Rose (Flower Trilogy) (9 page)

“You’ve never seen these buildings,” she commented after translating the text accompanying several more figures. Eleven, or maybe twelve—he’d lost count. “In person, I mean. Have you?”

“No.” He placed the sketch board facedown on the table and stuck the quill into the inkwell. “I’ve always dreamed of traveling to Italy to study the classical buildings, but”—

he couldn’t help but laugh at himself—“I fear to do so, since my one failing in school was languages.”

“I’ve never been out of Britain.” Her dark eyes grew even darker, hazy. “I’d dearly love to go to Italy, too—to travel anywhere, really, where I could see the world and make use of all my languages.”

“How many?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “I’ve never counted. Ten, eleven . . . maybe more.

You get to a point where new languages become easier, where the words and grammar parallel ones you’ve already learned.”

“
You
get to that point,” he said, then smiled when she laughed.

She was charming in that easy dismissal of her abilities.

And she shared his dream, to travel. Although it was clear she wasn’t talking about traveling with
him,
Kit couldn’t help but remember her mother’s matchmaking hopes and think that such a talented wife could assist him not only in the study of architecture, but to go far in other ways.

And Rose was kind, too—willing to sit with him all the day and patiently translate his book. He enjoyed her quick laughter, her ready wit.

She returned his smile, displaying dimples that made his own smile widen more. He wanted to kiss those little indentations, one on each side, then settle warm on her mouth.

“You must have done well in school overall, though,” she said, startling him back to reality, “in order to get where you are today.”

He shook his head to clear it. “I did fine in my other subjects. I had to.”

“What do you mean?”

“My parents both perished in ’sixty-five—”

“The Great Plague.”

“Yes.” That year of horror. “Did it not affect your family?” he asked.

“We went off to Tremayne, a castle my grandfather owned near Wales. ’Tis Rowan’s now. We were safe there.

Isolated.”

“We weren’t,” Kit said succinctly. “My father was a carpenter, my mother a secretary and housekeeper for a local widowed noblewoman. They owned no land; we had no place to go.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you miss them terribly?”

“I did, but ’tis been twelve years. My sister, Ellen, was but six when they died. She only remembers snatches of that life.”

“But you remember your parents well.”

“My mother was the daughter of a cleric, and she taught us how to read. My father taught me how to build. They were good people.” Not that that had saved their lives. The few titled families in the area had escaped before falling ill, but common folk like the Martyns hadn’t any choice but to stay behind. Kit and Ellen had survived, but their parents had not.

The Martyns, Kit had resolved—what remained of them—would not be left behind ever again.

Rose leaned closer and laid a hand over his. “What happened after they passed on?”

“I was sixteen and determined to care for my sister, but we had no income, after all. Alone in our tiny cottage, we almost starved.”

Her fingers tightened on his, and she leaned closer still, swamping him with her rich, floral scent. “Oh, Kit . . .”

He waved off the sympathy. ’Twould do him no good.

He’d long ago learned to face life’s problems and work toward solutions. Wallowing in self-pity got one nowhere.

“When my mother’s employer, Lady St. Vincent, returned to Hawkridge after the danger had passed, she felt great remorse for having left our family behind. Accordingly, she took in Ellen and sent me to Westminster School. She saw to it that I was made a King’s Scholar and promised to send me on to university if I did well. So I did,” he concluded simply.

He’d been given a chance in life, and he hadn’t been about to waste it.

“Did she follow through with her promise?”

“Absolutely. She sent me to Oxford, and not on charity, either. She paid my expenses and made sure I was treated as well as the best.” He waited a beat, hoping Rose would say he
was
the best, as good as all the titled lads at school.

But she didn’t, of course. She hadn’t been raised in a world that believed that.

She glanced down to their connected hands, looked startled and pulled hers back. “You enjoyed your years at Oxford,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“I was anxious to finish and get on with life, but the years were hardly a trial. Rand was there, a Fellow already—we’d been friends since childhood. And a few students from Westminster School ended up there, too. Gaylord Craig—”

“The Earl of Rosslyn?”

