He would do.
“Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she replied with a calculated smile.
He took her free hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back. A bit wet, but not totally disgusting. “Lord Cravenhurst, at your service.”
His voice wasn’t too grating, and, unlike the last man, she guessed he’d bathed within the week. His perfume was light and not too cloying. Perhaps he’d ask her to dance before claiming a kiss. That would be nice.
But she was not to be so lucky. He leaned close, sneaking a peek at himself in the silver-framed mirror above the table. “I hear you enjoy kissing,” he uttered in a confidential tone.
Rose fluttered her lashes. “Why, yes, actually, I do.” With the right man.
Maybe he would be the one.
Although she would prefer a dance—or sitting somewhere alone where she could put her feet up—she allowed him to guide her behind the curtain again. There was a good view over Eton, but apparently he didn’t feel like looking. One arm came around to clamp her tight, and his mouth descended on hers, parting her lips immediately.
She dropped her fan. He tasted funny, and his tongue felt slimy. When he snaked a hand down her bodice, she gasped and shoved him away. “I never gave you leave to do that!”
He didn’t look at all fazed. “I was told you were a wild one.”
“By whom?”
He shrugged. “It’s all the buzz.”
“Well, the buzz is wrong. A kiss is not an invitation to be mauled.” One hand went to cover her probably bruised breast while she tossed open the curtain with the other. “Now go out there and tell everyone they were mistaken.”
“And let on that you refused my advances? I think not,” he huffed and stalked away.
She barely had time to catch her breath before another man hurried over. The Earl of Rosslyn, Kit’s friend.
Since they’d already been introduced, he wasted no time on preliminaries. “My lady,” he said with a bow, “I have it on good faith that you particularly enjoy kissing.”
The cur. “You’re married!”
He grinned. “Then you know I have much experience.”
“What I know is that you’re an adulterer.”
“Why should that matter?”
Indeed. Looking around the chamber, she spotted couples in all sorts of embraces, doing everything, it seemed, short of actual coupling—and she had grave doubts that most of them were married. To each other, at least.
And where on earth was her mother? She might as well have come here by herself for all the chaperoning she was receiving.
She scooped her folded fan off the floor, half tempted to bash Rosslyn on the nose with it. “Go away,” she told him instead.
To her vast relief, he did. She aimed a shaky smile at two passing women, but they both pointedly avoided her gaze, whispering behind their fans. And yet another man was headed in her direction.
Her tension eased as she realized it was the Duke of Bridgewater. At least Gabriel was a real gentleman. He was wearing russet tonight and looked even more aristocratic than she’d remembered. As he drew nearer, she opened her fan and composed herself.
“Your grace,” she greeted him with a smile. “Where have you been all this evening?”
“I was detained until now,” he apologized smoothly, “and I’ve dearly missed your company. Was Rosslyn bothering you?”
In truth, she could take care of herself—hadn’t she just proven it? But she sidled up to him, waving the fan coquettishly. “I’m glad you arrived to protect me.”
“You’re in good hands, my dear.” Looking pleased, he linked an arm through hers and began guiding her toward the terrace.
Good God, the blasted terrace again.
“Wouldn’t you rather dance?” she asked, then whirled at hearing the meaty sound of a fist connecting with someone’s skull.
Nell Gwyn’s voice carried across the chamber. “Don’t make me sorry I talked Charles into releasing you from the Tower!” she spat as she stalked off.
The Duke of Buckingham stood watching her go, his mouth hanging open, one hand held to the spot above his ear where petite Nell’s punch must have landed.
What a woman. Rose wanted to applaud.
Gabriel reclaimed her arm. “Come along.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“The idiot tried to kiss her.” The duke managed to harrumph in a genteel manner. “Everyone knows that unlike Louise and Barbara, Nell is completely devoted to Charles.”
“Is she?” Rose wondered, gratified to discover this was possible even at court.
“Oh, yes. She hasn’t slept with another man since Charles made her his mistress. Nearly nine years, if you can believe it.”
Gabriel’s apparent amazement at that feat gave Rose pause, but she consoled herself that at least it seemed he admired Nell. She glanced back at the Duke of Buckingham, who still stood rooted in place. Even with his long black periwig all mussed, he looked entirely too dignified to have recently been a prisoner. “Why on earth was he in the Tower of London?”
“He’s not the first man Charles has clapped in there, and he certainly won’t be the last. It’s political, my dear. You wouldn’t understand.”
Certain she would understand, Rose was about to ask for an explanation when he added, “Are you and your lovely mother coming along to Hampton Court tomorrow?”
Rose blinked, effectively diverted. “Hampton Court?”
“Haven’t you heard? The court is moving—getting ever closer to London, as it were. The household will spend a few weeks at Hampton Court and then move to Whitehall for the winter, in time for the queen’s birthday celebration on the fourteenth of November.” He guided her toward the door. “Will you be coming along?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose I’ll have to ask my mother.”
“Well, I certainly hope she’ll agree. I’d feel bereft without your company.”
He sounded sincere, and she couldn’t help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller—not to mention the highest ranked.
There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.
It
