“Undoubtedly so, since I’m the only one left,” Rose quipped. “Unless, that is, Rowan manages to find himself a bride before I find a groom.”
Their ten-year-old brother stood nearby with Violet’s young niece, Jewel, their dark heads close together in whispered consultation.
“He may have found himself a bride already,” Rose added dryly.
Lily’s giggle pealed through the chapel, bouncing around the molded dome ceiling. “Surely someone will claim you long before Rowan gets it in his head to wed. Why, you’re the prettiest of us all!”
Rose shrugged. She’d always thought Lily the most pretty. Still, she wasn’t about to turn down a compliment. Not today.
Besides, it took more than beauty, she’d learned, to land a good husband.
Well-wishers pressed closer. Rose began moving toward the drawing room and found Judith by her side. Forsaking her betrothed, Judith clutched Rose’s arm. “Who is that charming fellow?” she whispered conspiratorially.
Rose cast a glance at the fellow in question. His gaze met hers, then skimmed her from head to toe in a way that might have made her heart skitter…if she were at all interested. “That’s Mr. Christopher Martyn, a friend of Rand’s—Rand calls him Kit. He’s an architect,” she added curtly.
Judith frowned. “The name sounds familiar…”
“King Charles recently awarded him a contract to renovate Whitehall Palace,” Rose admitted. “Among other commissions.” She happened to know that Windsor Castle and Hampton Court were also on Kit’s account books. But she didn’t want Judith to get the wrong idea. That he was someone important.
But Judith’s blue eyes grew round with admiration. “He must be of great consequence to work for the king. And intelligent, too—no need to play the featherbrained country maiden for him.”
“Don’t be a goose,” Rose retorted. “I’ve no interest in playing anything for him. And I’ve never acted featherbrained.”
But perhaps now was the time to start. Her recent efforts to entice a certain gentleman—very well, to entice Rand—through intellectual conversation had failed. Hideously. So hideously that the object of her affection was at this very moment wed to her sister. What could be more hideous than that?
“You cannot tell me,” Judith whispered, “that you don’t think Mr. Martyn good-looking.”
Dressed in forest-toned velvet, Kit Martyn was tall and lean, his hair dark as jet, his eyes a startling mix of brown and green. She shrugged. “I suppose he’s handsome in a typical sort of way.”
Judith sighed. “He looks ever so nice. Do you think he’s nice?”
“He’s nice enough.” Except for those unusual eyes, which were decidedly not nice. They held a spark of something Rose couldn’t quite name.
“And good heavens, he’s building things for the king! I’m certain he has money—”
“Money,” Rose interrupted pointedly, “does not make up for lack of a title.”
Her sister Violet joined them, sans children for once. “Who needs a title?”
Judith crossed her arms. “Lady Rose apparently wishes to become Lady Something-Higher.”
“Oh, well.” Violet sent Rose an indulgent smile. “That’s only because she has yet to fall in love.”
Rose returned the smile, her lips feeling taut. “Given that it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, I’ve decided to concentrate on the former.”
Violet and Judith exchanged a glance that set Rose’s teeth on edge, then left her to return to their respective—titled—men.
Since Lily had given their mother barely two weeks to plan the event, the wedding party was small. Still, there were more than enough guests to fill the drawing room and spill out onto the Palladian portico and into the exquisite gardens. Trentingham Manor was known for its gardens, thanks to Rose’s father and his passion for flowers and plants.
But it was a sunny day, and Rose feared for her creamy complexion, so she opted to stay indoors. She wandered the crowded drawing room, sipping from a goblet of the new and frightfully expensive champagne her parents favored for special celebrations. Although she enjoyed sharing a word or two with various relatives and neighbors, she was feeling rather at loose ends, not quite sure what to do with herself.
Noticing her father, she approached at once, glad of a comforting face—until she realized who he was talking to. “…one of those newfangled greenhouses,” Father was saying. “On the east side of the house, I’m thinking, to catch the morning sun. Since autumn is nearly upon us, I’d be much obliged if you could start it immediately.”
Rose made an indignant noise. This was the second time Father had pressed Mr. Martyn, architect to the king himself, to build a silly greenhouse!
She wished she could ball up the lacy handkerchief tucked in her sleeve and stuff it into her father’s mouth. “Mr. Martyn works for royalty, Father! He builds palaces, for heaven’s sake. He’s far too—”
“Well, not quite palaces,” the gentleman corrected her. “Renovations to palaces, additions to palaces, but I’ve yet to build an entire—”
“See?” Rose met her father’s green eyes, speaking loudly and slowly to make sure he could hear her over the hubbub of the celebration. “Palaces. He hasn’t the time to build you a greenhouse.”
Mr. Martyn sipped from his own goblet of champagne, then grinned at Rose’s father. “Oh, I think I might find the time,” he argued, his words infused with a hint of laughter. “In exchange for a dance with your lovely daughter.”
A pointed look at Rose made it clear which daughter he meant.
Lord Trentingham frowned. “My chubby doctor?”
Mr. Martyn looked confused, and Rose knew she should remind him that her father was hard of hearing at the best of times—and in a crowded room, he was all but deaf.
But she couldn’t seem to speak. The impertinence—that he meant to barter for her company! Surely her father would never—
“I’ll be most pleased to build your greenhouse,” Mr. Martyn reiterated a bit louder, “if your lovely daughter will grant me a dance.”
“Plant what in grass?”
Understanding dawned in the young man’s eyes. “A dance!” he shouted. “May I have the honor
