Rose (Flower Trilogy) (37 page)

And then he moved within her, and the beauty became more beautiful still.

It made her complete.

She moved with him, lost in a world of their making, the sensations building until she wasn’t sure where she ended and he started. Time slowed and stretched, or maybe it sped; she couldn’t be sure. He kissed her desperately, reality blurring until two became one, until she arched against him as waves of pleasure overtook her, her heart soaring when she heard him groan and felt the warm flood of his release.

He rained little kisses on her face while she slowly came to her senses. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too.” His eyes still closed, he rolled off her and arranged her against his side. “But remind me never to make love to you in your parents’ house.”

“What?” She wiggled closer. “Why?”

“You screamed,” he informed her, his voice a mix of exhaustion and amusement. “I told you I’d like to hear that, so I thank you for obliging me.”

“I did not scream.”

“You did.” He idly skimmed her bare hip, making her feel as though she might melt. “And a beautiful scream it was, too.”

Would he lie to her? Kit, the man who’d sacrificed his dream for the sake of honesty? If she were to be honest with herself, there’d been a moment when she’d been so out of her mind with pleasure, the house could have burned around her and she’d not have noticed.

She supposed, right then, she could have screamed.

“Well, at least I didn’t yip,” she said and kissed him before he could laugh.

The next morning, after a leisurely bath for two in Kit’s huge tub—which Rose decided she could get used to—followed by breakfast with her sisters, he walked her up the hill to the pawnshop.

The night shouldn’t have changed anything, but somehow it had. She’d loved Kit desperately before she’d shared his bed, but now she felt a new closeness. And a sadness buried within him, a sadness that spilled over onto herself.

She wanted more than ever for him to make things right with his sister.

“I’ll wait out here,” he said when they arrived.

“I want you two to talk.”

“I’ll be here if she is willing.”

Bent over a tray full of rings, Ellen looked up when the bell jingled. “Rose!” She came hurrying out from behind the counter.

Rose hugged her tight, then set her away. “You look good.” Beneath her simple peach dress, Ellen’s stomach barely looked rounded. “How are you feeling?”

“I haven’t puked in at least half an hour.”

“Oh.”

“ ’Tis not that bad.” Ellen grinned. “I make up for it at night; I vow and swear, I’ve never been so hungry.”

Violet had never felt sick when carrying her children; Rose could only hope it would be the same for her. Her hand went to her own abdomen as she suddenly realized she could already be with child. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.

Quickly she held out the book, relieved to be handing it over. “Here. Take it. And here are the translations.” She pulled a few sheets of folded paper from her drawstring purse.

“Oh, thank you!” Ellen opened them and turned to the last one. Her eyes widened as she read a stanza. “I didn’t know this was quite so . . .” She slanted a glance to where her husband sat in a corner industriously going over paperwork, then back down to the translated words. “ ‘With my legs around your neck,’ ” she quoted under her breath,

“ ‘somehow you’ve got your yard buried inside my . . .’

Mercy me . . . I’m not certain Thomas is ready for this.”

Ellen didn’t look ready for it, either. “Everyone at Court found it entirely too intriguing,” Rose told her. “But Kit just laughed.”

Ellen refolded the pages and tucked them into the book.

“I hope you two will be happy,” she said formally.

“You
are
coming to our wedding?”

“No.” She gazed down at the tray of rings on the counter.

“No, I’m not.”

“Ellen, if you don’t attend, then someday you will be very sorry. You cannot refuse to speak to your brother forever.”

She slid a garnet ring onto her finger, then pulled it off.

“I cannot imagine that he cares.”

Rose waited until she looked up. “You know he does.”

“Then he should give me my dowry. He has no right to withhold it just because I didn’t marry a man of his choosing.”

At this point, Rose suspected Kit would hand over everything he owned if his sister would just stop this nonsense.

Neither he nor Ellen would budge first. She wanted to knock their two heads together.

But Ellen was just plain wrong. “He has every right. He earned that money.”

“I earned it, too,” Ellen shot back, her eyes as green as Kit’s when he was upset. “I suffered for that money every bit as much as he did. More. My parents were dead, and my big brother left me with a little old lady. True, she gave me nice clothes and made sure I learned to read and write. But she also expected me to wait on her hand and foot in return.

