Rose (Flower Trilogy) (7 page)

She sniffed the flower daintily. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what the agreement might mean to us here in England.” When he gave her a blank stare, she worried that he no longer liked her. “The significance of such an action escapes me,” she lied in a desperate effort to redeem herself.

“ ’Tis quite all right.” Walking her closer to the building, he squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, my dear.”

Could he still like her, then? she wondered. But suddenly he drew her between a turret and a stand of trees, and she knew.

He still liked her. In fact, he was going to kiss her.

She could tell when a man was aiming to kiss her. After all, it had happened before. She’d lost count of the number of men who had contrived to press their lips to hers. She supposed it wasn’t surprising, given that she was a comely woman and not nearly as proper as her sisters. And they were only kisses, for God’s sake—’twas not as though she allowed men to take further liberties.

So she’d been kissed before, and she knew what to expect. But she had a sad secret.

She didn’t much care for kissing.

“Gabriel,” she whispered when he turned her to face him. “May I call you Gabriel?”

“But of course, sweet Rose.” His voice had deepened, and he raised a hand and skimmed her cheek. Then it curled around the back of her neck as he drew her closer, and before she could say anything further—before she could attempt to slow him down, to possibly suggest they get to know each other better before sharing this intimacy—he lowered his head.

His other arm went around her, and his hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against his body. As the flower dropped from her fingers, his mouth crushed down on hers.

She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips coaxed hers open, and his tongue pushed into her mouth, wet and frantic. Just as she’d expected, she thought with a mental groan. Most men seemed to prefer this kind of kiss, and the duke was apparently no exception.

Gabriel let out an amorous little moan and shifted her in his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Faced with such honest passion, she tried to relax and participate, tried to learn to enjoy this kiss. But try as she might, it didn’t feel as wondrous as it was supposed to. In fact, it didn’t feel like much at all beyond a messy mashing of mouths.

She was relieved when he pulled away—even more relieved when her mother’s distinctive soft laughter floated to her on the night. She turned and stepped back onto the terrace.

“Mum! And . . . you,” she added rather ungraciously as her gaze shifted to her mother’s right. There stood Kit Martyn, looking impossibly handsome.

A commoner had no right to look so good. She felt those champagne bubbles again, and she hadn’t even been drinking spirits.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“Building a new dining room for the King. What have you been doing here?” he asked in a way that made it clear he thought he knew.

Rose felt herself turning red.

“She’s with me,” the duke said, sounding rather possessive. “Though what business is it of yours, I wonder?”

Picturing these two in a fistfight, she feared Kit might win. “Your Grace,” she said quickly, “may I present Mr.

Christopher Martyn. Kit, the Duke of Bridgewater.” She looked up at Gabriel. “He’s a friend of the family,” she added, feeling it necessary to explain.

“And I asked Kit to help me search for you,” her mother put in. “I felt it unsafe, as a woman, to be out in the dark alone.”

“Yes, ’twould not have been wise.” Kit held Gabriel’s gaze until the man looked away. “I’m glad to have been of service, but I must be off. I’ve much to accomplish before tomorrow. Lady Trentingham, Lady Rose.” He nodded toward them both, then addressed the duke with an elegant bow. “Your Grace.”

Slightly disconcerted, Rose watched him walk away.

“We should return as well,” her mother told her. “I am grateful to have found you in such safe hands.”

If Chrystabel’s voice held a bit of warning, Rose chose to ignore it. On their way back to the drawing room, she smiled up at Gabriel. She’d liked the way he’d made it clear she was there with him.

He truly was perfect, and it wasn’t his fault that she didn’t enjoy his kisses.

She’d listened, jealous beyond belief, while her sisters rhapsodized about the sensual kisses they enjoyed with the men who were now their husbands. But kisses had never been like that for her. In all honesty, she found them more than a mite disgusting.

Of course, she’d never told her sisters that, so she sometimes wondered if they, too, were hiding their distaste. But she thought not. Both her sisters were honest to a fault.

How they could enjoy men mauling their mouths was beyond her, but apparently they did.

She wished it could be the same for her, but experience had convinced her otherwise. She could only hope that the rest of what happened between men and women wasn’t nearly as repugnant.

