Rose (Flower Trilogy) (6 page)

Rose wondered if by “better” Nell referred to Charles’s exalted status or meant that he was a great lover. ’Twas on the tip of her tongue to ask when another lady barged in, her milk white complexion mottled with angry red. She gave Nell a glare that said she wished her dead, then plopped onto a green baize bench with her back to them both, her dark ringlets shaking with barely controlled fury.

Nell snorted, then sailed out the door with Rose in tow.

“Don’t pay no mind to her, either,” she said, none too quietly.

Rose waited until they were out of earshot to ask, “Who is she?”

“The high and mighty Louise de Kéroualle.”

“The Duchess of Portsmouth?” Another of Charles’s mistresses—this one, Rose knew, not nearly as popular with the people. Of course, that was due to her Catholicism rather than any fault of her personality, which, after all, they could hardly be acquainted with. Nell, on the other hand, had been known to proudly proclaim herself “the Protestant whore.”

“Squintabella is in a snit,” Nell said now, “because she arrived today after a long journey from Bath, but although Charles took dinner with her, he didn’t invite her to stay the night, preferring
my
bed instead.”

“Squintabella?” Rose echoed weakly, her head spinning with all this delicious Court gossip.

“Did you not notice the slight cast in the duchess’s eye? I was here at Court before her, and I’ll be here long after she’s gone. She’s managed to send Barbara running across the Channel, but she won’t do away with me so easily.”

“Barbara has left England?” The news was a shock. Barbara was Charles’s longest-standing mistress, having accompanied him home for his Restoration.

“She’s on the outs now, thanks to Louise. Living in Paris.

But she’ll return—she always does. And no matter what she’s done, Charles always forgives her.”

“You must find that maddening,” Rose observed.

“Hell, no. She’s had him wrapped round her finger for seventeen years. I know better than to expect that to change now.” Nell laughed as she bussed Rose on both cheeks, sang “Good luck, dearie!” and flitted back into the drawing room.

No sooner had she left than Louise came out the door.

“Enjoying Court, Lady Rose?”

Still reeling, Rose turned to her in surprise. “Very much,”

she told the gorgeous woman. Baby-faced with almond-shaped eyes, full red lips, and enough jewelry hanging all over her to stock a small shop, Louise made Rose feel plain in comparison.

But the duchess’s demeanor was not so beautiful. “You’d do best,” she advised haughtily, “not to fraternize with such as she.”

“Could you mean Nell?” Bristling, Rose couldn’t help but notice that small squint Nell had mentioned. “Whyever not? Charles seems to think her good enough.”

“I cannot credit that he’s taken with such a coarse, common orange wench.” As a young girl, before she’d stepped on stage at the King’s Theatre, Nell had been employed there selling oranges. “She calls him her Charles the Third, you know.”

Rose could feel jealous venom spewing from this bitter woman. “Charles the Third?”

“Her earlier lovers included Charles Hart—a common actor—who then passed her to Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. She called
him
her Charles the Second, and now the King has become Charles the Third.”

Rose’s lips twitched.

“ ’Tis not amusing,” Louise sniffed. “His Majesty deserves respect—not least from one such as she.”

Louise de Kéroualle, daughter of a Breton family of ancient and distinguished lineage, quite obviously considered herself much above Nell Gwyn. But Rose couldn’t help liking the “coarse orange wench” better. Louise was rumored to be a French spy, which Rose suddenly had little difficulty believing.

Pretty is as pretty does,
her mother had always told her three girls. Rose was imagining Louise’s lovely face transforming into that of a hag when Gabriel appeared and laid a hand on her arm.

“Did you not promise me the next dance?” he asked, although she hadn’t. Before Rose could answer, he nodded toward Louise. “Your Grace.”

“Your Grace.” The pale beauty nodded back, a smile curving those bloodred lips, her voice suddenly as sweet and smooth as honey.

The woman, Rose realized, was a natural-born predator.

Although she knew tongues would wag when the duke led her off toward the dance floor yet again, she went more than willingly.

Her heart pounded with the thrill of it all. She’d always said ’twas as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, and the Duke of Bridgewater certainly had a title worth falling for.

