Rose (Flower Trilogy) (10 page)

Then his tongue delved inside to touch hers, but it didn’t feel intrusive. Her senses skidded and whirled. She returned the caress, and it turned into an exciting, tangled dance.

All too soon, he drew away, leaving her shaking. And stunned. A sigh eased out between her still-parted lips.

Kit’s kiss had been every bit as wondrous as those her sisters had described. A thing of beauty, she thought dizzily.

But she didn’t say it aloud, because she feared he would take it the wrong way. Not to mention she felt incapable of saying anything just at the moment.

His eyes glittered green in the torchlight, his gaze piercing right into her as though he could divine her scrambled thoughts. As she watched, his mouth curved into a faint smile that might have been smug.

“Good night,” he said and walked away.

Rose closed the lodging’s door and leaned back against it, then released a long, long sigh. A sigh of relief.

She didn’t dislike kissing after all!

Kit, of course, had no business kissing her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry he’d done so. She’d watched him walk away, knowing she should call after him, berate him for having the nerve to take such a liberty, inform him that he was never to do so again.

But she hadn’t found the strength to do that. She’d felt weak, boneless. And happy—so happy to find that nothing was wrong with her. She enjoyed kissing! And somehow, after experiencing Kit’s kiss, she knew that she would enjoy the other things that happened between a man and a woman. All the things that the marriage manual
Aristotle’s
Masterpiece
had described . . . those things she’d been so eager to try until she’d tried kissing and decided it wasn’t to her taste.

Now she knew differently. How silly she’d been to jump to such a conclusion. Obviously a woman’s enjoyment of kissing depended on the skill of the man. How unlucky she’d been to kiss so many men and never find a talented one until now.

“Dear? Are you out there?”

“Yes, Mum.” Rose took a deep, calming breath and crossed the small sitting room toward the even smaller bedchamber she and her mother were sharing.

Chrystabel was seated at the heavy carved wood dressing table. While her maid Anne twisted the back section of her hair up into a bun, she tore a small sheet of Spanish paper from a tiny booklet and rubbed it lightly on her cheeks.

“Did you have a nice time, dear?”

Feeling heat flare in her face, Rose was glad her mother was busy looking in the mirror. “ ’Twas a fine day,” she said carefully, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic.

She certainly didn’t want her mother finding out she’d allowed Kit—a commoner!—to kiss her.

Mum set down the Spanish paper and lifted a kohl pencil. “What did you do?” she asked, carefully rimming an eye.

“Oh, we had dinner and then I translated part of the book.” The sound of an ungraceful snore drew Rose’s gaze to Harriet, dead to the world on a pallet laid out on the floor. Shaking her head, she crossed to her trunk and rummaged through it herself. “I met Kit’s sister, Ellen.”

“Was she nice?”

Rose held up a frosty pink gown and then rejected it; she was feeling much bolder than that. “I liked her. But she is eighteen and fancies herself in love. With a
pawnbroker.
”

“Perhaps she
is
in love. And in a bustling town like this, a pawnshop is likely to be a thriving business.”

“She can do much better than to live life above a pawnshop. Look at the house she’s living in now!”

Chrystabel turned to her, raising one kohl-darkened brow. “You liked it.”

“Kit’s house?” Rose shook out a bright red gown. Perfect. She laid it on the old canopied bed. “ ’Twas very impressive. It must be lovely to live right on the river like that. And the house is beautifully designed.”

Another thing of beauty, she thought, standing over her sleeping maid. “Harriet!” she called softly.

The girl bolted upright. “Yes, milady.” She scrambled to her feet. “Forgive me, milady.”

Rose waved a dismissive hand, thinking she was a mite tired herself.

“You like the house’s designer, too,” her mother said.

“Kit? He’s a pleasant man.” Memories flashed—his smile, his laughter, his eyes . . . his kiss. Rose shivered, then made a show of rubbing her arms, moving closer to the fire in the grate. Curling tongs sat in the embers, heating. “ ’Tis cold in this stone building, do you not think?”

“Not particularly.”

Her mother’s gaze was making her uncomfortable, so she turned to let Harriet unlace her gown. “I’ve been thinking, Mum . . .”

