“Should we be out here?” she asked nervously—though there was no reason to be nervous. What could be troubling about a pleasant walk with a nice, gentlemanly duke?
“It’s open to the public. Charles expanded this terrace recently, and he’s invited the townspeople to enjoy the views. Enormous as it is, it’s crowded as Newgate in the daytime.”
She’d bet it was—and for no plausible reason, she found herself wishing all those people were here now.
He took her hand and began walking. ”How long have you been here at Windsor?”
“We only arrived today.”
“Just as I thought—or I would surely have spotted you before now.”
They fell quiet as Gabriel guided her toward the edge of the terrace and stopped by the railing. This castle, like most, was built on high land, and the terrace afforded magnificent views. Beneath the castle wall, parkland gave way to a few flickering lights and the moon reflecting off the Thames in the distance. Stars twinkled above.
“It’s a lovely night,” Rose said to fill the silence.
“Yes, it is.” He smiled down at her, his face lit by the moon, his expression perfectly pleasant. “And made more so with such lovely company.”
That was nice. Gabriel was nice.
There was no reason to feel uneasy, she reminded herself. No reason at all.
NINE
KIT HAD SIX men erecting scaffolding, two chipping off the ruined plaster, and another two hauling away the debris. At the same time, he had a team dispatched to London to fetch the building materials that should have been used in the first place. With any luck, they’d return on the morrow.
Construction work generally halted at dusk. There were no chandeliers in the room as yet, so the men worked by the light of torches and candelabrum. If Kit could persuade the rest of his crew to remain on the job twenty-four hours a day, he would. But of course they were snug in their beds while he fretted. Artists, especially, were temperamental creatures.
“Careful!” he warned, one eye on the late-night crew while he reworked the schedule again in his head, planning contingencies in case the new materials arrived late. “Your haste is appreciated, but I won’t have injuries. Or a fire.”
“Pardon me!” a musical voice exclaimed. He turned to see a swish of peach-colored skirts as Lady Trentingham swiveled away, narrowly missing being whacked in the head by three men carrying a beam. “I’ve apparently stumbled into the wrong room.”
Emerging from the shadows, Kit strode toward her, his footfalls muffled by the protective tarpaulins on the new oak flooring. “It’s perfectly all right, Lady Trentingham.” Taking her arm, he drew her over to a safe corner.
“Mr. Martyn!” she said warmly. “I was searching for my daughter—”
“Lady Rose? I thought I glimpsed her earlier. What a surprise to find you both here.”
She turned slowly, inspecting the chamber. “I’ve brought her to court to find a husband.”
It was just as Kit had feared. He itched to know more—had Rose taken to anyone? That irksome blond fellow? Was he accident-prone, perchance? Or incurably ill?—but the countess cruelly kept her counsel. Instead of answering Kit’s burning questions, she admired the room, her eyes widening with appreciation.
“This ceiling will be exquisite,” she commented, gazing up at the half-painted details on the portion of the room that wasn’t ruined. “A banquet of the gods, am I right? Fish and fowl…and look, a lobster! How very charming.”
”I’m pleased you think so,” he said warmly. The countess was back in his good graces. “I envisioned it both exquisite and somewhat amusing. The painter is Antonio Verrio. You may have heard of him?”
“Heavens, yes. The Duke of Montagu brought him from Paris, didn’t he? I arranged his marriage. The duke’s, not the artist’s.” She ran a hand down the intricate oak carving on the wall beside her, a melange of fruit and vegetables. “And who is responsible for this?”
“Grinling Gibbons, assisted by Henry Phillips.”
She nodded approvingly, still looking around. “The cornice is his work as well, if I’m not mistaken. Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. Martyn?”
He blinked at the rapid change of subject. Not to mention the subject itself. “Lady Rose is indeed interesting,” he replied cautiously. “And please, call me Kit.”
“Kit.” She dropped her gaze to meet his. “That isn’t the sort of interest I was enquiring about, and”—a little smile curved her lips—“I suspect you know it. Do you fancy Rose?”
He wished there were furniture in the unfinished room, so he could sit down. “I, um…well…”
“I don’t mean a passing fancy,” she clarified, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. “Would you fancy her for a wife?”
“A wife?” Furniture or no, if this line of questioning continued, he was going to have to sit. The floor was looking mighty tempting. His knees felt weaker than the plaster that was crumbling overhead.
And he hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of answer Lady Trentingham sought. If he said yes, would she berate him for aspiring far above his station? If he said no, would she take offense on her daughter’s behalf? He rubbed the back of his neck.
Would he fancy Rose for a wife?
Lady Trentingham’s smile softened as if she already knew the answer. “You would make her a fine husband, Kit.”
He blinked. Was this a jest? Or a hallucination? Had he been whacked by that beam? Or could she truly mean…
”But I’m low-born,” he blurted. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
She fluttered a hand dismissively, her rings winking in the torchlight. “I know a good man when I see one, and rank rarely has much to do with it. In my opinion, that is. As for my Rose’s view…” The countess hesitated.
Hope vanished before it had even taken shape. “She cares about rank.”
“She thinks she does.” The woman looked as though she would have rolled her eyes if it weren’t beneath
