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.
Glancing down to their connected hands, she looked startled and pulled hers back. “You enjoyed your time at Oxford,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“I was anxious to finish and get on with life, but Oxford was hardly a trial. Rand was there—we’d been friends since childhood. And a few of my friends 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 fellow. “I met him last night. He’s your friend?”
Kit grinned. “Rosslyn ruffles some people’s feathers. We’re not close friends, but I’ve always got on with everyone.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said, returning his smile. She had adorable dimples. He felt a sudden urge to kiss those two little indentations.
“Someone’s here,” she said.
He heard footsteps on the marble in the entry, and the low murmur of Graves’s voice followed by one with a higher pitch.
“That will be my sister, Ellen,” he told Rose, rising. “Will you excuse me?”
FIFTEEN
AS ROSE WATCHED Kit leave the room, closing the door behind him, 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 the girl 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 face up.
Her heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t been drawing Greek temples or Roman theaters. He’d been sketching her.
And he’d captured her perfectly.
Transfixed, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. The young woman gazing back at her wasn’t the flirting Rose, the one with the big smile. Instead her lips curved as though she shared a secret. And her eyes glittered not with forced gaiety, but with simple pleasure in what she was doing.
Translating a book. Sharing a quiet afternoon.
It wasn’t 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.
It was a Rose very few 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 his sister barged in.
“I’m entitled to live my own life,” the girl said, continuing their argument as though Rose were invisible. “And you had no right having me fetched home 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.” Kit’s sister tossed her head of long jet hair. “The love of my life.”
“He’s a pawnbroker,” Kit spat.
Rose set down Kit’s sketch and stood. “I’m Rose Ashcroft,” she said to the girl, who looked to be about a year or two her junior.
“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.
And she found herself wishing 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 girl.
She sat again and patted the cushion beside her. “Tell me about this Thomas of yours.”
Ellen slid onto the settle and folded her hands in her lap, a female version of Kit dressed in an innocent shade 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 will 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 living above a pawnshop, is—”
“—what I want,” Ellen rushed to finish for him. Then she met Rose’s eyes, her own pleading.
Apparently they were friends already.
“How old are you?” Rose asked.
“Sixteen.”
“You’re young yet,” she said gently. “Can you not put off marriage for a little while? Perhaps you’ll meet—”
“I love him. Kit has no right to dictate my life.”
Ellen was wrong; legally, Kit had every right. When Rose looked to him, he spread his hands in an exasperated gesture. She turned 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.
Rose had fancied herself in love many times. But she knew now, having seen her