Shifting back to the mirror, Chrystabel opened a little jar of pomade. “Yes?”

“You’ve always cautioned us to kiss a man before we agree to marry him. I think that is
excellent
advice. I believe that if I see Ellen again, I will tell her. Perhaps she will find she doesn’t love the pawnbroker, after all.”

Chrystabel slicked the pomade on her lips, then stood and waved Rose toward the stool in her stead. “Love has to do with more than kisses, dear.”

“Well, of course it does!” Rose settled herself, watching in the mirror as Harriet slid the pins from her hair. “But since a woman is expected to kiss her husband, she should at least make sure she likes it.”

She leaned forward, darkening her lashes with the end of a burnt cork while Harriet used the hot tongs to fashion perfect ringlets. It was really too bad the Duke of Bridgewater was such an abysmal kisser. He’d seemed so perfect.

Well, there were other suitable, handsome men at Court.

With any luck, she wouldn’t have to kiss them all before she found one as talented as Kit.

“Kisses,” Harriet murmured with a sigh.

Chrystabel stepped into high Louis-heeled shoes fashioned of golden brocade to match her gown. “Have you met any men here at Windsor yet, Harriet?”

The girl’s freckles went three shades darker. “No.”

“Harriet is shy,” Anne put in.

“Well.” Chrystabel straightened and gave her skirts a shake. “We shall have to see about an introduction.”

Rose barely resisted an impulse to snort. Whoever heard of “introductions” for servants? Only her hopelessly romantic mother would even think of such a thing. “Mum,” she started.

“Yes, dear?”

On the other hand . . . at least Mum didn’t seem to be foisting any men upon
her.

“Never mind,” she said lightly, thanking her lucky stars her mother had found someone else to bedevil. The last thing she needed was interference in her love life.

Better Chrystabel busy herself matching Harriet.

Kit looked down the hill toward Ellen dragging along behind. “Come along, will you?” Walking backward, he squinted at her in the darkness. “What is that you’re carrying?”

“A book.”

“A book?” He stopped to wait for her to catch up. “Since when do you spend your time reading?”

“Since you went stark raving mad and decided I had to spend half the night watching you work. Since then.” ’Twas dark as hell, too dim to see her expression, but he could hear the pout in her voice. “Why will you not let me stay home?”

“I would let you stay home if you
would
stay home. But I know you, and you won’t. I’d return to find you’re at the pawnshop again.”

“I love him,” she said for the hundredth time. Or maybe the millionth.

“I want better for you.”

As they passed through the gate at Windsor, the drowsy old scarlet-uniformed guard snapped to attention. “Evening, Mr. Martyn.”

“Evening, Richards.”

The man narrowed his rheumy eyes. “Who goes with you?”

“My sister.”

“Pretty thing.” He smiled, displaying half a mouth of teeth. “Go on through.”

“My thanks.” In the torchlight of the gateway, Kit glanced again at the book clutched to Ellen’s chest. “Where’d you get that? ’Tis not even English.”

She clutched the book tighter, as though she were afraid he might snatch it from her hands. “You don’t want to know.”

“Whittingham?”

“Maybe.”

“He’s a pawnbroker. Can he even read? Why would he give you a foreign book?”

He thought perhaps she blushed, but they were still walking and had left the circle of torchlight, so he couldn’t be sure. “I am hoping your friend Rose can translate it for me,” she said, neatly evading his question.

“She’s not my friend.” He didn’t want to be Rose’s friend. He didn’t want to be her brother, either. He hoped he’d made that clear earlier this evening.

“You drew a picture of her.”

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“ ’Twas good,” she grudgingly said. “You should draw pictures more often. Of things besides buildings, I mean.”

“I’m too busy trying to make you a good life.”

Her answer to that was a sullen silence.

He sighed as they skirted the Round Tower. “You cannot see Rose tonight. You’ll be at my construction site. She’ll be at Court.” He wouldn’t walk Ellen through the King’s chambers—they would take the long way around. “Ellen Martyn does not belong at Court. Until, that is, she marries a title.”

“I’m marrying a pawnbroker,” she said.

