“The second dance, then,” he said, rising from his throne. He held out a hand to Catharine, and she rose as well and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor, the gems on her exquisite lavender gown twinkling as she moved.
The incessant chatter in the room ceased as everyone turned to watch the king and queen dance the first dance. Rose drifted to join the small crowd that ringed the dance floor, hugging herself with excitement. After the king danced with her, surely other gentlemen would want to do the same. Maybe one of them would end up her husband.
In fact, before the first dance even ended, she felt a light tap on her shoulder. The hand’s owner was tall, fair, and handsome, his attire dripping with lace, his manner oozing aristocracy.
He struck a pose, one hand resting lightly on the jeweled hilt of his court sword, the other on the head of his high, beribboned walking stick. “Lady Trentingham, may I have the honor of an introduction?”
Though the stranger seemed near in age to Rose, she wasn’t surprised he was an acquaintance of her mother’s. The woman made friends with everybody—young or old, rich or poor, male or female. Mum probably had more friends than Father had flowers.
She laid a hand on Rose’s arm. “Lord Rosslyn, may I present my daughter, Lady Rose Ashcroft? Rose, this is the Earl of Rosslyn.”
“It’s a pleasure,” the earl murmured, lifting Rose’s hand to his lips. “I hope you and I shall—”
“And may we offer our congratulations, my lord?” Mum went on pleasantly, as if he hadn’t spoken. Her smile showed all her teeth. “You must be delighted with your new bride.”
Lord Rosslyn didn’t bat an eye, or even drop Rose’s hand. “Indeed, my lady.” He inclined his head toward the left, where Rose saw a young woman entwined with a man wearing a bright pink suit. “We are perfectly compatible.”
I’ll say, Rose thought, half tempted to bash him over the head with his own walking stick. But she’d only just managed to extricate her hand when King Charles appeared by her side and bowed. “My lady?”
Rosslyn’s eyes widened, making Rose feel rather smug as she joined the king on the dance floor.
It was a country dance, performed in two lines, one of women, one of men. When it was her turn to parade down the center with Charles, their joined hands held high, Rose felt the eyes of the entire chamber on her.
The king’s eyes were on her as well. Dark and glinting, they captured hers quite effectively. The fabled Stuart charm. “It’s a pleasure to have a new face at court, my lady. Especially one as lovely as yours.” Charles danced superbly, quite graceful for so tall a man. His voice was just as smooth. “Why have you never graced us with your presence before?”
She blushed once again—becomingly, she hoped. “My father thought me too young.”
“Young?” he echoed, sounding puzzled.
And then they had to return to their respective lines.
As she executed the simple steps, she furtively surveyed the throng. There were ladies of her mother’s age, certainly, but there were also girls of fifteen and sixteen. Or perhaps she should term them women, since they hung on the arms of grown men, flirting madly and more.
Clearly, she wasn’t too young.
The next time she met up with the king to parade down the center, she had a more plausible reason. “I’ve come to court to find a husband, Sire.”
“Ah.” His dark eyes glittered speculatively. “Interesting choice of word, my lady. Husbands we have, although many are already wed.” He smiled at his own jest. “Take me, for example—”
“I won’t be,” she interrupted archly.
Though she immediately worried that he might take offense, he only laughed. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he conceded good-naturedly.
Among this social circle filled with promiscuous spouses, her parents were known as extraordinarily devoted.
When the dance came to an end, the king raised her hand, pressing warm lips to the back. “It was a pleasure, my lady. I wish you every success here at court.”
For a moment, while he still held her hand, Rose found herself suffused with wonder. Here she was, in the King’s Drawing Room at Windsor Castle, with none other than Charles himself. A night like this could go to a girl’s head, she thought giddily.
Then he led her from the dance floor, and she watched him head straight to a girl of no more than seventeen and kiss her soundly on the lips. Rose couldn’t help but notice his queen was studiously gazing elsewhere, resignation etched on her small, foreign-looking face.
Apparently all was not lightness and fun here at Windsor Castle.
But this was Rose’s first evening at court, not a night to shoulder the worries of the world. She looked away, determined to enjoy the spectacle that was the royal court. Courtiers wore every color of the rainbow. Great lords swaggered about impressively while elegant ladies fluttered delicate painted fans.
“May I claim the pleasure of a dance?”
Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome gentleman. “I’d be delighted, my lord…?”
“Bridgewater. The Duke of Bridgewater,” he clarified with a warm smile and a smart bow.
Rose was pleased to see he wasn’t carrying one of those foppish ribbon-topped walking sticks. And he was a duke! Not only a duke, but a youngish duke—of an age, Rose guessed, below thirty.
Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old coots.
As he swept her into the dance, her heart skittered with excitement. Already she was dancing with exactly the sort of man she’d come here hoping to meet.
“My given name is Gabriel, and my family name is Fox,” he informed her quite pleasantly. “You’re Trentingham’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Rose Ashcroft,” she said, gazing up at him—for he was tall. Tall enough to make her feel nearly as petite as her sister Lily. Her gaze skimmed from the top of his very-English blond head, past blue eyes, and down a patrician nose to his smiling
