Rose (Flower Trilogy) (8 page)

Kit’s chamber boasted more classic oak paneling, a red-draped half-tester bed, and a beautiful sitting room surpassed only by the luxurious dressing room. It had the biggest bathtub Rose had ever seen—not a tub that the servants had dragged upstairs, but a permanent one positioned before a fireplace.

Rose could imagine herself in that bathtub, not to mention that bed. She hoped the Duke of Bridgewater lived half as nicely. Many of the estates she had visited were much too old and drafty, and she’d met quite a few men who seemed more than happy living with their grandmothers’

choices in decor.

When the Ashcrofts had seen and admired everything, Kit led them downstairs. “Ellen isn’t here,” he muttered darkly as though to himself. “Anywhere.”

“Ellen?” Rose asked.

“My sister,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Graves!” he called. The butler reappeared. “Will you send someone to the pawnshop to seek out Ellen? Should she be there, I wish to see her directly.”

“Of course, sir.” The butler went off, presumably to fetch and instruct a footman.

“Well.” Kit set the book on a small marble-topped table in the entry. “I hope you enjoyed the grand tour.”

“I did.” In truth, Rose was overwhelmed. She’d never imagined a commoner would own such a lovely home. And Kit not only owned it, he’d designed it. He was responsible for the pleasing proportions of each room, the tasteful wall and window treatments, the spare but perfect accessories.

All it needed, she thought absurdly, was flowers. Yes, beautiful arrangements of flowers would be the crowning touch. Her fingers itched to design them. She’d use silver vases in simple classic shapes to match the house.

Chrystabel lifted the book. “ ’Tis a shame you cannot read this.”

“Languages.” Kit flashed a self-deprecating smile. “The one subject I failed in school.”

“Rose could read it to you. Could you not, dear?”

Rose was still planning her flower arrangements. Red, she thought, would suit this entry perfectly. The black-and-white floor called for something bold.

“I desperately need to lie down, but why don’t you stay here and translate this book for Kit? I’m certain he can find someone to escort me home.”

“Stay here?” Rose echoed, wrested from her vision of the multicolored arrangement she would create for the lovely dining room.

“ ’Tis early still, and you have nothing else to do until Court this evening. ’Twould be a kindness.”

She collected her thoughts and considered. Not only was Mum right, she was known for being hospitable. While Rose herself was known, she knew, for being selfish. Inside, she’d never felt like the woman others seemed to perceive her, and if she wished to alter those perceptions,

’twould not be a bad thing to follow in her mother’s hospitable footsteps.

And truth be told, she’d enjoy the challenge of translating a book on architecture. Although she generally hid her linguistic talents from men, Kit was just her brother-in-law’s friend and—now that he was building the greenhouse—her father’s hireling. She certainly didn’t care if he thought she was too intelligent, since she wasn’t interested in him as a husband.

“Rose?” her mother queried.

“Very well.”

Kit’s eyes lit, suddenly looking more green than brown.

“Graves! It seems we’ll be requiring dinner, after all.”

Before Rose could change her mind, her mother had departed, and she and Kit were in the beautiful paneled dining room, a lovely dinner of beef in claret and carrot pudding set before them. To her surprise, she found Kit very good company.

“ ’Tis odd,” she realized in the middle of their meal.

“You’re quite easy to talk to.”

A forkful of carrot pudding halfway to his mouth, he laughed. “Do you always say exactly what is on your mind?”

“Usually.” Unless she was with a man she thought of as husband material; then she had to watch her words. Thankfully that wasn’t the case here. “Do you not find it odd at all? After all, we hardly know each other.”

“Perhaps we should get to know each other, then.” He sipped thoughtfully from a goblet of Madeira. “What is your favorite color?”

“Red. Why?”

He met her eyes. “Color can say a lot about a person.”

“Oh, yes?” She took a swallow of the sweet wine. “What do you suppose red says about me?”

“I imagine that you’re decisive . . . and perhaps a bit daring.”

She liked that description. “What is
your
favorite color?”

“The clear blue of a summer sky.”

“But your bedchamber is red,” she remembered.

“Red is also a color of power,” he said, leaving her to ponder the significance of that.

