Rose (Flower Trilogy) (31 page)

He sighed, giving up. “What are you going as?”

“A mother. I’ll watch her, Kit.”

“You do that,” he said.

But he would watch her, too.

Everything looked so beautiful! The masked ball was held in the Great Hall rather than the Presence Chamber, and instead of candelabra and oil lamps, the huge room was lit by liveried yeomen holding tall, flaming torches. Overhead, the gold stars on the painted hammerbeam ceiling winked on their field of bright blue.

Dancers twirled in the blazing light. King Arthur was paired with a glittery-winged butterfly, and Robin Hood danced with Aphrodite. An angel and a devil seemed to be getting along well, and Zeus was kissing Anne Boleyn.

Decked out in a gown covered neckline to hemline with fresh flowers, Rose watched from a corner, drinking in the splendor and trying to puzzle out everyone’s identity.

All the faces were covered by full or half masks, but a few courtiers weren’t difficult to spot. Beneath Caesar’s crown of laurel leaves, his half mask failed to cover King Charles’s mustache, and as he was the tallest man in the room, the monarch’s height would have given him away regardless.

The Duchess Mazarin had come as a shepherdess, and her servant Mustapha was her little black sheep. Apparently shepherdesses wore no stays of any sort, because Hortense’s ample breasts jiggled against the thin fabric of her peasant blouse every time she laughed—which was often.

Rose was trying her best not to stare.

There were other skimpily garbed ladies as well. A tavern wench’s nipples peeked from her low, frilled bodice. A blowzy doxy flitted about in dishabille. A Greek goddess’s robes could not seem to stay fastened—

“Enjoying yourself?” someone asked, and Rose turned to see Nell Gwyn. Since she was the smallest woman in the chamber, her identity wasn’t in doubt. Her half mask of black matched her lovely black gown. But it was, after all, just an ordinary black gown, much like the one she’d made fun of Louise de Kéroualle wearing yesterday.

Rose cocked her head. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m in mourning,” Nell said gaily, “for poor Louise’s lost hopes.”

Rose laughed and looked for Louise. There she was, as a haughty Cleopatra. But Caesar, surrounded as usual by spaniels and toying with the loose-breasted shepherdess, seemed distinctly uninterested.

Lost hopes, indeed.

“What a clever costume,” Nell said. “I don’t believe anyone has ever before come as a flower arrangement.” She leaned closer to Rose. “You smell delicious.”

Pleased, Rose smiled beneath her full mask. “You know who I am?”

“I know who everyone is,” Nell boasted. “Except him.”

She gestured toward a man standing before one of the massive gold- and silver-embroidered tapestries that covered the walls. “Handsome as sin, isn’t he?”

Rose followed Nell’s gaze, spotting a pirate. His breeches were tighter than the current fashion—skintight, as a matter of fact—hinting at long, muscular legs. His full white shirt was unlaced halfway down his chest, revealing bare skin sprinkled with crisp black hair.

“Handsome as sin, indeed.” Rose wondered if he was a good kisser. “When do the masks come off?”

“Midnight,” Nell said with a tinkling laugh, apparently divining Rose’s thoughts. “But I’ve arranged a surprise first. It should be jolly fun. In the meantime”—she lifted her black skirts—“I’m going to meet that pirate.”

As Rose watched her dance off, a medieval knight came up carrying a goblet full of warm, spiced wine. He bowed elaborately, his chain mail clanking. “My lady.”

He’d taken no pains to disguise his voice, so she knew it was Gabriel. “My thanks, Sir Knight,” she said, taking the cup and sipping gratefully.

Or gulping might be a better description.

Instead of a mask, he wore a polished helmet complete with a visor that concealed his face. How very appropriate, she thought, for him to dress as a knight in shining armor after yesterday’s duel.

And he wasted no time in reminding her. “I would slay dragons for you, my dear Rose.”

She sighed. “You recognize me?”

“But of course. I would know you anywhere.” The visor creaked when he flipped it up, his blue eyes blazing with earnestness. “You’re the damsel of my dreams . . . I hope you’ve reconsidered and decided to marry me.”

He was so perfect. So gallant. Was it terrible of her to be glad the helmet prevented a kiss?

She sipped more wine. “I’m thinking about it, Gabriel.”

“I would have your answer soon. I would waste no time making you my wife.”

