Rose waited until they were out of earshot to ask, “Who is she?”
“The high and mighty Louise de Kéroualle.”
“The Duchess of Portsmouth?” Another of Charles’s mistresses—this one, Rose knew, not nearly as popular with the people. Of course, that was due to her Catholicism rather than any fault of her personality, which, after all, the populace could hardly be acquainted with.
Nell, on the other hand, had been known to proudly proclaim herself “the Protestant whore.”
“Squintabella is in a snit,” Nell said now, “because she arrived today after a long journey from Bath, but although Charles took dinner with her, he didn’t invite her to stay the night, preferring my bed instead.”
“Squintabella?” Rose echoed weakly, her head spinning with all this delicious court gossip.
“Did you not notice the slight cast in the duchess’s eye? I was here at court before her, and I’ll be here long after she’s gone. She’s managed to send Barbara running across the Channel, but she won’t do away with me so easily.”
“Barbara has left England?” The news was a shock. Barbara was Charles’s longest-standing mistress, having accompanied him home for his Restoration.
“She’s on the outs now, thanks to Louise. Living in Paris. But she’ll return—she always does. And no matter what she’s done, Charles always forgives her.”
“You must find that maddening,” Rose said.
“Hell, no. She’s had him wrapped around her finger for seventeen years. I know better than to expect that to change now.” Nell laughed as she bussed Rose on both cheeks, sang “Good luck, dearie!” and flitted back into the drawing room.
No sooner had she left than Louise came out the door. “Enjoying court, Lady Rose?”
Still reeling, Rose turned to her in surprise. “Very much,” she told the gorgeous woman. Baby-faced with almond-shaped eyes, full red lips, and enough jewelry hanging all over her to stock a small shop, Louise made Rose feel plain in comparison.
But the duchess’s demeanor wasn’t so beautiful. “You’d do best,” she advised haughtily, “not to fraternize with such as she.”
“Could you mean Nell?” Bristling, Rose couldn’t help but notice that small squint Nell had mentioned. “Whyever not? Charles seems to think her good enough.”
“I cannot credit that he’s taken with such a coarse, common orange wench.” As a young girl, before she’d stepped on stage at the Theatre Royal, Nell had been employed there selling oranges. “She calls him her Charles the Third, you know.”
Rose could feel jealous venom spewing from this bitter woman. “Charles the Third?”
“Her earlier lovers included Charles Hart—a common actor—who then passed her to Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. She called him her Charles the Second, and now the king has become Charles the Third.”
Rose’s lips twitched.
“It’s not amusing,” Louise said with a sniff. “His Majesty deserves respect—not least from one such as her.”
Louise de Kéroualle, daughter of a Breton family of ancient and distinguished lineage, quite obviously considered herself much above Nell Gwyn. But Rose couldn’t help liking the “coarse orange wench” better. Louise was rumored to be a French spy, which Rose suddenly had little difficulty believing.
Pretty is as pretty does, her mother had always told her three girls. Rose was imagining Louise’s lovely face transforming into that of a hag when Gabriel appeared and laid a hand on her arm.
“Did you not promise me the next dance?” he asked, although she hadn’t. Before Rose could answer, he nodded toward Louise. “Your grace.”
The pale beauty nodded back, a smile curving those blood-red lips. “Your grace,” she echoed, her voice as sweet and smooth as honey.
The woman, Rose realized, was a natural-born predator. Although she knew tongues would wag when the duke led her off toward the dance floor yet again, she went more than willingly.
As she took her place across from him, her heart pounded with the thrill of it all. She’d always said it was as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, and the Duke of Bridgewater certainly had a title worth falling for.
The dance was a branle, and all the running, gliding, and skipping rendered her breathless. Or maybe it was the duke…she couldn’t be sure. She only knew that when he took her by the arm and drew her toward an exterior door, her heart gave a little lurch.
“We shouldn’t—” she started.
“Whyever not?” His smile looked innocent enough. “Aren’t you heated after that dance? I certainly feel overwarm…” One pale, arched brow rose, and his tone implied the heat resulted from more than just exertion.
Well, she shouldn’t refuse him, should she? After all, it was only a walk outside. She glanced toward her mother, but Chrystabel was engaged in conversation across the room. The men at court had wicked reputations, but if Mum were concerned, surely she’d be watching more closely.
In any case, it hardly mattered, since while Rose was dithering, the duke had managed to steer her from the room.
She’d never liked the dark, so she was relieved to see a few torches. It was a mild evening, but no one else seemed to be outdoors enjoying the favorable weather. “Should we be out here?” she asked nervously.
“It’s open to the public. Charles expanded this terrace recently, and he’s invited the townspeople to enjoy the views. Enormous as it is, it’s crowded as hell in the daytime.”
She’d bet it was—and for some reason, she found herself wishing all those people were here now. But when the duke took her hand and began walking, her fleeting unease was replaced by a sense of wonder. Her first time at court—how amazing that she should find such a perfect man so quickly! She should have come to court years earlier.
“How long have you been here at Windsor?” he asked.
“We just arrived today.”
“I guessed as much—or I would surely have spotted you before now.”
They fell quiet as Gabriel guided her toward the edge of the terrace and stopped by the rail. This castle, like most, was built on high land, and the terrace afforded magnificent views. Beneath the castle wall,
