“But there are words,” Mum pointed out. “Explanations.”
“True.” He sighed as he closed the cover. “I believe, actually, that this book is meant to teach one how to accurately draw buildings. But I enjoy studying the pictures.”
“Rose can read Latin,” Mum said.
Rose avoided her mother’s gaze, instead looking longingly inside the bookshop as they passed. “May we stop here on the way back, Mum?”
“Perhaps.”
“We can stop now, if you wish,” Kit offered, pleasantly surprising Rose. She thought fleetingly that were it the Duke of Bridgewater walking beside her, she wouldn’t have dared show an interest in books.
It was freeing to be with a man she didn’t care about.
“Later,” Mum said. “I’m anxious to see the house.”
At last they came to the end of the street. On the bucolic River Thames, swans glided majestically. Rose gazed across the Windsor Bridge toward the charming town of Eton. “Where do you live?” she asked Kit.
“Right here,” he said, gesturing toward an imposing redbrick house that sat beside the river.
No, not a house. A mansion.
She consciously closed her gaping jaw. “It looks like Rand’s house.”
Her mother smiled. “Rand’s house is white, not brick.”
“But the style in which it’s built…” Rose looked toward Kit, knowing he’d understand what she meant. “It looks nothing like Windsor’s dining room.”
“The dining room reflects Charles’s preferences, not my own.”
“I like yours much better,” she murmured as he led them under a small columned portico and into the house.
She paused on the threshold, admiring the clean, modern lines of the entry hall. The black marble floor was studded with small white marble diamonds. Smooth, pale stone walls were set off by classic dark oak molding. A high ceiling led to a corridor beyond, where Rose glimpsed a series of archways that vaguely reminded her of a vaulted cathedral.
As she’d said, it reminded her of the house Kit had built for Rand in Oxford. But better. Not to mention at least twice the size.
Kit Martyn was quite obviously a wealthy man.
“Mr. Martyn.” A butler dressed in dark blue rushed to meet him. “Welcome home.” His inquisitive pale blue gaze swept Rose and her mother. “Shall I have Mrs. Potts prepare dinner for three?”
“Thank you, Graves, but I don’t believe the ladies are staying long.”
“As you say, sir.” The butler took himself off.
“You wanted to see the house?” Kit asked, directing the question to Chrystabel.
“We’d love to,” she assured him.
He led them through to a drawing room, all white paneled walls with a gray marble fireplace. The furniture was upholstered but not fussy, the windows large and tall, allowing sunshine to flood the room.
“I prefer natural light to candlelight,” he told them. “Would you care to sit?”
“No,” Rose said. “Show us the rest, please.”
He shared a smile with her mother.
Rose’s favorite room on the ground floor was the dining room, a complete contrast to King Charles’s in its simplicity. Other than wide crown molding, the ceiling was smooth and white—at night it would reflect the light of the single carved oak chandelier that hovered over the round table. The walls were covered with dark oak paneling, rich and simple except for a few ornately carved sections above the fireplace.
“Sixteenth century, all of it.” Kit waved the book he still held, indicating the wood that graced the walls. “I rescued it from a house I renovated—the owner wanted something more extravagant.”
Rose turned in a slow circle. “Something more like Windsor Castle’s decorations?”
“Very much.”
“That owner has no taste,” she declared.
Kit grinned. “Would you like to see upstairs?”
A small, exquisite stained-glass window threw colored light onto the curving staircase. “Another item I rescued,” Kit said, waving the book at it, too.
The bedchambers weren’t simply sleeping rooms; they were suites—and there were many. His sister’s was peacock blue with a lovely canopied bed, a sitting room with a settle, a desk, and a marble fireplace, and a mirrored dressing room that made Rose fairly seethe with jealousy. This suite was also the only cluttered area in the house, with pretty little items decorating every flat surface. Rose wondered what his sister was like.
Kit’s chamber boasted more classic oak paneling, a red-draped half-tester bed, and a beautiful sitting room surpassed only by the luxurious dressing room. It had the biggest bathtub Rose had ever seen—not a tub that the servants had dragged upstairs, but a permanent one positioned before a fireplace.
Rose could imagine herself in that tub, not to mention that bed. She hoped the Duke of Bridgewater lived half as nicely. Many of the estates she’d visited were much too old and drafty, and she’d met quite a few men who seemed more than happy living with their grandmothers’ choices in decor.
When the Ashcrofts had seen and admired everything, Kit led them downstairs. “Ellen isn’t here,” he muttered darkly as though to himself. “Anywhere.”
“Ellen?” Rose asked.
“My sister,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Graves!” he called. The butler reappeared. “Will you send someone to the pawnshop to seek out Ellen? Should she be there, I wish to see her directly.”
“Of course, sir.” The butler went off, presumably to fetch and instruct a footman.
“Well.” Kit set the book on a small marble-topped table in the entry. “I hope you enjoyed the grand tour.”
“I did.” In truth, Rose was overwhelmed. She’d never imagined a commoner would own such a lovely home. And Kit not only owned it, he’d designed it. He was responsible for the pleasing proportions of each room, the tasteful wall and window treatments, the spare but perfect accessories.
All it needed, she thought absurdly, was flowers. Yes, beautiful arrangements of flowers would be the crowning touch. Her fingers itched to design them. She’d use silver vases in simple classic shapes to match the house.
Chrystabel lifted the book. “It’s a shame you cannot read this.”
“Languages.” Kit flashed a self-deprecating smile. “The one subject
