“May I claim the pleasure of a dance?”
Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome man. “Absolutely, 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, not above thirty.
Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old men of forty or more.
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 mouth, each detail making her even happier.
He was perfect!
She was certain she was falling in love already.
“My dear Rose—may I call you Rose?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction.”
He was not only a duke, but a gentleman as well.
She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. “To be sure, your grace.” Imagine being called your grace—her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. “My mother brought me here to meet gentlemen like you.” Men exactly like you, she revised silently, thrilled to have the attention of such a great catch.
And she did have his attention. His hands gripped hers a little tighter than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary—his rapt attention made a little thrill run through her.
Court was wonderful. Even while dancing with Gabriel—for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn’t help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeoman, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.
That observation prompted her to check out Gabriel’s jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swinging a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds, and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.
Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!
When the dance came to an end, Rose felt deflated. One never danced with the same man two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.
No sooner had he straightened than another man rushed over and begged the honor of a dance. And after that, another. And another and another until the evening grew late and the men all blended in her head.
Marquesses and earls and barons, light-haired and dark-haired and handsome and plain, short and tall and in between. She gave each and every one of them a fair appraisal.
Truly, she did.
But she knew—she just knew—that none of them was as perfect for her as the absolutely perfect Duke of Bridgewater.
SEVEN
KIT WALKED briskly through the dark castle grounds toward Sir Christopher Wren’s apartments—the official apartments of the Surveyor General, apartments he hoped to own for himself someday. Not that he’d actually live there. He’d just put the finishing touches on his brand new house here in Windsor, situated on an enviable plot of land on the banks of the River Thames.
In fact, his sister, Ellen, was waiting for him there now. At least, he hoped she was waiting for him. She’d declared herself in love with a completely unsuitable man—a pawnbroker, for heaven’s sake—and he feared she might be off at his damned pawnshop.
Ellen never had been the type to pay heed to his brotherly concerns.
Arriving at his destination, he knocked twice on the old oak door and waited for Wren’s secretary to admit him. He was slightly startled when Wren himself answered, dressed in shirtsleeves. He’d obviously been working. He wore no periwig, and his long, dark hair was a mite disheveled, as though he’d been raking his hands through it.
Wren didn’t reside in the official Surveyor General’s apartments either, but instead used the rooms as office space. Like Kit, Wren had recently built an impressive house for himself in town. But as the Dean of Windsor’s son, he’d been raised right here in the castle deanery, a playmate of the young Prince of Wales—now King Charles—and he and his monarch were still intimates. Kit was hoping their long-standing relationship would mean Wren could convince the king that Kit was the right man for the Deputy Surveyor post.
But the look on Wren’s face wasn’t reassuring.
“This new development does not bode well,” Wren said without preamble, motioning Kit inside. Perching one hip on a large drafting table strewn with copious drawings, he waved Kit toward a chair.
Like Charles, Wren was two decades Kit’s senior. But Kit had known him for years, ever since he’d found himself Wren’s student at Oxford. Professor and pupil had grown close, and although Kit knew Wren was also acquainted with his rival for the position, he knew as well that Wren had never held the man
