What was it she was supposed to be concentrating on, again?
Kiss, her muddled mind reminded her. How…
Mmm. Was he more gentle? Not really—and not at all once he’d gathered her into his arms, pulling her closer to deepen the kiss. Was he more skilled? She had to think so, but she couldn’t seem to discern how. Did he taste different? Well, certainly. He tasted like Kit.
She felt his heart beating, and then she couldn’t think any longer. She could only feel. She shifted so that her own heartbeat was next to his. They were beating in tandem. A perfect moment.
A thing of beauty.
When he broke the kiss, she tugged him back for another. He obliged her briefly before drawing away with a laugh. “So I’m different, am I?”
“Somehow.” She sighed. “But I cannot figure out the difference. It makes no sense. I don’t even like kissing!”
“Oh, I think you do.”
“Only with you—so far.” He kissed her neck now, and she liked that, too. Little damp kisses she should have loathed, but she didn’t. Instead, she shivered with delight. “What’s your secret?”
“Maybe,” he murmured, his lips warm against her throat, “the secret is that we belong together.”
“No.” It couldn’t be. She couldn’t belong with a commoner. Kit was her friend, and she liked kissing him, and that was all. “I think not.”
“No?” He raised his head to meet her gaze. But then the intensity in his eyes suddenly dissipated. He adopted a lazy smile. “Shall I kiss you again to prove it?”
“Oh, Kit,” she scolded, half grumble, half sigh. She wondered what he’d almost said before he’d changed his mind.
He pressed a warm, clinging kiss to her mouth. “Hmm?”
“I think we should go back.” She didn’t want to go back, but she had to. This wasn’t where she belonged. “Please, take me back. I don’t think this is right. I mean…we aren’t right.”
It was a long, heart-stopping moment before he drew away. Then he took her hand and started down the path. She didn’t pull her hand from his. She knew she should. But she didn’t.
“I think we are right,” he said after a while. “And I think that in time you’ll agree.”
It was a good thing he was just a friend, because she feared she might agree already.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“LADY TRENTINGHAM?”
Chrystabel turned to the Duke of Bridgewater and took note of his troubled expression. “Yes, your grace?”
“I thought I should let you know your daughter is missing.”
“Oh?” Poor young man, he really seemed to care. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“She went off more than an hour ago. I was hoping she’d return within a reasonable time, so I’d have no need to alarm you—”
“Did she go off with Kit Martyn?” Feeling sorry for him, she laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Martyn is a friend of the family. I asked him to escort her.”
“Back to your apartments?” When she didn’t answer, he apparently took that for an affirmative. “She did say she felt peaked. Will she be returning later this evening?”
“I’m not certain,” Chrystabel said slowly, feeling a twinge of guilt for misleading him.
But she hadn’t really lied, had she? She’d merely allowed him to jump to a conclusion. He truly did seem concerned. A pity he was all wrong for Rose—too dull and unchallenging.
Although her daughter would make her own decision, Chrystabel had no doubt that, with her subtle help, in the end Rose would choose the right husband.
Bridgewater suddenly frowned. “It seems that, besides Lady Rose, a number of other ladies have gone missing.”
Chrystabel looked around, surprised to find he was right. There were noticeably fewer women than earlier. The abandoned gentlemen shifted restlessly, standing in little groups and talking about God knew what.
“Do you expect they’re all feeling peaked?” Bridgewater asked. “Perhaps the prawns were bad.”
“You men ate prawns, too, did you not?” Dull, just as she’d thought. But his heart was in the right place. Looking over to her right, she brightened. “Oh, here comes Rose now.”
Her daughter’s step was lighter, her cheeks pinkened from the fresh night air—and perhaps a tender moment with Kit.
Chrystabel could only hope.
Bridgewater swept Rose a bow. “We missed you, my lady.”
“Did you?” she murmured distractedly.
Chrystabel took that as a good sign. If Rose was failing to flirt with a duke, she must have someone else on her mind.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.
“I…um…not really, I’m afraid. I…I just returned for my cloak.”
“You’re wearing a cloak,” he pointed out.
“Oh.” She blinked. “I borrowed this one.” She unfastened the gray wool garment and shrugged it off, handing it to Chrystabel. “Will you both excuse me?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE ATTIRING room was so crowded, Rose had to edge her way inside.
“Marry come up!” a lady was saying. “Will you look at this? And this”—there was a pause during which Rose heard pages flipping—“how would this even work?”
“Very well, I can assure you,” another lady said smugly.
Amid laughter, Rose worked herself toward the center. And then froze. Eleven—no, twelve—courtiers were huddled over Ellen’s book.
She was beginning to back away when one of them glanced up. “Lady Rose! Could this book be yours?”
“Mine?”
The pimply, black-haired Lady W held up Rose’s purple cloak. “We found it under this. It’s yours, isn’t it?”
“The cloak, yes. But the book…” Oh, dash it—she couldn’t leave it here, so there was no sense in lying. “It belongs to a friend,” she said, holding her head high. After all, given the behavior these women exhibited here at court, they were hardly apt to condemn her for possessing such a book.
“A friend? Wherever did he find it?”
“She,” Rose corrected. “And why? Have you heard of this book?”
“Heard of it?” a plump brunette said. “Why, I Sonetti Lussuriosi is known far and wide.” She pronounced the Italian words with a dreadful English accent. “It was suppressed by the Vatican in the last century; didn’t you
