Translating a book. Sharing a quiet afternoon.
It wasn’t a painting, nor a work of careful artistry. The black ink on white gave no hint that her gown was a rich purple, her cheeks were pink with carefully applied cosmetics, her lips were dyed red and ripe. The drawing was plain and stark. True.
It was the Rose very few people ever saw.
How had he seen the real Rose? she wondered. And what had made him sketch her while she was describing how to draw classical buildings?
She blew out a shaky breath as Kit and Ellen barged in.
“I’m entitled to live my own life,” Ellen said, continuing their argument as though Rose weren’t there. “And you had no right having me fetched from the pawnshop as though I were your property.”
“You are my property,” Kit ground out. “Until you’re wed—”
“Let me wed, then, and we’ll both be happier.”
“Not if you wed him.”
“Him?” Rose asked.
They both turned to look at her, fire and surprise in their matching eyes.
“Thomas Whittingham.” Ellen tossed her head of long jet hair.
“A pawnbroker,” Kit spat.
Rose set down Kit’s sketch and stood. “I’m Rose Ashcroft,” she said to Ellen. “Tell me about this pawnbroker.”
“My apologies for not introducing you.” Kit’s gaze nervously snapped between Rose’s face and the drawing he’d done of her. He took a deep breath. “Lady Rose, this is my sister, Ellen. Ellen—”
“Lady Rose,” Ellen drawled before her brother could complete the belated introduction. “Do you not think, Kit, that you’re aiming a bit out of your range?”
“We’re just friends,” Rose rushed to clarify.
Surprisingly, she really did feel Kit was a friend. The pleasant afternoon had changed her view of him entirely.
But she wanted to be Ellen’s friend, too. With her sisters both married and moved away, and the women at court giving her the cold shoulder, she desperately needed a female friend. And she sensed Ellen could be one. She liked this forthright woman.
She sat again and patted the cushion beside her. “Tell me about this pawnbroker,” she repeated.
Ellen slid onto the settle and folded her hands in her lap, a female version of Kit dressed in an innocent tone of yellow. “He’s kind and generous and handsome, and I love him.”
“She wants to marry him,” Kit said derisively. He swept the sketch board off the table and crossed the room to place it facedown on the desk. “I won’t see her wed to a pawnbroker. To go from this”—he waved a hand, indicating the house, the life he’d built for the two of them—“to live above a pawnshop, is—”
“—what I want,” Ellen rushed to finish for him. Then she met Rose’s eyes, her own pleading.
Apparently they were friends already.
“How old are you?” Rose asked.
“Eighteen.”
Rose had fancied herself in love at eighteen, too. But she knew now, having seen her sisters find love, that she’d been wrong. She knew now that she’d never been in love at all.
Even once.
“You’re young yet,” she said gently. “Can you not wait a while? Perhaps you’ll find—”
“I love him. Kit has no right to dictate my life.”
Ellen was wrong; legally, Kit had every right. But Rose was torn between that truth and the fact that she believed, truly believed, that women should be allowed to make these decisions for themselves. She knew her own parents were considered odd for permitting it, but she’d also listened to hours upon hours of her sister Violet spouting all her radical philosophy.
Violet thought she never paid attention, but that simply wasn’t true.
And yet…she looked to Kit, who spread his hands and shrugged an exasperated shoulder. And back to Ellen, who looked so much like her brother. Just as hot-tempered too, from all indications. They probably butted heads precisely because they were so much alike.
But Ellen was young yet. And Rose had never before felt so old.
“Do you know, Ellen,” she said carefully, “it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.”
“Oh!” Ellen cried. “You don’t understand!” Tears sprang to her eyes as she jumped up and ran from the room.
Rose and Kit listened to his sister’s footsteps until they faded up the stairs. “She likes you,” he finally said.
“And our navy will conquer the Dutch tomorrow.” Rose sighed. “I think I’d best return home.”
SIXTEEN
“HOME” RIGHT now for Rose was Windsor Castle. That was what Kit wanted for Ellen: the rank that would give her the security of feeling at home in a royal castle. Or anywhere. The rank that would assure she’d never again be left behind.
And yet, when Rose had supported his position, he’d found himself not grateful, but vexed.
Her voice still echoed in his ears, so measured and reasonable: It’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without.
Never mind that it was exactly what Ellen needed to hear, Rose’s attitude didn’t bode well for his own suit.
The sun was setting as he walked Rose back to the apartments she was sharing with her mother, the two of them chatting amiably. All the way past the Round Tower, into an Upper Ward building, and up a staircase, he listened to her amusing banter and watched her mobile lips.
Lips that begged for a kiss.
When she reached for the door latch, he stopped her with a hand over hers. She turned and looked up at him, her dark eyes questioning.
“Thank you for a pleasant day,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over her face from the single torch that illuminated the deserted corridor. “And also for the translation. It was much appreciated.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said, looking relieved. “I enjoyed myself.”
When he felt her trying to draw her hand away, he held it tight in his. There was something between them, whether she knew it—or wanted it—or not.
“I’m happy
