Mum 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 red 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. “It was 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’s sixteen 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.”
“Surely she can do much better than to live life above a pawnshop. Look at the house she’s living in now!”
Mum turned to her, raising one kohl-darkened brow. “You liked it, then.”
“Kit’s house?” Rose shook out a bright red gown. Perfect. She laid it on the old canopied bed. “It was very impressive. It must be lovely to live right on the river like that and yet in a bustling town, too. 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. I was tired.”
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 pleasant.” Memories flashed: his smile, his laughter, his eyes…his lips. Rose shivered, then made a show of rubbing her arms, moving closer to the fire on the grate. Curling tongs sat heating in the embers. “It’s cold in this stone building, don’t you 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, her mother 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 shall tell her. Perhaps she’ll find she doesn’t love the pawnbroker, after all.”
Mum 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 wife is expected to kiss her husband, she should at least make sure she likes his technique.”
Leaning forward, Rose darkened her lashes with the end of a burnt cork while Harriet used the hot tongs to fashion perfect ringlets. What a pity the Duke of Bridgewater was such an abysmal kisser. He’d seemed so perfect.
Well, there were other suitable, handsome gentlemen at court. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to kiss them all before she found one as talented as Kit.
“Ah, kisses,” Harriet murmured with a sigh.
Mum stepped into high Louis-heeled shoes fashioned of golden brocade to match her gown. “Have you met any young men here at Windsor yet, Harriet?”
The girl’s freckles went three shades darker. “Not yet.”
“Harriet’s shy,” Anne put in.
“Well.” Mum straightened and gave her skirts a shake. “We shall have to see about an introduction.”
Rose rolled her eyes. 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 introductions upon her. Perhaps it was a blessing that the matchmaker had found someone else to torment with her schemes. Better Harriet than Rose.
“Never mind,” Rose said lightly.
The last thing she needed was her mother interfering in her love life.
EIGHTEEN
THREE DAYS later, 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 should spend half the night watching you work. Since then.”
He chose not to respond.
It was too dark to see her expression, but he could hear the pout in her voice. After returning home to find her absent one time too many, yesterday he’d finally decided to bring her with him to work so he could keep an eye on her. She’d acted positively feral, shouting and disrupting the worksite, so tonight’s pouting was a vast improvement. Perhaps she was learning resignation.
“Why won’t you let me stay home?” she suddenly shrieked.
Then again, perhaps not.
“I’d 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,” he said for the millionth time, too.
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
