She clutched the book tighter, as though she were afraid he might snatch it from her hands. “You don’t want to know.”
“Whittingham?”
“Maybe.”
“Can pawnbrokers even read? Why would he give you a foreign book?”
He thought perhaps she blushed, but they were still walking and had left the circle of torchlight, so he couldn’t be sure.
“I’m hoping your friend Rose can translate it for me,” she said, neatly evading his question.
“Rose isn’t my friend.” He didn’t want to be Rose’s friend. He didn’t want to be her brother, either. He hoped he’d made that clear three nights ago when he’d kissed her on her doorstep.
“You drew a picture of her.”
“You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“It was good,” Ellen said grudgingly. “You should draw pictures more often. Of things besides buildings, I mean.”
“I’m too busy trying to make you a good life.”
Her reply to that was sullen silence.
He sighed as they skirted the Round Tower. “You cannot see Rose tonight. You’ll be at my construction site. She’ll be at court.” He wouldn’t walk Ellen through the king’s chambers—they’d take the long way around. “Ellen Martyn doesn’t belong at court. Until, that is, she marries a title.”
“I’m marrying a pawnbroker,” she said.
NINETEEN
ROSE HAD KISSED three gentlemen since Kit—one last night behind the huge bay window’s velvet curtains, one in the little unfinished vestibule the evening before, and one out on the terrace the evening before that…and all three nights had ended in failure.
It seemed good kissers were exceedingly rare at court.
But at least her quest was getting easier. The first two gentlemen had been pleasantly shocked when she’d asked them for a kiss, but the third had come to her.
And here came another, swaggering her way. Trying to appear casual, she leaned a hand on the solid silver table by the wall where she stood. It felt cold—and very expensive—beneath her fingers.
“Lovely table, isn’t it?” the fellow asked, coming to a stop before her. She looked him up and down. Although he wasn’t any taller than she, he wasn’t shorter either, and he had a pleasing face.
“The engraved top is nice,” she said, unable to summon yet another charming and flirtatious reply. Court chatter was exhaustingly repetitive.
He tried again. “Louis the Fourteenth has silver furniture like this all over Versailles.”
“Does he? Gemini, that palace must be even more overblown than this one.”
The gentleman appeared nonplussed. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”
She lazily waved her fan while she considered him. He was young enough. His hair was covered by a long, curled periwig, but she guessed from his fair complexion that it was blond. His periwinkle suit wasn’t too ostentatious, adorned with just enough jewels to make known his wealth.
He would do.
“Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she replied with a calculated smile.
He took her free hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back. A bit wet, but not totally disgusting. “Lord Cravenhurst, at your service.”
His voice wasn’t too grating, and, unlike the last fellow, she guessed he’d bathed within the week. His perfume was light and not too cloying. Perhaps he’d ask her to dance before claiming a kiss. That would be nice.
But she was not to be so lucky. He leaned close, sneaking a peek at himself in the silver-framed mirror above the table. “I hear you enjoy kissing,” he uttered in a confidential tone.
Rose fluttered her lashes. “Why, yes, actually, I do.” With the right partner.
Maybe he would be the one.
Although she would prefer a dance—or sitting somewhere alone where she could put her feet up—she allowed him to guide her behind the curtain again. She wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of kissing a virtual stranger, but after three wasted evenings, her patience was dwindling. Wasn’t it silly to spend hours getting to know a gentleman if her lips could rule him out in ten seconds flat?
Nervous, she turned toward the window and pretended to admire the view over Eton. It was a nice view, but apparently Lord Cravenhurst didn’t feel like looking. One arm clamped around her tight, and his mouth descended on hers.
Her fan dropped to the floor. He tasted funny, and his mouth felt slimy. When he tried to snake a hand down her bodice, she gasped and shoved him away. “How dare you!”
He didn’t look at all fazed. “I was told you were a wild one.”
“By whom?” Taking out a handkerchief, she wiped her mouth vigorously, not caring if she offended him.
He shrugged. “It’s all the buzz.”
“Well, the buzz is wrong. A kiss is not an invitation to be manhandled.” She tossed open the curtain. “Now go out there and tell everyone they were mistaken.”
“And reveal that you refused my advances? I think not,” he huffed and stalked away.
She barely had time to catch her breath before another gentleman hurried over. The Earl of Rosslyn, Kit’s friend.
Since they’d already been introduced, he wasted no time on preliminaries. “My lady,” he said with a bow, “I have it on good faith that you particularly enjoy kissing.”
The scoundrel. “You’re married!”
He grinned. “Then you know I have much experience.”
“What I know is that you’re an adulterer.”
“Why should that matter?”
Indeed. Looking around the chamber, one could observe all manner of embracing couples—and Rose had grave doubts that most of them were married. To each other, at least.
And where on earth was her mother? She might as well have come here by herself for all the chaperoning she was receiving.
She scooped her folded fan off the floor, half tempted to bash Rosslyn on the nose with it. “Go away,” she told him instead.
To her vast relief, he did. She aimed a shaky smile at two passing women, but they both pointedly avoided her gaze, whispering behind their fans. And yet another gentleman was headed in her direction.
Her tension eased as she realized it was the Duke of Bridgewater. At