The dance was a branle, and all the running, gliding, and skipping rendered her breathless. Or maybe it was the duke . . . she couldn’t be sure. She only knew that when he took her by the arm and drew her toward a door, her heart gave a little lurch.

“We shouldn’t—” she started.

“Whyever not?” His smile looked innocent enough. “Are you not heated after that dance? I certainly feel over-warm . . .” One pale, arched brow rose, and his tone implied that the heat resulted from more than just exertion.

Well, she shouldn’t refuse him, should she? After all,

’twas naught but a walk outside. She glanced toward her mother, but Chrystabel was engaged in conversation across the room. The men at Court had wicked reputations, but surely if Mum were concerned, she’d be watching more closely.

In any case, it hardly mattered, since while Rose was dithering, the duke had managed to steer her from the room.

She’d never liked the dark, so she was relieved to see a few torches. ’Twas a mild evening, but no one else seemed to be outdoors enjoying the favorable weather. “Should we be out here?” she asked nervously.

“ ’Tis open to the public. Charles expanded this terrace recently, and he’s invited the townspeople to enjoy the views. ’Tis crowded as hell in the daytime.”

She’d bet it was—and for some reason, she found herself wishing all those people were here now. But when he took her hand and started walking, her fleeting unease was replaced by a sense of wonder. Her first time at Court—how amazing that she should find such a perfect man so quickly!

She should have come to Court years before.

“How long have you been here at Windsor?” he asked.

“We arrived only today.”

“I guessed as much—or I would surely have spotted you before now.”

They fell quiet as Gabriel guided her toward the edge of the terrace and stopped by the rail. This castle, like most, was built on high land, and the terrace afforded magnificent views. Beneath the castle wall, parkland gave way to a few twinkling lights and the moon reflecting off the Thames in the distance. Stars winked in the heavens above.

“ ’Tis a lovely night,” Rose said to fill the silence.

“Yes, it is.” He smiled down at her, his face lit by the moon. “Made more so with such lovely company.”

Rose liked what she was hearing. Surely there was no reason to feel uneasy.

No reason at all.

Kit had six men erecting scaffolding, two chipping off the ruined plaster, and another two hauling away the debris. At the same time, he had a team on the way to London to fetch the quality materials that had been figured into his original specifications. Hopefully, they would return on the morrow, or at worst, the day after that.

Construction work generally halted at dusk. There were no chandeliers in the room as yet, so the men worked by the light of torches and candelabra. If he could convince the rest of his crew to remain on the job twenty-four hours a day, he would. But they, of course, were snug in their beds while he fretted. Artists, especially, were temperamental creatures.

“Careful!” he warned, one eye on the crew while he re-worked the schedule again in his head, trying to plan contingencies in case the new materials arrived late. “We’re strapped for time, but I won’t have injuries. Or a fire.”

“Pardon me!” a musical voice exclaimed. He turned to see the swish of peach-colored skirts as Lady Trentingham swiveled away, narrowly missing being whacked in the head by three men rushing out with a beam. “I’ve apparently stumbled into the wrong room.”

Emerging from the shadows, Kit strode toward her, his footfalls muffled by the protective tarpaulins on the new oak flooring. “ ’Tis perfectly all right, Lady Trentingham.”

Taking her arm, he drew her over to a safe corner.

“Mr. Martyn!” she said warmly. “I was searching for my daughter—”

“Lady Rose? I thought I glimpsed her earlier. What a surprise to find you both here.”

She turned slowly, inspecting the chamber. “I’ve brought her to Court to find a husband.”

He should have guessed. A woman as beautiful and bright as Rose would be snapped up here within days—if she wasn’t debauched first. Absurdly, disappointment tightened his chest as he watched Lady Trentingham scan the room and saw her pretty brown eyes—so like Rose’s—

widen with appreciation.

“This ceiling is going to be exquisite,” she commented, gazing up at the half-painted details on the older portion of the room—the part that wasn’t ruined. “A banquet of the gods, is it not? Fish and fowl . . . look, a lobster! How very charming.”

“I’m pleased you think so. I envisioned it both exquisite and somewhat amusing.” He hoped the King would be even half as impressed as she. “I’ve got Antonio Verrio painting it. You may have heard of him?”

