Rose (Flower Trilogy) (42 page)

“There’s only white and red,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“White and red?” She licked her lips, staring at his bare chest. Gemini, he was gorgeous. How could she have wanted an idle aristocrat when a working man like Kit had muscles that made a woman’s hands itch to run all over him?

Those muscles rippled as he strode over to the small round table and opened a curved drawer, rummaging inside. Finally he pulled out a little brush.

“White,” he said, dipping it in the whipped cream. “And red.” He swirled it in the strawberry sauce.

The sweets glistened in the firelight as he handed the brush to her with a grin.

His gaze was more wicked than ever.

“Here,” he said. “Paint me.”

She gave a startled laugh, then stroked the brush down his chest, leaning to lick off the sweets with a long, hot swipe of her tongue. Cream and sugar and strawberries and Kit.

This
kind of painting she could do.

“How odd,” Chrystabel said as she crawled into bed that night. “By the time of the wedding, Rose didn’t seem anxious at all.”

Glad to see she hadn’t bothered with a night rail, Joseph skimmed a hand down her body. “You didn’t seem anxious, either, my love.”

She sighed, half with memories, half with pleasure. “I knew this match was right.”

“And here I thought the prewedding night worked,” he teased, one hand fondling a breast while the other trailed between her thighs.

“It did,” she breathed. “But I think a postwedding night is in order, anyway.”

“Look at all the people crowding the balconies!” Rose exclaimed. Everyone who was anyone seemed to be at the Queen’s birthday celebration. Musicians played at the far end of the chamber, and courtiers were dancing, dressed in their finest, wearing every jewel they could lay their hands on. “Good God,” she said, “this must be the most beautiful building in all of England.”

“But I didn’t build it,” Kit teased, enjoying her reaction to Whitehall’s Banqueting House. In truth, he only hoped to someday build something as magnificent as Inigo Jones’s masterpiece. He was every bit as impressed as Rose by the classical white and gold room and the stunning ceiling paintings by Sir Peter Paul Rubens.

While Rose would most likely be happy here for hours, he couldn’t wait to leave and begin their journey to the Continent, where he would finally get the chance to study the masters that had inspired Jones. Still, this appearance was somewhat of a triumph for him, too, plain Mr. Christopher Martyn at Queen Catharine’s birthday ball.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, guiding Rose into the throng. She felt like heaven in his arms, tall and slender and his.

Nell Gwyn waved at her and winked, and she grinned back. “Imagine,” she mused. “Nell was born in a bawdy house and ended up the mother of one of the King’s sons.”

“Very like me.” Kit whirled her around. “I was born in a hovel and ended up wed to an earl’s daughter.”

He’d meant it humorously, but she was in a reflective mood tonight. “ ’Tis odd, don’t you think, the way people crave the opposite of what they have? Nell makes Charles happy because her house is his home. A regular home, and a real life when he’s with her. She throws parties where he is not a king, but a guest. None of his other mistresses do that for him. They only take what he has to offer—they don’t give in return.”

Delighted, Kit gave her a quick kiss, right there in front of the King and Queen and everyone. “And where did you come by all this information?”

“The ladies here at Court. You know, they like me very much. Ever since I started supplying them with lurid sonnets.”

He laughed. “The men like you, too. A bit too much for my comfort.”

“Worry not. I don’t even see them anymore.” She closed her eyes, leaning into his arms. “For me, you’re the only man in this room.”

He laughed again and kissed her again, and thanked God again that he’d won her. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy.

“Even the Queen looks happy tonight.” Rose smiled in Catharine’s direction. Dressed in a magnificent cloth-of-gold gown, she danced with Charles, gazing up at him with calm satisfaction. At thirty-nine, she finally seemed content in her unusual marriage.

William of Orange and his new princess did not look as happy. Rose watched them move desultorily around the dance floor. William was shorter than Mary and seemed to have a consumptive cough. Although he was only twenty-seven, deep lines marred his face.

“Poor Mary has been crying again,” she said with a sigh.

“Again?”

“I saw her on her wedding day in London, the day I fetched the red gown. She looked terribly unhappy.”

Kit drew her closer. “Their marriage was arranged for diplomatic purposes. Neither of them really had a choice.”