“ Iam pleased.” King Charles nodded thoughtfully, his dark eyes skimming the dining room again with approval. “And I’m satisfied with your explanation, Mr. Martyn. Do be certain, however, to complete this project per schedule.”

“I can assure Your Majesty that will not prove a problem.” Kit walked with Charles toward the double doors and threw them wide. “I thank you for taking the time to visit.”

Kit smiled as he watched the King make his way through the vestibule, several of the man’s ever-present spaniels yipping after him. After pulling the doors shut, he unfolded some tarpaulins and laid them near the side of the chamber that was supported by scaffolding. Then he strode through a door at the other end, along a corridor, and into Brick Court. “Come along, now! Beams, lumber—move!”

Dazed, he stepped aside to let the workmen through with the first of the new materials he’d ordered. If it wouldn’t be such a bad example, he’d slump against the wall.

He’d passed.

He wandered back along the corridor and into the dining room, keeping out of his crew’s way. He’d been up all night supervising, reevaluating, working with his own hands while his men secured the damaged area and hauled away all evidence of the mishap. He’d attached countless strips of decorative molding, polished all the oak paneling, stripped off the tarpaulins and polished the new floor, too.

All in hopes of charming the King’s eye.

He’d passed.

Dropping onto a fresh stack of wood and using it as a chair, he flipped blindly through a book of architectural renderings. He should go home; he was exhausted and needed to check in with his sister. Ellen had a habit of finding trouble when he wasn’t around.

The drawings before him blurred. He’d passed. All was not lost.

When the double doors reopened, his heart seized as he wondered wildly whether the King had some complaint, after all. He sagged with relief when two women entered instead. Then sat straight when he recognized them.

Rose and her mother, both dressed in bright, cheerful colors. Surely a sight for tired eyes.

“Oh!” Lady Trentingham exclaimed, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

He wouldn’t wager on that.

“I just wanted to show Rose this beautiful chamber,” she added.

Kit shut his book. “I was about to leave anyway. ’Tis time I went home.”

“Home? Surely you’re not finished here. It looks wonderful, but—”

“ ’Tis stunning, Mum! Even better than you described.”

Rose gazed up at the ceiling. “Beauty and whimsy all rolled into one. I am not overly fond of the decoration here at Windsor. Overdone, if you ask me. But this room does not take itself as seriously as the others.”

“Thank you,” Kit said. Relishing the admiration in her voice, he watched her wander the chamber, touching a carved panel, the white marble mantel, a bit of grooved wainscoting. Smiling, he turned to her mother. “The project is well in hand for the moment; I’m not abandoning it, I assure you. I live right here in Windsor. Not a ten-minute walk.”

“Is that so? I imagine your home must be lovely.”

He knew a hint when he heard one. “Would you like to see it?”

“Mum, I don’t think—”

“We’d love to,” Lady Trentingham cut in. “Were you not just saying, dear, how tedious it is here in the daytime?”

Kit led them on an easy walk from the castle down the hill to the Thames. Rose decided it felt good to be out in the fresh air. And there truly was nothing to do at Windsor Castle in the daytime . . . with the exception of the palace staff, it seemed everyone was still abed, sleeping off the excesses of the night before.

When Rose had hit her pillow after midnight, Court had still been in full swing. She would have to adjust her country hours, perhaps take a nap early this evening before Court got under way. They had just been setting up gaming tables when she left, and although she’d never gambled, she imagined it was much fun. Perhaps she could win enough money for a new gown.

The curved, steep street followed the castle wall. Across the road, townspeople went about their business, entering and exiting rows of gabled shops with living accommodations above. Women carried baskets over their arms, gathering purchases as children and dogs played tag in the cobbled street.

No dirt road here, in this bustling town where the King kept a household.

“Look,” she said as they reached the bottom of the hill.

“A bookshop.”

“John Young, Bookseller,” Mum read off the old, cracked wooden sign.

Rose was always looking for new books to help practice her skills. “I wonder if they might have any books written in foreign languages.”

“Oh, yes,” Kit put in. “I found this there.” He raised the book tucked under his arm. “ ’Tis Latin.”

