He was perfect!
She was certain she was falling in love already.
“My dear Rose—may I call you Rose?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction.”
He was not only perfect, but a perfect gentleman as well.
She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. “To be sure, your grace.” Imagine being called your grace—her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. “My mother brought me here to meet gentlemen like you.” Exactly like you, she revised silently, overjoyed to have caught the attention of such a man.
And she did have his attention. His hands gripped hers rather more tightly than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary—his possessiveness made a little thrill run through her.
Court was wonderful. Even while dancing with Gabriel—for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn’t help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeoman, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.
That observation prompted her to scrutinize Gabriel’s jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swaying a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds, and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.
Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!
When the dance came to an end, Rose felt deflated. One never danced with the same partner two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.
No sooner had he straightened than another courtier rushed over and begged the honor of a dance. She accepted happily, thinking she would be generous enough to give him a fair appraisal. Him, and any other fellow who sought her good graces.
But she knew—she just knew—that none of them would be as perfect for her as the delicious, delectable, utterly divine Duke of Bridgewater.
SEVEN
KIT WALKED briskly through the dark castle grounds toward Sir Christopher Wren’s apartments—the official apartments of the Surveyor General, apartments he hoped to occupy himself someday. Not that he’d actually live there. He had just put the finishing touches on a brand new house here in Windsor—a house of his very own, situated on an enviable plot of land on the banks of the River Thames.
In fact, his sister, Ellen, was waiting for him there now. At least, he hoped she was waiting for him. If she was off with that lousy Whittingham fellow again…
Reaching his destination, he put those brotherly concerns from his mind and gave the door two sharp knocks. When it opened, Kit was startled to see not Wren’s secretary, but the man himself, dressed in shirtsleeves and no periwig. His dark hair was disheveled, as though he’d raked his hands through it repeatedly.
Wren didn’t reside in these official apartments either, but instead used the rooms as his offices. Like Kit, Wren had recently built an impressive house for himself in town. But as the Dean of Windsor’s son, he’d been raised right here in the castle deanery, a playmate of the young Prince of Wales—now King Charles—and he and his monarch were still intimates. Kit was hoping their long-standing relationship would mean Wren could convince the king that Kit was the right candidate for the Deputy Surveyor post.
But the look on Wren’s face wasn’t reassuring.
“This new development does not bode well,” Wren said without preamble. Waving Kit toward a chair, he settled himself against a large drafting table strewn with copious drawings, rubbing at the shadow of gray whiskers sprouting on his chin.
Though the Surveyor General was more than two decades his senior, Kit counted him a friend. Wren had been his favorite professor at university, while Kit had been Wren’s prized pupil. After Oxford, Wren had done what he could to champion his young protégé—and thank heaven for that, or Kit would probably still be designing pantries instead of palaces. Unlike his more privileged classmates, he hadn’t started his career amidst a heap of impressive commissions. He’d actually had to earn his reputation.
“Until this unfortunate mishap,” Wren continued, “you were the front-runner for the Deputy Surveyor appointment. But King Charles hasn’t the patience for costly errors—the monarchy, I’m afraid, is as cash-strapped as ever.”
Kit rubbed the back of his neck. “The error wasn’t strictly mine—my foreman chose to use substandard materials. Not,” he rushed to add, “that I don’t take responsibility. Quite clearly I erred in hiring the man in the first place. I will make up the losses.”
Wren nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes sympathetic. “Last I saw, the dining room was coming along brilliantly—impeccable craftsmanship, exceptional eye to detail.” His lips thinned. “Regardless, I’m now under pressure to award the appointment to Rosslyn.”
Gaylord Craig, the young Earl of Rosslyn, had been a classmate of Kit’s—and not a particularly stellar one. But he came from a prominent family of staunch Royalists, one of many such families King Charles owed for their support in the Civil War. And it was far cheaper to repay those families with political appointments than with gold.
Kit’s fingers curled around the bit of brick in his pocket. “Can the king’s mind be changed?”
“Anything is possible. Charles plans to inspect the project tomorrow, so if you can make certain the site is safe and any debris is cleared—”
“Of course.”
“—perhaps we can divert his attention to the impressive design.”
“I’ll have everything under control,” Kit assured him.
If necessary, he would comb
