Apparently Rosslyn wasn’t feeling competitive, Kit thought with some relief. He grinned and held out a hand. “Well, then, for the sake of the kingdom, may the best man win.”
Rosslyn’s grip had always been of the limp variety, and this occasion was no exception. Kit knew he was the best man.
Now he just had to prove it.
EIGHT
AS THE EVENING wore on, Gabriel sought out Rose for a second dance and then a third. “People will talk,” she told him as he guided her toward the dance floor once again.
“Do you care?” he asked.
“Not at all, your grace.” Rose’s attention was drawn by a spectacle that was already becoming familiar: King Charles crossing the chamber followed by a bevy of yipping spaniels. Amused, she smiled as she saw him stop before a short woman and slide an arm around her possessively. “Who is that?” she asked.
The duke barely spared the couple a glance. “Have you never met Nell Gwyn?”
“Is that Nell Gwyn? Gemini!” Rose knew of the woman, of course; she doubted there was a soul in England who hadn’t heard of the brothel-born actress who’d stolen His Majesty’s heart. But she’d expected Nell to be exquisite.
Although the woman enthusiastically kissing Charles was pretty, Rose wouldn’t call her beautiful. Her small body was lushly curvy, her hair a riot of red-brown curls. Rose’s eyes widened as Charles worked his mistress toward a chair and tumbled her onto his lap. Over the music, Nell’s delighted laughter mixed with the ever-present yaps of the king’s dogs.
“I had no idea she was allowed at court,” Rose mused. “Has Charles granted her a title?”
“Of course not.” Gabriel maneuvered her around to where she couldn’t stare. “But Charles made their young son the Earl of Burford, and Nell herself was appointed Lady of the Queen’s Bedchamber these two years past.”
Rose blinked. “And what does our dear queen think of that?”
“I don’t expect our dear queen was given a say in the matter.” The duke raised a brow as he looked down at her. “Wives usually aren’t.”
“Not all wives,” she said archly. “I’ll have you know my family’s motto is Interroga Conformationem.”
“Question Convention?” he translated, looking amused.
Rose smiled, pleased. On top of everything else wonderful about him, the man knew Latin.
After a few more dances with men who failed to measure up to the duke, Rose sneaked off toward the ladies’ attiring room, hoping for a rest. As she approached the small chamber, Nell Gwyn’s distinctive laughter drifted out. “Aye, my ladies, the tale is true.”
“Tell us,” a feminine voice demanded.
“Yes, do tell!” came a veritable chorus.
Wondering just how many ladies were crowded into the attiring room, Rose stopped outside the door and listened.
“I took His Majesty to a bawdy house,” Nell confided, “and encouraged him to run up a bill treating everyone to drink. Incognito, of course—it wasn’t the type of place his cronies frequent, you understand.” That was met with titters of laughter. “By and by, I took him up to a room and got him undressed—then I ran away with his clothes.”
“You’re a bold one, Nelly Gywn,” someone chortled out. “What happened after that?”
“Well, the brothel owner didn’t believe this man wrapped in a sheet was her sovereign—you cannot blame the poor fool, can you? He carried no money, so to pay his debt and for something to wear, he offered an emerald ring as security. It was all he had on him, you see.”
“And fair enough,” a lady pointed out.
“Well, the proprietor refused, claiming it was paste for certain. Our dear king nearly burst a vessel, he did, when fortunately someone recognized him and convinced the owner as to his identity. So all was well.”
“He must have been furious,” someone breathed.
“You don’t know my Charles,” Nell declared. “Once it was over, he thought it a fine jest indeed!”
Hoots of laughter greeted Rose when she stepped into the room. “Good evening, ladies.”
Her smile faded as the chamber fell silent and, one by one, the women shouldered their way past her and out the door.
Finally only Nell was left. She shrugged and made her way to Rose. “Don’t pay them no mind, milady.” Like a man, she held out a hand. “I’m Eleanor Gywn, Nell to my friends.”
“I know.” Nell’s hand felt small and warm for the moment Rose held it. “I’m Rose Ashcroft.”
“Lady Rose Ashcroft, I’ve been told.” Nell’s twinkling eyes almost closed when she smiled. “They’re only jealous of your beauty. And afraid you’ll steal their men.”
“Gemini!” Rose exclaimed. “Most of them are married!”
“Ah, a babe in the woods.” Nell gave a kindly sigh. “Here at court, that makes no difference. The women consider all male courtiers fair game, and the men hunt amongst the women just as freely. Fidelity went out with Cromwell,” she concluded, then wiped her tongue and spit, having uttered the hated name.
Rose slanted her an assessing glance. “You don’t seem to worry that I’ll help myself to a courtier or two.”
Nell’s infectious laughter poured forth. “Bloody hell, sweetheart, what do I need with the pompous fools? I bed with the king. It doesn’t get any better than that!”
Rose wondered if by better Nell meant that he was a great lover. Or was it a simple reference to Charles’s exalted status?
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when another lady barged in, her milk-white complexion mottled with angry red. Giving Nell a glare that said she wished her dead, she plopped onto a green baize bench with her back to them both, her dark ringlets shaking with barely controlled fury.
Nell snorted, then sailed out the door with Rose in tow. “Don’t pay no