Her melancholy mood vanished as she grinned. “I’m glad you’re a nobody.”

Once that might have hurt, but rank now seemed insignificant next to the joy of wedding Rose.

When they came off the dance floor, Christopher Wren handed them both glasses of champagne. “To our Queen,”

he said. “And your successes. The chapel turned out beautifully, just as I’d envisioned it.”

Kit toasted him back. “You gave me excellent plans to work from.”

“But Windsor’s dining room was your own. A masterpiece.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about the appointment.”

“That’s water under the bridge,” Kit said, meaning it. He had a new life, new plans.

The Earl of Rosslyn sidled up, a champagne glass in one hand and his ever-present walking stick in the other. “Martyn,” he slurred.

Kit wrapped an arm around Rose’s shoulders. “Rosslyn. I take it life is treating you well?”

“I find myself overburdened with too much work.” He drained the glass and snagged another from a passing maid.

“So sad that I won the post in your place.”

Kit shrugged and began to turn away. The man had won the post fair and square, but that didn’t mean he had to listen to his backhanded boasts.

“A shame you miscalculated the length of that span at Hampton Court,” he heard Rosslyn say behind him.

Kit swiveled back and exchanged a startled glance with Wren. The older man knew Kit had done all his measurements and calculations in private—that besides the two of them, only the perpetrator would know exactly what was wrong with the building. Wren had promised not to share his knowledge—and Kit trusted him implicitly.

Aghast, he turned on Rosslyn. “What sort of man would sabotage another’s reputation in order to obtain an appointment?”

Rosslyn was drunk and slow, but Kit saw the horror dawn in his eyes as he realized he’d given himself away.

“You set the fire, didn’t you?” Kit pressed. “And altered the plans at Hampton Court. I expect you counted yourself lucky that Harold Washburn’s greed took care of Windsor for you. By purchasing inferior materials, he lined his pockets and delayed a project without you lifting so much as a finger.”

“I paid him to do that,” Rosslyn said smugly.

Kit’s jaw tightened. No wonder Washburn had been able to throw around so much money.

“Guards!” Wren called.

Leaning heavily on his ribbon-topped walking stick, Rosslyn glared at Kit. A wild sheen in his eyes said he wasn’t all there. “Your loss, my gain,” he growled. “I’ve finally proven myself better than you.” A red-coated guard stepped up to restrain him, but he twisted from the man’s grip. “All those years in school, no matter how well I did, that upstart Kit Martyn always did better—”

He was cut off when a second guard grabbed him and the two started dragging him away. Rosslyn kicked, drawing every gaze in the room with his shouted curses, his useless walking stick banging along the planked wood floor.

Kit stared after him long after everyone else had returned to their revelry. “I always thought we were friends,” he murmured, stunned.

Rose squeezed his hand. “He never seemed very friendly.”

He blinked and looked at her. “Acquaintances, then. Perhaps casual ones. But there was never any animosity.”

“On your part.”

Wren shoved another glass into his hand. “Drink up. I’ll be back.”

Numbly, Kit followed his advice, taking it a step further by making his way over to a delicate gilt chair and lowering himself gingerly onto it. Learning that childhood competition could lead to treachery all these years later was a shock he was finding hard to absorb.

Rose followed and stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “He’s talking to King Charles.”

“Rosslyn?”

“No, Wren. The two of them are making their way outside. Out the same way Rosslyn was taken.”

Kit rose to see, but the men had already exited the building. Feeling drained, he turned to his wife. “Let’s leave.

I’ve had enough. We can get a good night’s sleep before we start our journey tomorrow.”

“Wren said he’d be back.” She peered over Kit’s shoulder. “Look, he’s coming now. With Charles.”

Kit emptied his glass and set it down as the men approached. Rose took his arm, a silent show of support. The King wasted no time with greetings. “Martyn. I’ve just learned that in the face of treachery, you put Barbara’s life, and those of our children, before your own interests. I am very grateful.”

Kit’s gaze flicked to Wren. “I told him,” the older man admitted.

“I can see that.” He looked back to Charles. “The building was flawed. I did only what needed to be done. Any other man would do the same.”

“Not any,” Charles disagreed. “Only the sort of man I was searching for to appoint Deputy Surveyor. I believe I’ve found him.”