Was he powerful in the bedchamber? What exactly did that mean? She felt her pulse flutter a little as she contemplated—

“Do you prefer sweet or savory?” he asked, interrupting her musings.

“Pardon?” She blinked and swallowed.

“To eat. Sweetmeats or real meats, which is it?”

“Oh, sweets, most definitely,” she told him, a bit relieved to be on a different subject. Enjoying this game, she eyed a cherry tart one of his serving maids had placed on the table.

“But I’m not passionate about it.”

“Passionate?” He raised a brow.

Rose felt herself blush, certain he’d taken her statement the wrong way. “Violet’s sister-in-law, Kendra—she’d have a wedge of that tart on her plate already. She always eats dessert first. In case she wouldn’t have room for it later.”

“Hmm. I like a passionate woman.”

Her cheeks grew even hotter. “And you? Sweet or savory?”

“Give me a hunk of beef any day.” He speared a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth. “Which do you enjoy more, Christmas or your birthday?”

“My birthday. ’Tis mine alone.”

He sipped, looking amused. “But Christmas is a time for sharing.”

“Exactly.” Two could play this game. “What is your favorite book?”

His eyes narrowed as he considered. “
The Odyssey.
”

“Homer’s
Odyssey
? In Greek?”

“Hell, no. George Chapman’s version.”

“Homer’s is more poetic.” She swallowed the last bite of the buttery carrot pudding. “Why do you like it?”

He set down his fork. “Odysseus faced terrible obstacles, but he persevered and triumphed in the end. I admire that sort of man, that sort of success.”

He sounded very serious. “He did it for love,” she reminded him.

“For his wife, Penelope, yes. She waited for him twenty years.”

Rose dreamed of such enduring love, but she couldn’t imagine waiting twenty years for anything. “Penelope was more patient than I.”

He smiled. “What is
your
favorite book?”

“Aristotle’s Masterpiece,”
she said without hesitation, even though it was a scandalous marriage manual. It seemed she could tell him anything. “I learned much from that book.”

“Did you?” That brow went up again, and she wondered if he knew what the book was about or was assuming it was Aristotelian philosophy. But his thoughtful expression didn’t give him away. “Musically,” he asked, “do you prefer instrumentals or songs?”

“Songs. I love to sing.” To demonstrate, she trilled a few notes, then grinned when he smiled. “Do you sing?”

“Not where anyone can hear me.” Still smiling, he sat back, twirling his goblet between his palms.

“My turn,” she said, focusing on the pewter cup. “Red wine or white?”

“Red. Most definitely red. ’Tis richer, deeper, more complicated.” He fixed that wicked gaze on her. “And you? Red or white?”

“Champagne,” she said, feeling like she’d just sipped some.

“Rare and expensive. It fits.”

Her face heated again. “The bubbles tickle my senses.”

There was a definite pause, during which he looked as if he was going to respond but then thought better of it. “Are you early to bed or late to rise?” he asked instead.

“Both,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But that is about to change. Last night I was so early to bed, I have no idea what time the Court festivities ended. Do you know, or did you seek your bed beforetime, too?”

“I never sought my bed at all. I had work that kept me there throughout the night.”

Her jaw dropped. “You haven’t slept?” She began to rise.

“I must leave you to get some sleep, then. Although my mother’s heart was in the right place when she suggested I read to you, she was clearly unaware of the circumstances.”

He rose and helped her to stand, his hand warm on her arm through the thin silk of her purple gown. Her skin seemed to prickle underneath.

“No, I would have you stay and read,” he said. “If you’re finished with your dinner, we’ll adjourn to the drawing room.”

“But you must be exhausted—”

“Think of it as a bedtime story, then.”

She laughed, and his eyes glittered green in response.

“Honestly,” he added, “tonight will be soon enough for me to rest. I’m accustomed to keeping long hours when a project demands it.”

And that was just the point, wasn’t it? she thought as she let him guide her back through the entry and into the light-flooded drawing room. The people in her life had no demands that would keep them up all the night—or at least none they hadn’t put on themselves. She had nothing in common with this man.

