiers flashed in the torchlight. Her heart pounding, she wedged herself into the circle, wincing at each ringing bash.

’Twas mere seconds, however, before her concern for Gabriel turned to terror on behalf of the poor earl.

The man 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 the man’s precious buttons went missing from his coat. A thrust there, and half his lace cravat fluttered to the stones. 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 were it done 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 went around 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. ’Twill not 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 Featherstonehaugh’s hand with one 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 instead.”

’Twas over. Kit’s arms dropped from around her as babbling broke out among the assembled courtiers. Rose couldn’t tell whether it signaled approval or disappointment.

Louise de Kéroualle turned to her, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Nothing this exciting has happened in weeks!”

Rose suspected that 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.”