“Heavens, yes. The Duke of Montagu brought him from Paris, did he not? I arranged his marriage. The duke’s, not the artist’s.” She ran a hand down the intricate oak carving on the wall beside her, a melange of fruit and vegetables.

“And who is responsible for this?”

“Grinling Gibbons, assisted by Henry Phillips.”

She nodded approvingly, still looking around. “The cornice is his work as well, if I’m not mistaken. Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. Martyn?”

He blinked at the rapid change of subject. Not to mention the subject itself. “Lady Rose is quite interesting,” he replied cautiously. “And please, call me Kit.”

“Kit.” She dropped her gaze to meet his. “That is not the sort of interest I was enquiring about, and”—a small smile curved her lips—“I suspect you know it. Do you want Rose?”

He wished there were furniture in the room so he could sit down. “Do I want . . .”

“I do not mean in a carnal sense,” she said, then her eyes twinkled. “Well, of course that is part of it, but do you want her as a wife?”

“A
wife
?” Furniture or no, if this line of questioning continued, he was going to have to sit. The floor was looking mighty tempting. His knees felt weaker than the plaster that had recently crumbled. And he hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of reply Lady Trentingham was seeking.

He rubbed the back of his neck.
Do you want her as a
wife?
Only in his most ludicrous dreams. If he answered yes, would Lady Trentingham berate him for aspiring far above his station? If he answered no, would she take offense on her daughter’s behalf?

She saved him from answering at all. “You would make me a fine son-in-law, but if you wish for that to happen, you’d do best to hide my approval from my daughter.”

Kit could hardly believe his ears. Elation sang through his veins, tempered by a rush of confusion. “I . . . does it not bother you that I’m not of noble birth?”

“I know a good man when I see one, and a title rarely has much to do with it. In my opinion, that is. I wish I could say my Rose felt the same way.” Her voice was laden with warning. “I’m afraid you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

He wondered if he was up to the task. But with the approval of Rose’s mother, he was damn well willing to try. “She told me she is allowed to choose her own husband.”

“Yes, she is. And furthermore, she is determined not to wed anyone of
my
choosing. I’m rather known as a matchmaker,” she added, but ’twas not a boast, just an honest bit of information. “Like my other daughters, she wants no part of any marriage I arrange.”

“I see.”

She cracked a smile. “Nevertheless—and unbeknownst to my children—I chose both Violet’s and Lily’s husbands.

I aim to make it three for three. How’s that for an impressive accounting?”

“My lady, I wish you every success in attaining that goal.” He’d never spoken more earnest words, since her success would mean his as well.

“I’m pleased to hear you agree. One more thing.” Her hand on his arm, she commanded his gaze. “My daughter is an innocent . . . and I expect her to remain one until the day she is wed. I’m well aware of the goings-on here at Court—”

“I’m no courtier,” he rushed to assure her. He waved an arm, encompassing the half-finished chamber. “I am only the hired help.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She smoothed down her skirt.

“Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who
is
a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I convince you to accompany me in my search?”

As Rose and Gabriel walked, she found herself mentally bouncing back and forth between trying to be her most charming and marveling that the Duke of Bridgewater was choosing to spend so much time with her. As a result, she feared their conversation had been a bit stilted.

But that was only to be expected, was it not? After all, they hardly knew each other. Still, her family had always been rather vocal, discussing anything and everything with great enthusiasm, so the awkward silences made her uncomfortable.

“What do you think,” she asked after a particularly long gap in their dialogue, “of the maritime agreement we have just signed with France?”

“Maritime agreement?” The duke’s perfect brow creased in puzzlement.

Did people not discuss these matters at Court? Did he not read
The London Gazette
? She plucked a yellow bloom off a hollyhock plant. “English ships will now be permitted to carry Dutch cargoes without fear of French interference.”

A little chuckle burst from his lips. “What would a woman know about that?”

“Oh, just something I heard.” She forced a laugh in return, cursing herself silently.

Though she wasn’t a student of history or prone to philosophical musings, she’d always been interested in what currently went on in the world. But how could she have forgotten her own rule to dazzle men without revealing her intelligence?