But despite that—despite
herself
—she liked him. His ease, his self-confidence, his quick sense of humor. In fact, she liked him a little too much. When he fetched the book and sat beside her on the pale moss green settle, she briefly considered moving to a chair. But considering they needed to work from the same book, that would be silly—not to mention insulting.

She took the book from him.
“‘Perspectiva Pictorum et
Architectorum,’”
she read aloud, “which means, ‘Perspective in Architecture and Painting,’ by Andrea Pozzo.”

“Just as I thought.” He reached to open the cover and flip pages, and she caught a whiff of his scent again—the same mix of frankincense and myrrh that she remembered him wearing at Lily’s wedding. ’Twas woodsy and masculine and made the champagne bubbles dance in her stomach, no matter that she’d been drinking Madeira instead.

She would have to try to duplicate it. Perhaps the Duke of Bridgewater would like some.

“See here,” Kit said. “There’s a sketch of how to properly mount paper on a board for drawing. I’ve done it, but I couldn’t tell what to do after that.” He rose and strode across the room to a desk, lifted a piece of wood with sheets of parchment tacked to it. “What does that page say?”

“To the lovers of perspective. The art of perspective does, with wonderful pleasure, deceive the eye, the most subtle of all our outward senses . . .”

While she read, Kit grabbed an inkwell and quill and wandered back to sit beside her.

She turned the page. “This section is called ‘Explanation of the lines of the plan and horizon, and of the points of the eye and of the distance.’ ” She read on, turning the Latin into English as she went. “That you may better understand the principles of perspective, here is presented to your view a temple, on the inner wall of which . . .”

With quick, precise motions, he sketched the lines of the classic Greek temple pictured beside the Latin words. He nodded as he followed her translated instructions, adding a man—tiny, as fit the proportions—standing before the structure with its high, arched windows.

“Let me see,” she said when she’d finished reading the page.

He set down the quill and turned the sketch board to face her. “What do you think?”

“ ’Tis lovely.”

“Just lovely?”

“Well, you’ve drawn it skillfully, of course.”

He smiled. “ ’Tis a perfectly proportioned structure. Can you see the way the arched windows echo the arches in the rest of the building? A true thing of beauty.”

If she couldn’t quite appreciate the structure itself, she couldn’t help but notice his enthusiasm. “You find buildings beautiful.”

“Not all buildings, but the well-designed ones.” He cocked his head, piercing her with those all-seeing eyes.

“What do you find beautiful?”

A little flutter skittered through her, but she ignored it.

“Are we back to playing the getting-to-know-each-other game?”

“Tell me. Beauty is . . .”

“Oh, flowers, jewelry, rainbows—”

“No. Not what others find beautiful; what
you
find beautiful. For example, this curve of cheek to chin“—he reached a long finger to trace along her face—“is a thing of beauty.”

She shivered.

“Tell me,” he said softly.

Your eyes,
she thought.
Your voice, when you talk like
that. Your ideas . . .

“Flowers,” she repeated aloud. But then she added,

“When they’ve just been kissed by the rain.”

He nodded solemnly. “What else?”

“Children’s laughter.”

“And?”

“The sun reflecting off the Thames at dusk.”

He seemed to be staring at her mouth. “Yes.”

Her lips tingling, she licked them. “And my sister, playing the harpsichord. Even more beautiful when her husband sings with her.”

Kit nodded again. “Rand has an incredible voice.”

“Yes, he does.” And it didn’t hurt anymore to think of him as Lily’s husband.

“How about,” Kit suggested, “the first blade of grass that pushes through the ground in the springtime?”

“Oh, yes.” Yes, she’d never thought of it before, but a blade of grass could be a thing of beauty.

“Church bells ringing through the fog.”

“Fog,” she repeated. “Tendrils of fog creeping over the rooftops of London.”

“The fog in London?” Laughing, he picked up his sketch board and ripped off the top sheet of paper. “Perhaps we are getting carried away. Read on, please.”

She hesitated a moment, wishing the game could continue. “
‘Figura Tertia
—The Third Figure. The delineation of an oblong square in perspective . . .’ ”

Rose read while Kit sketched all that pleasant long afternoon. And the longer he spent with her, the more he wanted her. She was much more than just a pretty face. He’d known that, somehow—known it in his gut before he’d even really known her. But now he knew for sure.