From the tone of her voice, he gathered she didn’t like the man. “You know him?”

“I met him last night. He’s your friend?”

“Of a sort. We were never close, but I always got on with everyone.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, sounding as though she meant it.

Perhaps he was making inroads, he thought with an inward smile.

She licked her lips, and he wanted to kiss off that delicious sheen. “Someone’s here,” she said.

He heard footsteps on the marble in the entry, the low murmur of Graves’s voice followed by one with a higher pitch.

“That will be my sister, Ellen,” he told her, rising. “Will you excuse me?”

As Rose watched Kit leave the room, a clock somewhere in the house struck the hour, chiming six times. Where had the afternoon gone? The bookshop would have closed by now, and she’d wanted some reading material to pass the long, empty days at the castle. Court would be commencing soon, and she’d wanted time to rest. And she needed time to choose a gown and ready herself.

Mum must have been very tired, because surely she’d have come to fetch her if she wasn’t still napping.

Voices sifted through the drawing room’s closed door.

Rose couldn’t tell what Kit was saying, but he didn’t sound happy. She couldn’t understand his sister’s replies, either, but Ellen was clearly giving as good as she got.

Rose hadn’t even met Ellen, and she liked her already.

Smiling to herself, she idly reached for Kit’s sketch board and turned it faceup.

Her heart skipped a beat. Stunned, she could only stare.

He hadn’t been drawing Greek temples or Roman theaters.

He’d been sketching
her.

And he’d captured her perfectly. She still stared, mesmerized. The woman staring back was not the flirting Rose, the one with the big smile. Instead her lips curved as though she shared a secret, her eyes glittered not with forced gaiety, but with simple pleasure in what she was doing.

Translating a book. Sharing a quiet afternoon.

’Twas not a painting, nor a work of careful artistry. The black ink on white gave no hint that her gown was a rich purple, her cheeks were pink with carefully applied cosmetics, her lips were dyed red and ripe. The drawing was plain and stark. True.

’Twas the Rose not many people ever saw.

How had he seen the real Rose? she wondered. And what had made him sketch her while she was describing how to draw classical buildings?

She blew out a shaky breath as Kit and Ellen barged in.

“I am entitled to live my own life,” Ellen said, continuing their argument as though Rose were not there. “And you had no right having me fetched from the pawnshop as though I were your property.”

“You
are
my property,” Kit ground out. “Until you’re wed—”

“Let me wed, then, and we’ll both be happier.”

“Not if you wed
him.
”

“Him?” Rose asked.

They both turned to look at her, fire and surprise in their matching eyes.

“Thomas Whittingham.” Ellen tossed her head of long jet hair.

“A pawnbroker,” Kit spat.

Rose set down Kit’s sketch and stood. “I’m Rose Ashcroft,” she said to Ellen. “Tell me about this pawnbroker.”

“My apologies for not introducing you.” Kit’s gaze nervously snapped between Rose’s face and the drawing he’d done of her. He took a deep breath. “Lady Rose, this is my sister, Ellen. Ellen—”

“
Lady
Rose,” Ellen drawled before her brother could complete the belated introduction. “Do you not think, Kit, that you’re aiming a bit out of your range?”

“We’re just friends,” Rose rushed to clarify.

Surprisingly, she really
did
feel Kit was a friend. The pleasant afternoon had changed her view of him entirely.

But she wanted to be Ellen’s friend, too. With her sisters both married and moved away, and the women at Court giving her the cold shoulder, she desperately needed a female friend. And she sensed Ellen could be one. She liked this forthright woman.

She sat again and patted the seat beside her. “Tell me about this pawnbroker,” she repeated.

Ellen slid onto the settle and folded her hands in her lap, a female version of Kit dressed in an innocent tone of yellow. “He’s kind and generous and handsome, and I love him.”

“She wants to marry him,” Kit said derisively. He swept the sketch board off the table and crossed the room to place it facedown on the desk. “I’ll not see her wed to a pawnbroker. To go from this”—he waved a hand, indicating the house, the life he’d built for the two of them—“to live above a pawnshop, is—”

“—what I want,” Ellen finished for him. Then she met Rose’s eyes, her own pleading.

