“I expect he’d be puking all over me.”
He gulped and swallowed. “What?”
“The duke gets seasick.”
“Ah.” She heard laughter in his voice. “Good thing you chose me instead.”
“Good thing,” she sighed in agreement.
Violin music drifted in from the deck, and the boat rocked gently as it made its way downriver. She relaxed against him again, just breathing, existing, enjoying the closeness as he munched cheese and bread and sipped wine.
She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, a bump startled her awake. “Gemini, we’re here.” She jumped off Kit’s lap and reached for her stomacher as a knock came at the door.
“Mr. Martyn?”
“One moment,” he called, gently covering her fumbling fingers. He moved them aside and went to work reattaching her tabs. “Careful of your dress; you’ll want to wear it to the queen’s ball.” When he’d finished, he swung her up into his arms and began carrying her off the barge.
“Kit!” She laughed, thinking she was much too tall for this. This wasn’t just a few feet like in the maze. And there were people watching. “You’ll hurt yourself. Put me down.”
“I think not.” They had docked right beside his house—their house—and he walked around to the front. “I’ve been told I should carry you over the threshold. Else we could have bad luck.”
“Only if I trip.”
“Well, this way you won’t trip, will you?” The wind whipped her skirts, all but blowing them up the portico’s steps. “I’m ensuring our future,” he informed her as the front door swung open and he carried her inside.
Holding the door grandly, Graves grinned at them both.
“Put me down,” Rose said, feeling windblown and silly.
“Not a chance.” Kit continued up the stairs. “We’ve one more threshold before we’re safe.”
He crossed that one—their bedchamber—before he set her on her feet.
“I feared for your heart,” she said and kissed him.
But he didn’t even seem winded. “You weigh nothing,” he assured her, and she supposed she didn’t—at least compared to big beams. She licked her lips, appreciating the way his shoulders filled out his exquisite surcoat. How could she have wanted an idle aristocrat when a working fellow like Kit had muscles that made a girl’s hands itch to run all over him?
By the fireplace a small round table sat between two chairs, its polished surface covered with dishes of fruit, a pile of cakes, and bowls of whipped cream and strawberry sauce. Kit dipped an orange slice in both and slipped it between her lips. “Dessert,” he said with a smile.
The combination was tart and sweet, but she still wasn’t hungry. “I’d rather have a kiss,” she told him archly.
He obliged her, thoroughly, so thoroughly her knees felt weak when he finally drew back and turned her around to face a low chest of drawers.
She blinked and focused. “There it is!” she cried, spotting a square of white underneath it. “The letter!”
“The letter?” he said from behind her.
“The note I left for you, explaining about Ellen. It must have fallen off the washstand and somehow wound up under there.”
“I don’t care about the letter.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Look up.”
And there, on the oak-paneled wall, was an oval gilt-framed painting.
Of her.
The Rose on the canvas was the same one he’d sketched that first day they’d spent together, her lips curved gently, her eyes holding secrets. “I drew a hundred pictures of you,” he said softly, “but I always came back to this one.”
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, staring. She imagined him painting it, his brush stroking lovingly while she worried needlessly that his devotion might have been a lie. Her heart squeezed in her chest. “A thing of beauty.”
“It ought to be,” he said in her ear, then turned her back around to face him. “Just look at its subject.”
When he gathered her close, she melted in her husband’s arms.
SEVENTY-FIVE
“LOOK AT ALL the people crowding the balconies!” Rose exclaimed.
Everyone who was anyone seemed to be at the queen’s birthday celebration. Musicians played at the far end of the chamber while courtiers danced, all dressed in their finest and wearing every jewel they could lay their hands on. From the upper level, more aristocrats and dignitaries looked on.
Kit watched Rose’s gaze sweep the classical white and gold room and the stunning ceiling painted by Sir Peter Paul Rubens. “Gemini,” she said, “this must be the most beautiful building in all of England.”
“More beautiful than mine?” he teased, enjoying her reaction to Whitehall’s Banqueting House. In truth, he only hoped to build something as magnificent as Inigo Jones’s masterpiece someday. While Rose would be happy here for hours, he couldn’t wait to leave and begin their journey to the Continent, where he’d finally get the chance to study the architecture that had inspired Jones.
And yet, this appearance was somewhat of a triumph for him, too. “Shall we dance?” he asked and guided his new wife into the throng. And there he was, plain Mr. Christopher Martyn, dancing at Queen Catharine’s birthday ball.
Rose was a masterpiece herself, tall and slender and his. He could still hardly believe he’d won her.
When Nell Gwyn waved at her and winked, she grinned back. “Imagine,” she mused. “Nell was born in a bawdy house and ended up the mother of one of the king’s sons.”
“Very like me.” Kit whirled her around. “I was born in a cottage and ended up wed to an earl’s daughter.”
He’d meant it humorously, but it seemed she was in a reflective mood tonight. “It’s odd, don’t you think, the way people crave the opposite of what they have? Nell makes Charles happy because her house is his home. A regular home, and a real life when he’s with her. She throws parties where he’s a guest, not a king. None of his other mistresses do that for him. They take what he has to offer without giving back in return.”
Delighted, Kit gave her a quick kiss, right there in front of the king and queen and
