“Rose could read it to you. Couldn’t you, dear?”
Rose was still planning her flower arrangements. Red, she thought, would suit this entry perfectly. The black-and-white floor called for something bold.
“I desperately need to lie down, but why don’t you stay here and translate this book for Kit? I’m certain he can find someone to escort me home.”
“Stay here?” Rose echoed, wrested from her vision of the multicolored arrangement she’d create for the lovely dining room.
“It’s early still, and you have nothing else to do until court this evening. It would be a kindness.”
She collected her thoughts and considered. Not only was Mum right, she was known for being hospitable. While Rose herself was known, she knew, for being selfish. Inside, she’d never felt like the woman others seemed to perceive her, and if she wished to alter those perceptions, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to follow in her mother’s hospitable footsteps.
And truth be told, she’d enjoy the challenge of translating a book about architecture. Although she generally hid her linguistic talents from men, Kit was just her brother-in-law’s friend and—now that he was building the greenhouse—her father’s hireling. She didn’t care if he thought she was too intelligent, since she wasn’t interested in marrying him.
“Rose?” her mother queried.
“Very well.”
Kit’s eyes lit, suddenly looking more green than brown. “Graves! It seems we’ll be requiring dinner, after all.”
THIRTEEN
BEFORE ROSE could change her mind, her mother had departed, and she and Kit were in the beautiful paneled dining room, a lovely dinner of beef in claret and carrot pudding set before them.
To her surprise, she found Kit very good company.
“It’s odd,” she realized in the middle of their meal. “You’re quite easy to talk to.”
A forkful of carrot pudding halfway to his mouth, he laughed. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”
“Usually.” Unless she was with a man she thought of as husband material; then she had to watch her words. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case here. “Do you not find it odd at all? After all, we hardly know each other.”
“Perhaps we should get to know each other, then.” He sipped thoughtfully from a goblet of Madeira. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Red. Why?”
He met her eyes. “Color can say a lot about a person.”
“Oh, yes?” She took a swallow of the sweet wine. “What do you suppose red says about me?”
“I imagine that you’re decisive…and perhaps a bit daring.”
She liked that description. “What’s your favorite color?”
“The clear blue of a summer sky.”
“But your bedchamber is red,” she remembered.
“Red is also a color of power,” he said, leaving her to ponder the significance of that.
Was he powerful in the bedchamber? What exactly did that mean? She felt her pulse flutter a little as she contemplated—
“Do you prefer sweet or savory?” he asked, interrupting her musings.
“Pardon?” She blinked and swallowed.
“To eat. Sweetmeats or real meats, which is it?”
“Oh, sweets, most definitely,” she told him, relieved to be on a different subject. Enjoying this game, she eyed a cherry tart one of his serving maids had placed on the table. “But I’m not passionate about it.”
He raised a brow. “Passionate?”
Feeling herself blush, Rose was certain he’d taken her statement the wrong way. “Violet’s sister-in-law, Kendra—she’d have a wedge of that tart on her plate already. She always eats dessert first. In case she wouldn’t have room for it later.”
“Hmm. I appreciate a passionate woman.”
Her cheeks grew even hotter. “And you? Sweet or savory?”
“Give me a hunk of beef any day.” He speared a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth. “Which do you enjoy more, Christmas or your birthday?”
“My birthday. It’s mine alone.”
He sipped, looking amused. “But Christmas is a time for sharing.”
“Exactly.” Two could play this game. “What’s your favorite book?”
His eyes narrowed as he considered. “The Odyssey.”
“Homer’s Odyssey? In Greek?”
“Hell, no. George Chapman’s version.”
“Homer’s is more poetic.” She swallowed the last bite of the buttery carrot pudding. “Why do you like it?”
He set down his fork. “Odysseus faced terrible obstacles, but he persevered and triumphed in the end. I admire that sort of man, that sort of success.”
He sounded very serious. “He did it for love,” she reminded him.
“For his wife, Penelope, yes. She waited for him twenty years.”
Though Rose dreamed of such enduring love, she couldn’t imagine waiting twenty years for anything. “Penelope was more patient than I.”
He smiled. “What’s your favorite book?”
“Aristotle’s Master-piece,” she said without hesitation, even though it was a scandalous marriage manual. It seemed she could tell him anything. “I learned quite a bit from that book.”
“Did you?” That brow went up again, making her wonder if he knew what the book was about or if he assumed it was Aristotelian philosophy. But his thoughtful expression didn’t give him away. “Musically,” he asked, “do you prefer instrumentals or songs?”
“Songs. I love to sing.” To demonstrate, she trilled a few notes, then grinned when he smiled. “Do you sing?”
“Not where anyone can hear me.” Still smiling, he sat back and twirled his goblet between his palms.
“My turn,” she said, focusing on the pewter cup. “Red wine or white?”
“Red. Most definitely red. It’s richer, deeper, more complicated.” He fixed that wicked gaze on her. “And you? Red or white?”
“Champagne,” she said, feeling like she’d just sipped some.
“Rare and expensive. It fits.”
Her face heated again. “The bubbles tickle my senses.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but then apparently thought better of it. “Are you early to bed or late to rise?” he asked instead.
“Both,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But that’s about to change. Last night I was so early to bed, I have no idea what time the court festivities ended. Do you know, or did you seek your bed beforetime, too?”
“I never sought my bed at all. I had work that kept me there throughout the night.”
Her jaw dropped. “You haven’t slept?” She began to rise. “I must leave you to get some sleep, then. Although my mother’s heart was in the right place