*

*

*

Rose had kissed three men already—one behind the heavy velvet curtains in the huge bay window, one in the little unfinished vestibule, and one out on the terrace . . . and she’d loathed all three experiences.

But at least her quest was getting easier. The first two men had been pleasantly shocked when she’d asked them for a kiss, but the third had come to
her.

And here came another, swaggering her way. Trying to appear casual, she leaned a hand on the solid silver table by the wall where she stood. It felt cold—and very expensive—under her fingers.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” the man asked, coming to a stop before her. She looked him up and down. Although he wasn’t any taller than she, he wasn’t shorter either, and he had a pleasing face.

“The engraved top is nice,” she said, unable to summon yet another charming and flirtatious reply.

Her face hurt from smiling so much.

He tried again. “Louis the Fourteenth has silver furniture like this all over Versailles.”

“Does he? Gemini, that palace must be even more over-blown than this one.”

He appeared nonplussed. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”

She lazily waved her fan while she considered him. His hair was covered by a long, curled periwig, but she guessed from his fair complexion that it was blond. That was, if he wasn’t bald underneath—but she could hope not. His periwinkle suit wasn’t too ostentatious, adorned with just enough jewels to make known his wealth.

He would do.

“Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she replied with a calculated smile.

He took her free hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back. A bit wet, but not totally disgusting. “Lord Cravenhurst at your service.”

His voice wasn’t too grating, and, unlike the last man, she guessed he’d bathed within the week. His perfume was light and not too cloying. Perhaps he’d ask her to dance before claiming a kiss. That would be nice.

But she was not to be so lucky. He leaned close, sneaking a peek at himself in the silver-framed mirror above the table. “I hear you enjoy kissing,” he uttered in a confidential tone.

Rose fluttered her lashes. “Why, yes, actually, I do.” If it was with the right man.

Maybe he would be the one.

Although she would prefer a dance—or sitting somewhere alone where she could put her feet up—she allowed him to guide her behind the curtain again. There was a good view over Eton, but apparently he didn’t feel like looking. One arm came around to clamp her tight, and his mouth descended on hers, parting her lips immediately.

She dropped her fan. He tasted funny, and his tongue felt slimy. When he snaked a hand down her bodice, she gasped and shoved him away. “I never gave you leave to do that!”

He didn’t look at all fazed. “I was told you were a wild one.”

“By whom?”

He shrugged. “ ’Tis all the buzz.”

“Well, the buzz is wrong. A kiss is not an invitation to be mauled.” One hand went to cover her probably bruised breast while she tossed open the curtain with the other.

“Now go out there and tell everyone they were mistaken.”

“And let them all know you refused my advances? I think not,” he huffed and stalked away.

She barely had time to catch her breath before another man hurried over.

The Earl of Rosslyn, Kit’s friend. Since they’d already been introduced, he wasted no time on preliminaries. “My lady,” he said with a bow, “I have it on good faith that you particularly enjoy kissing.”

The cur. “You’re married!”

He grinned. “Then you know I have much experience.”

“What I
know
is that you’re an adulterer.”

“Why should that matter?”

Indeed. Looking around the chamber, she spotted couples in all sorts of embraces, doing everything, it seemed, short of actual coupling—and she had grave doubts that most of them were married. To each other, at least.

And where was her mother? She might as well have come here by herself for all the chaperoning she was receiving.

She scooped her folded fan off the floor, half tempted to bash Rosslyn on the nose with it. “Go away,” she told him instead.

To her vast relief, he did. She aimed a shaky smile at two passing women, but they both pointedly avoided her gaze, whispering behind their fans. And yet another man was headed in her direction.

The Duke of Bridgewater, she realized, her tension easing. At least he was a real gentleman. He was wearing russet tonight and looked even more aristocratic than she’d remembered. She composed herself as he drew nearer, opening her fan and curving her mouth in welcome.

“Gabriel,” she greeted softly with a sigh. “Where have you been all this evening?”

“I was detained until now,” he apologized smoothly,

“and I’ve dearly missed your company. Was Rosslyn bothering you?”

In truth she could take care of herself—had she not just proven it? But she sidled up to him, waving the fan coquettishly. “I’m glad you arrived to protect me.”