Rose (Flower Trilogy) (4 page)

“We’re getting there, dear. This is the Guard Chamber.”

As though she couldn’t have guessed. Military trophies covered every inch of the walls: helmets and drums, shields and armor, guns and lancets, swords and knives.

“Are there any weapons left for the army?” she whispered.

Mum’s laugh broke the hush of the chamber. “I certainly hope so!” She met Rose’s gaze, her brown eyes glittering.

“ ’Tis an impressive display, but all the same, I expect we are still well defended.”

The painted ceiling featured Jupiter and Juno seated on thrones at either end. In the center, a glassed octagonal opening provided a view of the stars and, Rose imagined, a great splash of natural light in the daytime.

Before the door at the far end, Chrystabel paused. “Lady Trentingham and Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she announced, her voice laced with quiet dignity.

Finally. Rose lifted her burgundy satin skirts as one of the six guards bowed and opened the door.

But the room beyond was deserted, save for an usher at the other end.

“What is this?” Rose demanded.

“The King’s Presence Chamber.” Chrystabel curtsied in front of the magnificent red velvet throne, taking Rose’s hand to make certain she did the same.

Thinking it the most ridiculous thing she’d ever done, Rose frowned as she straightened. “Despite the name of the chamber, the King,” she said pointedly, staring at the empty throne, “does not seem to be present.”

“Come along,” her mother said with a half concealed smile.

Rose looked to the heavens for patience, seeing instead a painted ceiling where Mercury was presenting a portrait of the King to the four corners of the world. She was beginning to think all this decoration might be a bit overdone.

A red-and-white-garbed usher grandly opened the next door. By now, Rose wasn’t expecting to see Their Majesties on the other side. In fact, she figured that at this rate she’d be a wrinkled old crone by the time she met them.

“The Audience Chamber,” Chrystabel intoned softly.

“You’ll curtsy to this empty throne as well.” She glided toward the canopied seat. “Charles does actually sit here to receive visitors in the daytime.”

“Does he never sit in the other throne?”

“ ’Tis naught but symbolism, dear. Ceremony.”

Rose had been sure she’d find the Court’s pageantry intriguing and exciting, but in truth, it all seemed a little silly!

The next chamber made her jaw drop open, and it had nothing to do with the gaudy decorations—or even the spectacular clothing and jewels that adorned all the people milling about.

Staring, she drifted slowly through the room by her mother’s side. There, in that dark corner, a woman sat sprawled on a man’s lap, her head thrown back in laughter.

Across the chamber, a fluttering curtain left the distinct impression that there was action of some sort going on behind it.

Nearby, another couple were kissing. No, more than kissing. Rose squinted, wishing there were more chandeliers overhead, or that the yeomen holding flaming torches would move closer to . . . her eyes widened. The woman’s stomacher was unhooked down one side, hanging drunkenly, and the laces beneath were undone, and the man had his hand—

He turned a bit, and his gaze met Rose’s for a moment.

Or at least she thought it had—she couldn’t be sure, given how quickly she shifted to focus on the ceiling above. But the monarch painted there in his golden chariot did nothing to erase the shocking-but-intriguing mental picture. There, the painted Charles was surrounded by naked angels, just as the real Charles was apparently surrounded by naked—

“Come along, dear. We’re about to be announced.”

“Announced?” She’d been so shocked, she hadn’t even realized she’d finally made it to the chamber where Their Majesties waited.

Rose had always considered herself unshockable, but suddenly she felt like an innocent country mouse. Father had been right all along, she thought. Court was no place for a well-bred young lady.

Good thing she wasn’t so young anymore.

The couple in front of her bowed and curtsied and moved out of the way, and she found herself approaching a red-canopied dais.

“Lady Trentingham!” the stuffy usher called. “Lady Rose Ashcroft!” Rose held out her satin skirts—so plain compared to the jewel-encrusted gowns of the other ladies—

and dropped into a deep curtsy. When she came up, she aimed a smile at King Charles, a bit startled to find that he was, after all, just an ordinary person.

She’d seen paintings, of course, but of a younger man, and somehow not such a real one. The King was forty-seven now, and a bit of gray-streaked hair peeked out from beneath his long, curled black periwig. His dark eyes were as sharp as ever, though—or at least as sharp as Rose had always heard. They swept her from head to toe, a gaze both approving and more than a bit lascivious.

Well, he was known for that.

In contrast, Queen Catharine’s eyes were a warm, liquid brown. She wasn’t a beauty, but her looks weren’t displeasing, either—she looked sad, and a little world-weary.

After fifteen years of marriage, she had yet to present her husband with a child.

Since Rose stood before Catharine, she mimicked what her mother was doing with Charles, lifting the Queen’s hand to press a kiss to the back.

She was rewarded with a smile. “ ’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Catharine told her in flowing, Portuguese-accented English.

“The pleasure is mine,” Rose returned. Really, she couldn’t imagine why her sisters had gone all fluttery over the prospect of meeting the monarchs. They were, after all, just people.

She switched sides with her mother and bent her lips to the King’s hand.

He gripped her fingers. “You’re as lovely as your mother.”

Beside her, Chrystabel blushed. Rose grinned at Charles.

“Your reputation is well deserved, Your Majesty.”

Still holding her fingers, he grinned back. “My reputation, my dear?”

“As a ladies’ man.”

Chrystabel gasped, but Charles just threw back his head and laughed. Rose shot her mother a triumphant smile.

Charles looked around them. “It seems you are the last to be presented,” he said, not looking at all displeased about that. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

Now it was Rose’s turn to gasp. She knew the protocol was for ladies to ask His Majesty to dance, not the opposite. Feeling light-headed, she curtsied again, then grinned.

