“Thank you,” Kit said. Relishing the admiration in her voice, he watched her wander the chamber, touching a carved panel, the white marble mantel, a bit of grooved wainscoting. Smiling, he turned to her mother. “The project is well in hand for the moment; I’m not abandoning it, I assure you. I live right here in Windsor. Not a ten minute walk.”
“Is that so? I imagine your home must be lovely.”
He knew a hint when he heard one. “Would you like to see it?”
“Mum, I don’t think—”
“We’d love to,” Lady Trentingham cut in. “Weren’t you just saying, dear, how tedious it is here in the daytime?”
TWELVE
KIT LED THEM on the easy walk from the castle down the hill to the Thames. Rose decided it felt good to be out in the fresh air. And there truly was nothing to do at Windsor Castle in the daytime. With the exception of the palace staff, it seemed everyone was still abed, sleeping off the excesses of the night before.
When Rose had hit her pillow after midnight, court had still been in full swing. She would have to adjust her country hours and perhaps take a nap this evening before court got underway. They had just begun setting up gaming tables when she left. Although she’d never tried gambling, as the duke was a keen gambler she found herself suddenly eager to join in. Perhaps she could win enough money for a new gown.
The steep, curved street followed the castle wall. Across the road, townspeople were going about their business, entering and exiting rows of gabled shops with living accommodations above. Women carried baskets over their arms, gathering purchases as children and dogs played tag in the cobbled street.
No dirt road here, in this bustling town where the king kept a household.
“Look,” she said as they reached the bottom of the hill. “A bookshop.”
“John Young, Bookseller,” Mum read off the old, cracked wooden sign.
Rose was always looking for new books to help practice her skills. “I wonder if they might have any books written in foreign languages.”
“They do,” Kit put in. “I found this there.” He raised the book tucked under his arm. “It’s Latin.”
“You read Latin?”
“Certainly not,” he said with a smile. “Latin was always my worst subject, and I’ve forgotten most all of it since leaving school.”
Rose wasn’t surprised, since he hadn’t understood her family’s Latin motto.
“I bought this book to examine the drawings,” he explained, opening the volume and holding it up as they walked. “See? Classical architecture.”
“But there are words,” Mum pointed out. “Descriptions.”
“True.” He sighed as he closed the cover. “I believe, actually, that this book is meant to teach one how to accurately draw buildings. But I enjoy studying the pictures.”
“Rose can read Latin,” Mum said.
Rose avoided her mother’s gaze, instead looking longingly inside the bookshop as they passed. “May we stop here on the way back, Mum?”
“Perhaps.”
“We can stop now, if you wish,” Kit offered, pleasantly surprising Rose. She thought fleetingly that were it the Duke of Bridgewater walking beside her, she wouldn’t have dared show an enthusiasm for books.
It was freeing to be with a gentleman she had no interest in.
“Later,” Mum said. “I’m anxious to see the house.”
At last they came to the end of the street. On the bucolic River Thames, swans glided majestically. Rose gazed across the Windsor Bridge toward the charming town of Eton. “Where do you live?” she asked Kit.
“Right here,” he said, gesturing toward an impressive redbrick house that sat beside the river.
No, not a house. A mansion.
She consciously closed her gaping jaw. “It looks like Rand’s house.”
Her mother smiled. “Rand’s house is white, not brick.”
“But the style in which it’s built…” Rose looked toward Kit, knowing he’d understand what she meant. “It looks nothing like Windsor’s dining room.”
“The dining room reflects the king’s preferences, not my own.”
“I like yours much better,” she murmured as he led them under a small columned portico and into the house.
She paused on the threshold, admiring the clean, modern lines of the entry hall. The black marble floor was studded with small white marble diamonds. Smooth, pale stone walls were set off by classic dark oak molding. A high ceiling led to a corridor beyond, where Rose glimpsed a series of archways that vaguely reminded her of a vaulted cathedral.
As she’d said, it reminded her of the house Kit had built for Rand in Oxford. But better. Not to mention at least twice the size.
Kit Martyn was quite obviously a wealthy individual.
“Mr. Martyn.” To Rose’s surprise, a butler dressed in dark blue rushed to meet him. “Welcome home.” His inquisitive pale blue gaze swept over the ladies. “Shall I have Mrs. Potts prepare dinner for three?”
“Thank you, Graves, but I don’t believe the ladies are staying long.”
“As you say, sir.” The servant took himself off.
“You wanted to see the house?” Kit asked, directing the question to Mum.
“We’d love to,” she assured him.
He led them through to a drawing room, all white paneled walls with a gray marble fireplace. The furniture was upholstered but not fussy, the windows large and tall, allowing sunshine to flood the room.
“I prefer natural light to candlelight,” he told them. “Would you care to sit?”
“No,” Rose said. “I’d like to see the rest.”
He shared a smile with her mother.
Rose’s favorite room on the ground floor was the dining room, a complete contrast to King Charles’s in its simplicity. Other than wide crown molding, the ceiling was smooth and white—at night it would reflect the light of the single carved oak chandelier that hovered over the round table. The walls were covered with dark oak paneling, rich and simple except for a few ornately carved sections above the fireplace.
“Sixteenth century, all of it.” Kit waved the book he still held, indicating the wood that graced the walls. “I rescued it