Whenever Kit deigned to visit, I used to beg him to take me with him, away from there, anywhere . . .” Her voice dropped off, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “He promised me that someday I would live a better life, and I figure ’tis my due.”

Kit described Lady St. Vincent as his savior, but there were always two sides to every story. To Ellen, apparently the baroness had been a prison guard. Still, Rose couldn’t see where Kit had had much of a choice.

“What did you expect him to do, Ellen? How could he have cared for you? Supported you? He was sixteen with no skills, but a grand opportunity. If he’d stayed with you in the village of Hawkridge, what do you expect he would be doing today? Do you think he’d be an architect? Do you reckon he’d have managed to save eleven thousand pounds for his beloved little sister? And he certainly couldn’t have brought you to school, and later to Oxford—”

“I know,” Ellen ground out miserably. Her jaw was tight, her cheeks pink. “He had no choice; I know it. But that didn’t make it easy for me.”

Rose laid a hand on her arm. “Of course it didn’t.”

“I earned that money. I mean to have it. He could dictate my life when I was a child, but not anymore.”

“How on earth do you expect Kit to understand how you’re feeling if you don’t talk to him? This is childish, Ellen. You’re a married woman, an expectant mother. Try to see his side. And you must come to our wedding. If not for Kit, do it for me.”

Tears welled in Ellen’s eyes. “I cannot. If he doesn’t love me enough to give me my dowry even though I defied him, I cannot.”

Rose’s gaze strayed out the window to where Kit was pacing across the street, clearly as miserable as his sister.

She wished he would just give Ellen the money and end this painful stalemate, but unlike his sister, she could see his side, too.

Her heart went out to him. “I’m sorry, Ellen, but I cannot beg you anymore, either. I pray you change your mind,”

she said and went outside to join him.

Kit whirled when he saw her. “How is she?” he immediately asked.

“Healthy, save for some expected sickness in the mornings. And the babe is well, too. But she still doesn’t want to see you.”

His jaw tightened as he took her hand to start the walk back down the hill to his house, where Violet and Lily were waiting to return home.

She squeezed his fingers. “Do you know, I believe Ellen’s pregnancy may be affecting her thinking and her feelings.”

“Whatever would make you believe that?”

“ ’Tis common enough for increasing women to be weepy and such.” He didn’t look convinced. “In any case, Ellen is young. Surely when her child is born she will grow up quickly. In the meantime,” she added carefully, “if you want her at our wedding, you only have to give her—”

“I cannot,” he interrupted. “I will not buy my sister’s love.”

Rose held her tongue as they walked, listening to the sounds of horses clopping past, children playing chase, and a woman in one of the tall houses scolding her poor sod of a husband.

Kit finally sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Thank you for trying.”

R O S E

315

“There is no need for thanks,” she said softly. She hadn’t tried hard enough. Some way, somehow, she would come up with a plan to get these two back together.

Kit had witnessed his sister’s wedding, and Ellen would be there for his.

“Rowan, wake up!” Back at Trentingham three days later, Rose shook her brother’s bony eleven-year-old shoulder. “Wake up!”

He stretched and yawned, opened his eyes, then promptly closed them. “ ’Tis still night.”

“But ’tis almost morning. And I need you to do me a favor.”

He rolled over, presenting her with his back. “What?”

“I want you to pretend to be ill.” She tousled his wavy black hair. “It could be fun.”

“Fun?”

“Mum will take care of you.” She sat on his blue-draped oak bed. “She’ll bring you treats and sit and play cards.”

“No, she won’t.” With a groan, he turned to face her.

“She’s taking you to London today, remember? To fetch your wedding gown. Being ill alone is no fun at all.”

“She’d never leave you ill. You’re her precious baby.”

When he grimaced, she rushed on. “I’ll pay you.”

He sat up. “How much?”

“A shilling.”

He made a rude noise.

“Very well, then, a crown.”

“Maybe.” Finally, Rowan looked interested—but skeptical, too. Rose’s brother was no half-wit. “I still think Mum will want to go with you to London . . .” His green eyes narrowed. “You don’t want her to go with you, do you?