“ ’Twould be my honor, Sire.”

“The second dance, then,” he said, rising from his throne. He held out a hand to Catharine, and she rose as well and let him guide her to the dance floor, the jewels on her gorgeous lavender gown twinkling as she moved.

The incessant chatter in the room went quiet for a moment as everyone turned to watch the King and Queen dance the first dance.

Rose drifted to join the small crowd that surrounded the dance floor, hugging herself with excitement. After the King danced with her, surely other men would want to do the same.

Maybe one of them would end up her husband.

In fact, before the first dance even ended, she felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to see a handsome specimen. The man was tall and fair, his clothing dripping with lace, his manner oozing aristocracy.

He struck a pose, one hand resting lightly on the jeweled hilt of his court sword, the other on the head of his high, beribboned walking stick. “Lady Trentingham, may I have the honor of an introduction?”

Rose wasn’t surprised that he knew her mother’s name.

Lady Trentingham was known far and wide as an amateur matchmaker—and a very successful one, at that. For him to ask for an introduction must mean . . .

“Lord Rosslyn, may I present Lady Rose Ashcroft.
My
daughter,
” she added meaningfully before turning to Rose.

“Rose, this is Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn.” Chrystabel turned back to the earl. “And how is your wife, my lord?” she asked in pointed tone.

“She is well,” the man replied blithely. His gaze wandered to the left, where Rose saw a woman half entwined with a man who looked a decade her junior. “Like most here at Court, we have an understanding.”

Rose was half tempted to bash him over the head with his own walking stick, but before she could react, Charles appeared by her side. He bowed, then held out a hand. “My lady?”

Rosslyn’s eyes widened, and Rose felt rather triumphant as she joined the King on the dance floor.

’Twas a country dance, performed in two lines, one of women, one of men. When it was her turn to parade down the center with Charles, their joined hands held high, Rose felt the eyes of the entire chamber on her.

And the King’s eyes as well. Dark and glinting, they captured hers quite effectively. The fabled Stuart charm. “ ’Tis a pleasure to have a new face at Court, my lady. Especially one as lovely as yours.” He danced superbly, graceful for so tall a man, his voice just as smooth. “Why have you never graced us with your presence before now?”

She blushed—becomingly, she hoped. “My father thought me too young.”

“Young?” he echoed.

And then they had to return to their respective lines.

As she executed the simple steps, she furtively glanced around. There were ladies of her mother’s age, certainly, but there were also girls of fifteen and sixteen. Or perhaps she should think of them as women, since they hung on the arms of grown men, flirting madly.

Clearly, she was not too young.

The next time she met up with the King to parade down the center, she had a more plausible answer. “I have come to Court to find a husband.”

“Ahh.” His dark eyes glittered speculatively. “Interesting choice of word, my lady. Husbands we have, although many are already wed.” He smiled at his own jest. “Take me, for example—”

“I won’t be,” she interrupted archly.

She worried for a moment that he might be offended, but he only laughed. “You
are
your mother’s daughter,” he conceded good-naturedly.

In a world filled with promiscuous spouses, her parents were known as uncommonly devoted.

The dance came to an end, and the King raised her hand to his mouth, pressing warm lips to the back. “ ’Twas a pleasure, my lady. I wish you every success here at Court.”

For a moment, while he still held her hand, Rose found herself suffused with wonder. Here she was, in the King’s Drawing Room at Windsor Castle, with none other than Charles himself. An experience like this could go to a woman’s head, she thought giddily.

Then he led her from the dance floor, and she watched him go straight to a girl of no more than seventeen and kiss her soundly on the lips. Rose couldn’t help but notice his queen studiously gazing elsewhere, resignation etched clearly on her small, foreign-looking face.

Apparently all was not lightness and fun here at the castle.

But this was Rose’s first evening at Court, not a night for sad contemplation. She looked away, enjoying the spectacle that was Charles’s Court. Gentlemen walked with swaggering, elegant movements, and ladies fluttered exquisitely painted fans.

“May I claim the pleasure of a dance?”

Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome man. “Absolutely, my lord . . . ?”

“Bridgewater. The Duke of Bridgewater,” he clarified with a warm smile and a smart bow. Rose was pleased to see he wasn’t carrying one of those foppish ribbon-topped walking sticks.

And he was a duke! Not only that, a youngish duke—of an age, Rose guessed, not above thirty. Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old men of forty or more.

As he swept her into the dance, her heart skittered with excitement. Already she was dancing with exactly the sort of man she’d come here hoping to meet.

“My given name is Gabriel Fox,” he told her quite pleasantly. “You’re Trentingham’s daughter, are you not?”

“Yes. Rose Ashcroft,” she said, gazing up at him—for he was tall. Tall enough to make her feel almost as petite as her sister Lily. Her gaze skimmed him from the top of his very-English blond head, past blue eyes, and down a patrician nose to his smiling mouth, each detail making her even happier.

He was perfect!

She was certain she was falling in love already.

“My lady Rose—may I call you Rose?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction.”

Not only a duke, a gentleman as well.

She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. “To be sure, Your Grace.” Imagine being called
Your Grace
—her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. “My mother brought me here to meet men such as you.”
Men exactly
like you,
she revised silently, thrilled to have the attention of such a great catch.

And she
did
have his attention. His hands gripped hers a little tighter than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary.

Court was
wonderful.
Even while dancing with Gabriel—

for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn’t help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeomen, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.

That observation prompted her to check out Gabriel’s jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swinging a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds, and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.

Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!

Rose felt deflated when the dance came to an end. One never danced with the same man two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.