“I’m no courtier,” he rushed to assure her. He waved an arm, encompassing the half-finished chamber. “I’m only the hired help.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She smoothed down her skirt. “Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who is a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I persuade you to accompany me in my search?”
TEN
AS ROSE AND Gabriel walked, she found herself mentally bouncing back and forth between trying to be her most charming and marveling that the Duke of Bridgewater was choosing to spend so much time with her. As a result, she feared their conversation had been a bit stilted.
But that was only to be expected, wasn’t it? After all, they hardly knew each other. Still, her family had always been rather vocal, discussing anything and everything with great enthusiasm, so the awkward silences made her uncomfortable.
“What do you think,” she asked after a particularly long gap in their dialogue, “of the maritime agreement we’ve just signed with France?”
“Maritime agreement?” The duke’s perfect brow creased in puzzlement.
Did people not discuss these matters at court? Didn’t he read The London Gazette? She plucked a yellow bloom off a potted hollyhock plant. “English ships will now be permitted to carry Dutch cargoes without fear of French interference.”
A little chuckle burst from his lips. “What would a woman know about that?”
She forced a laugh in return. “Oh, just something I heard,” she said and cursed herself silently.
Though she wasn’t a student of history or prone to philosophical musings, she’d always been interested in what currently went on in the world. But how could she have forgotten her own rule to dazzle men without revealing her intelligence?
She sniffed the flower daintily. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what the agreement might mean to us here in England.” When he gave her a blank look, she worried that he might no longer like her. “The significance of such an action escapes me,” she lied in a desperate effort to redeem herself.
“That’s quite all right, my dear.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
Did he still like her, then? she wondered.
But then he drew her between a turret and a potted tree, and she knew.
He still liked her.
In fact, he was going to kiss her.
She could tell when a man was aiming to kiss her. After all, it had happened before. In truth, she’d lost count of the number of men who’d contrived to press their lips to hers. She supposed it wasn’t surprising, given she was comely and not nearly as proper as her sisters. And they were only kisses, for heaven’s sake—it wasn’t as though she allowed men to take further liberties.
So she’d been kissed before, and she knew what to expect. But she had a sad secret.
She didn’t much care for kissing.
“Gabriel,” she whispered when he turned her to face him. “May I call you Gabriel?”
“But of course, sweet Rose.” His voice had deepened, and he raised a hand and skimmed her cheek. Then it curled around the back of her neck as he drew her closer, and before she could say anything further—before she could attempt to slow him down, to possibly suggest they get to know each other better before sharing this intimacy—he lowered his head.
His other arm went around her, and his hand pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against his body. As the flower dropped from her fingers, his mouth crushed down on hers.
She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips coaxed hers open, and his tongue pushed into her mouth, wet and frantic. Just like she’d expected, she thought with a mental groan. Most men seemed to prefer this kind of kiss, and the duke was apparently no exception.
Gabriel let out an amorous little moan and shifted her in his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Faced with such honest passion, she tried to relax and participate, tried to learn to enjoy this kiss. But try as she might, it didn’t feel as wondrous as it was supposed to. In fact, it didn’t feel like much at all beyond a messy mashing of mouths.
She was relieved when he pulled away—and even more relieved when her mother’s distinctive soft laughter floated to her on the night air.
She turned and stepped back onto the terrace. “Mum! And…you,” she added rather ungraciously as her gaze shifted to her mother’s right.
There stood Kit Martyn, looking impossibly handsome. A commoner had no right to look so good. She felt those champagne bubbles again, and she hadn’t even been drinking spirits.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him.
“Building a new dining room for the king. What have you been doing here?” he asked in a way that made it clear he thought he knew.
Rose felt herself turning red. For once, she appreciated the dark.
“She’s with me,” the duke said, sounding rather possessive. “Though what business is it of yours, I wonder?”
Picturing these two in a fistfight, Rose feared Kit might win. “Your grace,” she said quickly, “may I present Mr. Christopher Martyn. Kit, the Duke of Bridgewater.” She looked up at Gabriel. “He’s a friend of the family,” she added, feeling it necessary to explain.
“And I asked Kit to help me search for you,” her mother put in. “I felt it unsafe, as a woman, to be out in the dark alone.”
“Indeed, it wouldn’t have been wise.” Kit held Gabriel’s gaze until the man looked away. “I’m glad to have been of service, but I must be off. I’ve much to accomplish before tomorrow. Lady Trentingham, Lady Rose.” He nodded toward them both, then addressed the duke with an elegant bow. “Your grace.”
Slightly disconcerted, Rose watched him walk away.
“We should