Why couldn’t she just say yes? She’d resolved to do so last night, hadn’t she?

But she didn’t know him. She only knew he was a duke.

“Do you like to travel?” she asked.

“I visit my mother in Northumberland every year.”

Oh, wouldn’t
that
be exciting? “I meant overseas.”

“I get seasick in the bath.” He looked a little green just at the thought. But then he mustered a bold face. “If you wish to travel, dear Rose, I will manage.”

She couldn’t expect more. “What’s your favorite book?”

she asked, wracking her brain for some of Kit’s questions.

“I do not read.”

She couldn’t see his mouth, but she could tell from his eyes that he’d frowned. “You cannot read?”

“Of course I can read. I simply find other pursuits more interesting.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t too bad, was it? She wasn’t much of a reader herself, save for newsheets and foreign books.

Everyone had different tastes. “Tastes,” she murmured. “Do you prefer sweet or savory?”

His good humor seemed to be stretched to the breaking point. “What is it with these questions?”

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Never mind. Thank you for the wine.”

She wandered away, leaving him staring after her. So he wasn’t much for conversation. Not every man liked to talk, she told herself sternly. ’Twas not a crime to keep one’s thoughts to oneself.

She just wondered whether he had any.

Musing, she bumped into someone, crushing more than a few of her flowers. “Pardon me,” the man said in an unnaturally deep voice. A disguised voice, she decided, looking up.

’Twas the pirate. Her heart skipped a beat.
Handsome as
sin,
she remembered Nell saying.

And masculine as hell.

“ ’Twas my fault,” she assured him with a flutter of her carefully darkened lashes. She hoped he could see them through the eyeholes of her mask. “I was daydreaming.”

His own masked face was expressionless. “I hope they were sweet dreams.”

Who was he? What nobleman had arrived just today?

She’d not heard of any, but she’d been busy catching up on her sleep and preparing her costume.

Her fingers itched to touch the bare triangle of chest displayed between the edges of his half-laced shirt. She sipped again instead, feeling the wine go straight to her head.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked boldly.

Again, that expressionless reply. “I do not kiss strangers, my lady. And I’d advise you to do the same.”

Well! She wanted to rip that mask off his handsome face.

Then again, she had no idea if he really was handsome under that mask. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was hideous, in fact. And if he didn’t want to kiss her, perhaps that was because he knew he had dismal technique.

Feeling better, she stalked away.

But as she danced with Henry VIII, she felt the pirate watching her. And after she kissed a jester—not enjoying it at all—she saw him glare. Wherever she went, his gaze seemed to follow.

The only person keeping a closer eye on her was her mother. Dressed in a sea-green gown with a demi-mask to match, Chrystabel watched Rose the entire evening. Since Mum had all but ignored her so far at Court, Rose found the sudden attentiveness disconcerting.

She danced with a monk and then with Thor, but she wasn’t truly enjoying herself. When Merlin lifted his mask to kiss her and she discovered he was the Earl of Rosslyn—

the married cur!—she almost decided to head back to her apartments.

But she wanted to see the unmasking. And Nelly’s surprise.

She was dancing with a Viking when, outside in Clock Court, the great astronomical timepiece struck midnight.

Nell sharply clapped her hands. “Yeomen,” she shouted.

“Now!”

As one, the flaming torches were extinguished, and the room plunged into darkness.

Rose shrieked, and the Viking grabbed her by both arms.

“Come here, my pretty.”

He stank. Deprived of her vision, she realized many of the people in the Great Hall stank—all the flowers on her gown couldn’t mask the stenches of stale sweat and too much perfume. Feeling lost, she held tight to the smelly Viking. Though she blinked and blinked, she couldn’t see a thing. Her heart was threatening to pound right out of her chest.

She’d never liked the dark. “What is this?” she cried.

“ ’Tis naught but a bit of fun,” he said in a voice anything but soothing. Dropping one of her arms, he scrabbled at her mask. Cool air hit her face, swiftly replaced by wet, rubbery lips.

Gagging, she twisted her head. “How dare you!” She wrenched from his grasp and stalked away—or tried to, but tripped instead.

She fell to her hands and knees, bouncing off a body on the floor. “Ah, the flower girl,” a man murmured, his fingers grasping an ankle, working their way under her skirts.

He gripped her calf and dragged her closer. “Come to me, sweet.”

