He didn’t look sorry, and she didn’t know. If he’d touched a nerve, maybe that said more about her than it did him.
“Why do you kiss me, Rose?” he asked softly.
Realizing she definitely had more to think about than just the Duke of Bridgewater, she took a ragged breath. “You’re good at kissing.”
The tension eased from his face, and his sudden grin flashed white in the night. “I like a girl who says what she thinks.”
His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, slowly. She held her breath until he locked his fingers with hers.
“You’re rather good at kissing, too,” he said conversationally. When he drew on both her hands, she didn’t have to sway forward. But she did. His eyes watched her intently, so intense she’d swear she saw glints of green even in the darkness. “My forthright Rose,” he whispered right before his mouth touched hers.
And it was magic. Those lips were pure, stomach-fluttering, senses-swirling magic. Nothing and no one else would ever make her feel this way. How could they? They weren’t Kit.
It hadn’t been her imagination: their mouths fit perfectly. “A thing of beauty,” she breathed aloud against his lips.
“Oh, yes,” he said, moving to press little kisses to her cheeks, the tip of her nose, across her temples. His warm breath on her ear made her shiver. “I don’t remember you wearing earrings,” he murmured.
“They were a gift from Gabriel.” Absently she touched the ruby and pearl bob on the opposite lobe.
“Gabriel? The angel?”
“The duke. Bridgewater.” She could melt, she thought as his lips moved to her neck. She could melt right here.
“The fellow has taste,” he said dryly. “I’ll give him that.”
“I chose them.”
“I should have known.” His low chuckle vibrated against her throat. She’d never dreamed the skin there was so sensitive. Her hands skimmed over his back, hard planes with ridges of muscle. The body of a working man. She hadn’t really touched Gabriel, but somehow she knew he’d be soft.
A sudden impulse made her bury her fingers in his hair and drag his lips back to hers.
Kit groaned and pulled away, closing his eyes momentarily. Before they opened, he thrust his hands in his pockets. “We must go back inside.”
She blinked at him, disoriented and hurt. “Didn’t you like that?”
“I liked it too much.” He moved closer to kiss her softly, apologetically…and briefly. Too briefly. His hands stayed out of sight. “You have no idea what you do to me, Rose.”
She did have an idea, because he did it to her, too.
THIRTY-THREE
ROSE AND KIT returned to the house to find Mum and Ellen laughing, a smudge of flour on Ellen’s nose.
Kit stayed just long enough to down two servings of the apple fritters they’d prepared. Just long enough to lock gazes several times with Rose. Just long enough to surreptitiously touch her a few times beneath the table.
The apple fritters were sweet and crispy, spiced with nutmeg, mace, and cinnamon. Yet Rose could hardly eat a bite. These were not typical interactions between friends.
But she didn’t want anything more with Kit. Did she?
“That was delicious,” he said at last, rising from the table. “Ellen, you can make apple fritters for me anytime. But I must leave. I’ll need to start out for Windsor very early in the morning, and I must get some sleep.”
“I know.” Ellen’s earlier gaiety disappeared as she and Rose walked him from the dining room to the door. “You’ll be back soon?”
“Day after tomorrow.” He stopped to kiss her on the forehead. “Be good, will you? In the meantime, I expect you to spend a lot of my money at the dressmaker’s. I trust that will give you some measure of revenge.”
Ellen just gave him a wan smile as he headed out the door, then sighed when his carriage rolled out of the square. “I hate it when he’s nice. It almost makes me forget that I loathe him.”
“You don’t,” Rose said gently.
“Not really. I’m just…very angry with him right now. He shouldn’t have the right to dictate my life.”
“But he does.”
“But he shouldn’t. And it makes me sad to be at odds with him, because I know he cares underneath.”
“Underneath? He cares every way that matters, Ellen—any fool could see it.” Just like he cared for her, Rose…any fool could see that, too. And Rose feared she was denying it much the same as Ellen.
“Whose side are you on?” Ellen asked. “I thought we were friends. You promised to intervene on my behalf.”
“I did. Out in the square we talked of little but you and your situation.” It wasn’t quite a lie—they hadn’t talked about much else. “He doesn’t want to listen. But I’d lay odds he listens other times, your brother. He wants only what’s best for you. What he thinks is best for you.”
“I know.” Ellen released another sigh, looking very pale.
Rose remembered Kit’s concern for the girl’s state of mind. “Shall we go find my mother?” she asked, thinking of how cheerful Ellen had appeared back in the kitchen. Mum was far more adept than Rose at raising people’s spirits.
Ellen shrugged as if she didn’t really care, and allowed her friend to lead her toward the stairs. “Have you made any progress on the translation?”
“Not really,” Rose answered guiltily. “Mum and I lived in close quarters at Windsor, and since we’ve arrived here I’ve been getting fitted for new gowns and catching up on my sleep. Unlike your brother, I’m afraid I’m only human.”
Actually, she’d finished translating several more of the verses—with a handkerchief covering the engravings, as she couldn’t seem to concentrate with those lurid poses exposed. Though undoubtedly explicit, the poems had struck her as more romantic than shocking. But then, she had nineteen years, the Master-piece’s knowledge, and a married sister who’d never shied away from frank discussion—whereas Ellen was only sixteen and a complete innocent. While Rose wouldn’t hesitate to furnish the worldly court
