“Not particularly.”
Her mother’s gaze was making her uncomfortable, so she turned to let Harriet unlace her gown. “I’ve been thinking, Mum…”
Shifting back to the mirror, Chrystabel opened a little jar of pomade. “Yes?”
“You’ve always cautioned us to kiss a man before we agree to marry him. I think that is excellent advice. I believe that if I see Ellen again, I shall tell her. Perhaps she’ll find she doesn’t love the pawnbroker, after all.”
Chrystabel slicked the pomade on her lips, then stood and waved Rose toward the stool in her stead. “Love has to do with more than kisses, dear.”
“Well, of course it does!” Rose settled herself, watching in the mirror as Harriet slid the pins from her hair. “But since a woman is expected to kiss her husband, she should at least make sure she likes his technique.”
Leaning forward, Rose darkened her lashes with the end of a burnt cork while Harriet used the hot tongs to fashion perfect ringlets. What a pity the Duke of Bridgewater was such an abysmal kisser. He’d seemed so perfect.
Well, there were other suitable, handsome men at court. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to kiss them all before she found one as talented as Kit.
“Kisses,” Harriet murmured with a sigh.
Chrystabel stepped into high Louis-heeled shoes fashioned of golden brocade to match her gown. “Have you met any men here at Windsor yet, Harriet?”
The girl’s freckles went three shades darker. “Not yet.”
“Harriet’s shy,” Anne put in.
“Well.” Chrystabel straightened and gave her skirts a shake. “We shall have to see about an introduction.”
Rose barely resisted an impulse to snort. Whoever heard of “introductions” for servants? Only her hopelessly romantic mother would even think of such a thing.
“Mum,” she started.
“Yes, dear?”
On the other hand…at least Mum didn’t seem to be foisting any men upon her.
“Never mind,” she said lightly, thanking her lucky stars her mother had found someone else to bedevil.
The last thing she needed was interference in her love life.
Better Chrystabel busy herself matching Harriet.
EIGHTEEN
KIT LOOKED down the hill toward Ellen dragging along behind. “Come along, will you?” Walking backward, he squinted at her in the darkness. “What is that you’re carrying?”
“A book.”
“A book?” He stopped to wait for her to catch up. “Since when do you spend your time reading?”
“Since you went stark raving mad and decided I had to spend half the night watching you work. Since then.”
It was dark as hell, too dim to see her expression, but he could hear the pout in her voice.
“Why won’t you let me stay home?” she added.
“I’d let you stay home if you would stay home. But I know you, and you won’t. I’d return to find you’re at the pawnshop again.”
“I love him,” she said for the hundredth time. Or maybe the millionth.
“I want better for you,” he said for the millionth time, too.
As they passed through the gate at Windsor, the drowsy old scarlet-uniformed guard snapped to attention. “Evening, Mr. Martyn.”
“Evening, Richards.”
The man narrowed his rheumy eyes. “Who goes with you?”
“My sister.”
“Pretty thing.” He smiled, displaying half a mouth of teeth. “Go on through.”
“My thanks.” In the torchlight of the gateway, Kit glanced again at the book clutched to Ellen’s chest. “Where’d you get that? It’s not even English.”
She clutched the book tighter, as though she were afraid he might snatch it from her hands. “You don’t want to know.”
“Whittingham?”
“Maybe.”
“He’s a pawnbroker. Can he even read? Why would he give you a foreign book?”
He thought perhaps she blushed, but they were still walking and had left the circle of torchlight, so he couldn’t be sure.
“I’m hoping your friend Rose can translate it for me,” she said, neatly evading his question.
“Rose isn’t my friend.” He didn’t want to be Rose’s friend. He didn’t want to be her brother, either. He hoped he’d made that clear earlier this evening.
“You drew a picture of her.”
“You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“It was good,” Ellen said grudgingly. “You should draw pictures more often. Of things besides buildings, I mean.”
“I’m too busy trying to make you a good life.”
Her reply to that was sullen silence.
He sighed as they skirted the Round Tower. “You cannot see Rose tonight. You’ll be at my construction site. She’ll be at court.” He wouldn’t walk Ellen through the king’s chambers—they’d take the long way around. “Ellen Martyn doesn’t belong at court. Until, that is, she marries a title.”
“I’m marrying a pawnbroker,” she said.
NINETEEN
ROSE HAD KISSED three men already—one behind the heavy velvet curtains in the huge bay window, one in the little unfinished vestibule, and one out on the terrace…and she’d loathed all three experiences.
But at least her quest was getting easier. The first two men had been pleasantly shocked when she’d asked them for a kiss, but the third had come to her.
And here came another, swaggering her way. Trying to appear casual, she leaned a hand on the solid silver table by the wall where she stood. It felt cold—and very expensive—beneath her fingers.
“Lovely table, isn’t it?” the man asked, coming to a stop before her. She looked him up and down. Although he wasn’t any taller than she, he wasn’t shorter either, and he had a pleasing face.
“The engraved top is nice,” she said, unable to summon yet another charming and flirtatious reply.
Her face hurt from smiling so much.
He tried again. “Louis the Fourteenth has silver furniture like this all over Versailles.”
“Does he? Gemini, that palace must be even more overblown than this one.”
The gentleman appeared nonplussed. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”
She lazily waved her fan while she considered him. His hair was covered by a long, curled periwig, but she guessed from his fair complexion that it was blond. That was, if he wasn’t bald underneath—but she could hope not. His periwinkle suit wasn’t too