A tiny gasp escaped Rose’s lips, and her hand tightened on Kit’s arm. It took a moment for the King’s words to sink in before Kit swept him a deep bow. “My thanks, Your Majesty.” It had happened so fast, he could scarcely believe his old goal had finally been reached. “I shall endeavor to assure you that you chose the right man.”

“I expect no less.”

“There’s more,” Wren said.

Charles nodded. “I have stripped Gaylord Craig of his title and properties. I wish to grant them to you. You will henceforth be known as Christopher Martyn, Earl of Rosslyn.”

Dumbfounded, Kit looked between the King and Wren.

“It seems only fitting,” Wren said graciously.

Kit’s knees locked. He felt all the blood draining from his face.

“Sit down,” Rose laughed, pushing him back onto the chair.

Charles grinned, clearly enjoying his own magnanimity.

“I’ll accept your thanks later, Rosslyn.”
Rosslyn.
“My queen is awaiting a birthday toast.”

“Congratulations, my lord. My lady.” Wren bowed and walked off.

As Kit watched them both go, his world slowly stopped spinning and righted itself. Almost.

“Deputy Surveyor and an earldom,” he murmured.

“Wren is Surveyor General and only a knight.”

Rose moved closer. “Wren didn’t save King Charles’s children’s lives.”

It still didn’t seem real. “You’re a countess now,” he told his wife. “Lady Rosslyn.”

There in front of all the Court, she perched herself on his lap and toyed with his cravat, using it to pull him near for a quick kiss. “I care not,” she said gaily, adding “my lord”

with an impish grin.

My lord.
Two short words that meant so much. He kissed her again for good measure, feeling, at the moment, that she was the only familiar thing he had to cling to. “After all those weeks of putting up with that damned duke’s attentions, you cannot tell me you don’t care—”

“I don’t,” she said flatly. “You’ve been vindicated, and we’re off to explore the world together, and that is all that matters.”

That sounded wonderful, but too simple. A maid came by with more champagne, and he took a glass, still dazed. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly.

“Sure of what?”

“Anything. Where the Rosslyn lands are, for starters.”

“Good God,” she said with mock alarm, “I hope it’s not Northumberland.”

“And what it will take to care for them.”

“I can help you with that.” She looked startled at the thought, but pleased.

“And whether I can go ‘off to explore the world’ when I’ve just been appointed Deputy Surveyor.”

Now real alarm widened her eyes. “You can go. We’re going. Tomorrow. The post will wait. ’Twill be winter soon, anyway, too cold for building, and—”

“Very well, we’ll go. Before Charles has a chance to say otherwise.” ’Twould be the first time in his life he acted irresponsibly, but devil take it if he and Rose didn’t deserve their dream of traveling. They could cut their holiday short, but they would go.

It felt damned strange to be putting the present before his future, but maybe it was about time.

As the courtiers raised their glasses all around him, toasting the Queen, he blew out a breath and set Rose on her feet, then stood and raised his own. He was one of them now, and that felt damned strange, too.

But Rose was right. It didn’t really matter. They were together, and that was enough.

She smiled up at him, raising her face for a bubbly champagne kiss. His heart swelling, he leaned her back over his arm and gave her one that had all the jaded courtiers around them whistling by the time he finished.

“A thing of beauty,” she whispered, gazing up at him—

and she didn’t mean the spectacular building.

He knew just how she felt.

Author’s Note

Perhaps, like me, when you read a historical book you wonder which characters besides the King and Queen might have actually lived. I hope you won’t be disappointed to learn that all of Rose’s suitors were invented. All of King Charles’s mistresses, however, were real people.

Charles II kept many mistresses throughout his life. Although some were disliked by his subjects while others were accepted, never in English history has another royal mistress been as popular as “pretty, witty” Nell Gwyn.

Whether Nell was actually born in a brothel is open to question, but legend has it she came into the world in Drury Lane in February 1650. As a young girl, Nell sold oranges at the Theatre Royal and began as an actress there in 1665.

Charles saw her on stage, and by 1668 she became his mistress. Nell bore the King two sons, Charles in 1670, later the Duke of St. Albans, and James in 1671. Charles never tired of Nell, and on his deathbed, his last request to his brother is said to have been “let not poor Nelly starve.”