“You read Latin?”

“Hell, no,” he said, not surprising her. He hadn’t understood her family’s Latin motto, after all. “I bought it to study the drawings.” He flipped open the book and held it up as they walked. “See? Classical architecture.”

“But there are words,” Mum pointed out. “Explanations.”

“True.” He sighed and closed the cover. “I believe, actually, that this book is meant to instruct one in how to accurately draw buildings. But even though I cannot learn what it sets out to teach, I enjoy studying the pictures.”

“Rose can read Latin,” Mum said.

Rose avoided her mother’s gaze, instead looking longingly inside the bookshop as they passed. “May we stop here on the way back, Mum?”

“Perhaps.”

“We can stop now, if you wish,” Kit offered, pleasantly surprising Rose. She thought fleetingly that were it the Duke of Bridgewater walking beside her, she wouldn’t have dared show an interest in books.

’Twas freeing to be with a man she didn’t care about.

“Later,” Mum said. “I am anxious to see the house.”

Finally they came to the end of the street. On the bucolic River Thames, swans glided majestically. Rose gazed across the Windsor Bridge toward the charming town of Eton. “Where do you live?” she asked Kit.

“Right here,” he said, gesturing toward an imposing redbrick house that sat beside the river.

No, not a house. A
mansion.

She consciously closed her gaping jaw. “It looks like Rand’s house.”

Her mother smiled. “Rand’s house is white, not brick.”

“But the style in which it is built . . .” Rose looked toward Kit, knowing he would understand what she meant.

“It looks nothing like Windsor’s dining room.”

“The dining room reflects Charles’s preferences, not my own.”

“I like yours much better,” she murmured as he led them under a small columned portico and into the house.

She paused on the threshold, admiring the clean, modern lines of the entry hall. The black marble floor was studded with small white marble diamonds. Smooth, pale stone walls were set off by classic dark oak molding. A high ceiling led to a corridor beyond, where Rose glimpsed a series of archways that vaguely reminded her of a vaulted cathedral.

As she’d said, it reminded her of the house Kit had built for Rand in Oxford. But better. Not to mention at least twice the size.

Kit Martyn was quite obviously a wealthy man.

“Mr. Martyn.” A butler dressed in dark blue hurried to meet him. “Welcome home. Shall I have Mrs. Potts prepare dinner for three?” His inquisitive pale blue gaze swept Rose and her mother.

“Thank you, Graves, but I don’t believe the ladies are staying long.”

“As you say, sir.” The butler took himself off.

“You wanted to see the house?” Kit asked, directing the question to Chrystabel.

“We’d love to,” she assured him.

He led them through to a drawing room, all white paneled walls and a gray marble fireplace. The furniture was upholstered but not fussy, the windows large and tall, allowing sunshine to flood the room.

“I prefer natural light to candlelight,” he told them.

“Would you care to sit?”

“No,” Rose breathed. “Show us the rest, please.”

He shared a smile with her mother.

Rose’s favorite room on the ground floor was the dining room, a complete contrast to King Charles’s in its simplicity. Other than wide crown molding, the ceiling was smooth and white—at night it would reflect the light of the single carved oak chandelier that hovered over the round table.

The walls were covered with dark oak paneling, rich and simple except for a few ornately carved sections above the fireplace.

“Sixteenth century, all of it.” Kit waved the book he still held, indicating the wood that graced the walls. “I rescued it from a house I renovated—the owner wanted something more extravagant.”

Rose turned in a slow circle. “Something more like Windsor Castle’s decorations?”

“Very much.”

“That owner has no taste,” she declared.

Kit grinned. “Would you like to see upstairs?”

A small, exquisite stained-glass window threw colored light onto the curving staircase. “Another item I rescued,”

Kit said, waving the book at it, too. The bedchambers upstairs were not simply sleeping rooms, but suites—and there were many of them.

His sister’s was peacock blue with a lovely canopied bed, a sitting room with a settle, a desk, and a marble fireplace, and a mirrored dressing room that made Rose fairly seethe with jealousy. They were also the only cluttered rooms in the house, with pretty little items decorating every flat surface. She wondered what his sister was like.