Why don’t you want her to go with you?”

“Never mind why. Will you do this for me or not? A crown, Rowan. A nice, shiny—”

“She’ll not let you go alone.”

“I’ll take Violet, then. And Lily, too, if Mum insists—

she’s at Hawkridge at the moment, and ’tis right on the way. Will you do it?” He still looked hesitant, blast him.

“Think of it as a practical joke,” she added, grasping at straws.

“A practical joke?” He perked up. He’d loved practical jokes ever since his little friend Jewel, Ford’s niece, had played one on him four years ago. In fact, they hadn’t been friends at all until the girl had humiliated him with that prank. Rose had never been able to figure that out.

But she wasn’t averse to using it to her advantage. “Yes, a practical joke. Jewel will be so jealous when you tell her all about it at my wedding.”

“What will I have to do?”

“Hardly anything.” She moved aside, revealing the items she’d arranged on his night table. “I brought powder to make your face pale—”

“Makeup?”

“Just a little. You can run around the room ’til you’re all hot and sweaty. Then jump back into bed, I’ll fluff a little powder on, and we’ll put a hot cloth on your forehead.”

She gestured to the bowl of steaming water she’d brought with her.

“I can moan a lot,” he suggested, grinning.

“Excellent. I’ll hide everything beneath your bed. Then when Mum comes in you’ll be all hot and feverish and moaning and groaning . . . she won’t want to leave you, I’m sure.”

His eyes brightened with the thrill of conspiracy. “Can I puke?”

She winced, but nodded. ’Twas a brilliant if disgusting idea. “Can you make yourself puke?”

“For
two
crowns,” he said. “Bring me some food.”

*

*

*

In Madame Beaumont’s London shop, Rose twirled in the red satin gown.

“ ’Tis gorgeous,” Lily breathed. “Whoever would have imagined red for a wedding?”

“Perfect,” Madame Beaumont said in her fashionable French accent—never mind the seventeen years she’d lived here since the Restoration. She waved one arm in an expansive fashionable French gesture.
“Absolument parfait.”

The gown had a low, scooped neck and full three-quarter sleeves from which a froth of fine white Brussels lace spilled to Rose’s wrists. The underskirt and stomacher were both embroidered with thousands of seed pearls in scrolled designs, and the overskirt had love-knots all over it—small satin bows, loosely sewn so they could be torn off by the guests after the ceremony and taken home as favors.

“I can imagine red,” Violet said in her practical way, “but what I cannot imagine is Mum allowing you to retrieve this gown without her.”

Rose turned so Madame could detach the stomacher.

“Rowan was very ill. She’d seen the gown already for three fittings. And ’tis not as though I had to come alone. I have you two.” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled.

Violet snorted. “This is the second time within a week you’ve dragged me out overnight. Ford is going to be very relieved when you’re finally married.”

“Rand, too,” Lily put in. “He had to travel back to Oxford all by himself.”

“Good God, he’s a grown man.” Rose carefully stepped out of the gown. “You two cannot fool me. I know you are having the time of your lives on these adventures.”

Now
both
her sisters snorted.

Minutes later, a footman carried the boxed gown to the Trentingham carriage. “The Strand,” Rose told the driver.

“If you wish to visit the shops,” Lily said, scooping up her cat as she climbed in, “the Royal Exchange would be better.”

Rose pulled a scrap of paper from her purse to check the name and direction. “I wish to visit Abrahamson & Company, the Strand near Charing Cross.”

When the door shut behind them, Violet snatched the paper out of her hand. “Goldsmiths? You want to buy some jewelry?”

“No. Mr. Abrahamson has my money.”

“I knew that name was familiar.” Lily stroked her cat.

“ ’Tis the man Father sent a letter to when I needed my inheritance.”

“That’s right.” Violet focused on Rose. “Why do you want money?”

“ ’Tis my money. Does it matter?”

Violet and Lily shared a look but dropped the subject until a while later, when Rose came out of the goldsmith’s shop with a bag so heavy she could barely support its weight. She climbed back into the carriage and dropped it to the floorboards with a
thud,
dropping herself onto the bench seat with a “Whew.”

“How much money
is
that?” Lily asked.