Mewling with disgust and fear, she scrambled away on all fours, losing a shoe when it came off in his hand. She kept moving, darting around boots and skirts as she frantically tried to feel her way to freedom. Laughter and exclamations rang through the air, the sounds of courtiers milling, pausing for a kiss here and a grope there, exploring one another in the dark.

A huge, terrifying maze of debauched humanity.

Someone stepped on her hand, and tears sprang to her eyes. She crawled faster, running headfirst into a pair of legs. Large hands reached down and hauled her up.

“What have we here?” a man drawled, sniffing appreciatively. “Oh, the flower lady. Do you not also know the secrets of
I Sonetti
?”

With that, he clamped her ruthlessly, one big hand on the back of her head and the other against her spine, his lips bruising hers as they found their target in the dark. With no further ceremony, he thrust his tongue inside her mouth.

She pushed against him and kicked his shins, but he kept her clutched tight. She reached blindly to his right side, her fingers closing on the hilt of his sword. She pulled with all her might, but the peace strings held fast. Tears trailing hot down her cheeks, she bit his tongue. Hard.

A metallic flavor flooded her mouth. “God damn you!”

he cried, shoving her away with both hands. Spitting blood, she stumbled into someone soft and fragrant—a woman.

The vixen squealed and clawed at her face. Rose careened away, bumped into someone else, and screamed.

Hands gripped her shoulders and held her steady. Just held her, not grasping. An anchor in the dark sea of terror.

“Hush,” he said. “There is nothing to fear.”

Kit. His voice, his hands. Feeling her knees buckle, she leaned against his shoulder, smelling frankincense and myrrh. Kit. Warm and yielding instead of cold and hard, but a knight in shining armor nonetheless.

“Hush,” he repeated. “Keep still. ’Tis naught but a silly game. The Court will tire of it soon enough, and the torches will be relit.”

She clung to him, feeling calm begin stealing over her, restoring her world to balance. “Can you not help me get out?”

“I’m afraid we’d but stumble over others.” His arms came around her, his deep voice soothed. “You’re safe here with me, I promise.”

Darkness still enveloped her, but she was not quite so panicked. “All right,” she whispered.

“We shall just wait.” Moving closer, he laid his cheek against her hair. She slipped her arms around his waist, wondering vaguely how he’d got in here and managed to find her. Like at the duel, he’d known just when to show up, just when she needed him.

They were buffeted by other bodies searching, laughing, groping in the blackness. She mewed in protest, and his arms tightened, molding her more securely against him, locking the two of them together. She tilted her face up, waiting for him to lower his lips to meet hers.

Kit. The pressure of his mouth, that sweet-spicy unique flavor, that woodsy, masculine scent. The last of her fear evaporated as she sank into the comforting familiarity of his kiss.

She felt as well as heard him groan, his hands trailing lower, cupping her bottom to pull her closer still. Whatever flowers might remain on her gown were crushed mercilessly between them, but she cared not a whit. A frisson of excitement stole through her veins, robbing her of reason and breath.

Her senses spun with wine and so much more. Moans and groans, squeals and breathy sighs echoed all around her, but suddenly the sounds were arousing instead of threatening.

The kiss deepened, a dance of lips and teeth and tongues, a long, fast slide into madness. Her breasts ached inside her gown, and she pressed closer, but that wasn’t enough. She pulled back instead, taking his hands to guide them where she wanted them, and he seemed only too happy to oblige.

He teased her breasts through the thin silk of her ruined gown, then reached into her bodice to draw their fullness above the low neckline, pinching gently and then lowering his head to lick and suckle the sensitive crests.

That melting warmth spread in her middle, and a tingling ache built lower down. More bodies bumped them, but she cared not. The darkness offered privacy amidst this horde of writhing humanity, making bold Rose even bolder.

Putting her hands flat to his chest, she skimmed his lawn shirt until she found his flat nipples and teased them the way he was hers, thrilling when she felt them tighten.

’Twas powerful, knowing she could give him the same pleasure he gave her. Molten heat sprinted through her veins. Emboldened further, she reached lower, holding her breath, waiting for him to protest as he had before. But he allowed her to touch him this time. Her fingers explored the front of his breeches, finding a long, hard ridge that made the ache between her legs intensify as she imagined him sliding inside her. She wanted him there, filling her as a woman was meant to be filled.