Apparently they were friends already.

“How old are you?” Rose asked.

“Eighteen.”

Rose had fancied herself in love at eighteen, too. But she knew now, having seen her sisters find love, that she’d been wrong. She knew now she’d never been in love at all.

Even once.

“You’re young yet,” she said gently. “Can you not wait a while? Perhaps you’ll find—”

“I
love
him. Kit has no right to dictate my life.”

Ellen was wrong; legally, Kit had every right. But Rose was torn between that truth and the fact that she believed, truly believed, that women should be allowed to make these decisions for themselves. She knew her own parents were considered odd for permitting it, but she’d also listened to hours upon hours of her sister Violet spouting all her radical philosophy.

Violet thought she never paid attention, but that simply wasn’t true.

And yet . . . she looked to Kit, who only spread his hands and shrugged an exasperated shoulder. And back to Ellen, who looked so much like her brother. Just as hot-tempered too, from all indications. They probably butted heads precisely because they were so much alike.

But Ellen was young yet. And Rose had never before felt so old.

“Do you know, Ellen,” she said carefully, “ ’tis as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.”

“Oh!” Ellen cried. “You don’t understand!” Tears sprang to her eyes as she jumped up and ran from the room.

Rose and Kit listened to his sister’s footsteps until they faded up the stairs. “She likes you,” he finally said.

“And our navy will conquer the Dutch tomorrow.” Rose sighed. “I think I’d best return home.”

“Home” right now for Rose was Windsor Castle. That was what Kit wanted for Ellen—the rank that would give her the security of feeling at home in a castle. Or anywhere.

The rank that would assure that she would never be left behind.

And yet, when Rose had supported his position, he’d found himself not grateful, but vexed. Her voice still echoed in his ears, so measured and reasonable.

’Tis as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.

Never mind that it was exactly what Ellen needed to hear, Rose’s attitude didn’t bode well for his own suit.

The sun was setting as he walked her back to the apartment she was sharing with her mother, the two of them chatting amiably. All the way past the Round Tower, into an Upper Ward building, and up a staircase, he listened to her amusing banter and watched her mobile lips.

Lips that begged for a kiss.

When she reached for the door latch, he stopped her with a hand over hers, and she turned and looked up at him, her dark eyes questioning.

“Thank you for a pleasant day,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over her face from the single torch that illuminated the deserted corridor. “And for the translation.

’Twas much appreciated.”

“You’re very welcome,” she said, looking relieved. “I enjoyed myself.”

He felt her trying to draw back her hand, but held it tight in his. There was something between them, whether she knew it—or wanted it—or not. “I’m happy to hear that,” he told her.

She gifted him with a tentative smile. “No, I mean I
truly
enjoyed myself. I can see why Rand is happy to count you as a friend. You’re the best—like a brother, but better.”

Kit didn’t want to be Rose’s brother. Her mother had given him hope, but she’d warned that the decision was Rose’s—apparently for good reason.

Like a brother.
He had to respect that, didn’t he? Respect her. His heart heavy, he released her hand, then leaned to give her an innocent, brotherly thank-you kiss, a brush of lips against cheek.

She smelled of roses, pure and heady. He felt something—an involuntary sway of her body toward his, an indefinable spark—and all his resolve simply melted away.

His mouth slid across her satin skin, past a hidden dimple he’d wanted to kiss earlier, and met her lips in a sudden rush of heat. A consuming heat. His arms wound around her to draw her close. Locked against him, she was everything he’d dreamed of and more.

And Rose’s world turned over.

She didn’t like kisses, hadn’t wanted one, but his mouth seemed made to fit hers. Tender and urgent all at once, his kiss was a delicious sensation. Wantonly, she pressed herself closer, reveling in the feel of his hard body against her softness. An odd ripple shuddered through her, and her knees weakened.

This dreamy intimacy felt nothing like the other kisses she’d experienced.

She inhaled his woodsy scent, drawing his essence inside her. He nipped at her lips, then traced the line between them, inciting shivers, making heat pool in her middle.