Lady Trentingham turned in a swish of golden brocade skirts. “Kit. Ellen found you.”
“I apologize for not introducing you earlier.”
She waved that off. “I knew at first glance you were related. She looks just like you. A little prettier,” she added with a smile.
He grinned back. “I should hope so.”
“I wanted to let you know that Rose is in the ladies’ attiring room. I thought, considering our earlier conversation, you might want to be there when she comes out.”
He’d almost convinced himself he’d dreamed that conversation. This whole day seemed naught but a dream born of wishful thinking: everything going right with King Charles, the wonderful afternoon with Rose, the kiss, his materials showing up in a timely fashion, Lady Trentingham encouraging him to seduce her daughter…
But then again, he was still fighting with Ellen. That was no dream.
And neither, apparently, was this. Lady Trentingham leaned closer and straightened his cravat. “Shall I show you where Rose will be coming out?”
“She’s looking for you,” he said. “She mentioned that the last time I saw her.”
“Is that so?” A slow smile spread on Rose’s mother’s face. “Well, she’s going to find you instead.”
TWENTY-FOUR
ROSE HAD NEARLY steeled herself to venture forth from the attiring room when two young women walked in.
“Oh,” the blond one said when she spotted her. “You’re here.”
Rose didn’t care for her tone. She wanted to slap her across her pinched face. But she also wanted to be liked here at court, so she plastered on a smile. “I’m Rose Ashcroft. And you are…?”
“Lady Wyncherly.”
“And I’m Lady Wembley.” The other woman joined her friend at the large gilt-framed mirror. Her hair was so black Rose imagined she dyed it and used a lead comb.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady…” Willoughby? Wemperley? “Ladies. You’re both married, then?”
“Yes,” they said in unison, and then the dark-haired one added, “and you’re not.”
Rose could think of worse things than not being married. Like being one of these shrews.
The blond Lady W touched a pimple on the other’s face. “Right there,” she said.
The woman glared at herself in the mirror. “Hell and furies, another one.”
The blonde pulled a tiny silver box out of her drawstring purse. “Here, choose a patch.”
While the pimply Lady W rummaged through the box with a fingertip, the blond one turned to Rose. “Why aren’t you busy kissing someone?”
Rose was rapidly concluding it was just as well none of the women here seemed to like her, because she certainly didn’t like them. But she decided to ignore the slur. “I’m resting until the gaming.”
“There won’t be any gaming tonight,” pimply Lady W said, choosing a crescent-shaped patch.
“No gaming?” Rose echoed, crestfallen.
Blond Lady W pulled some adhesive from her purse and dotted it on the back. “Haven’t you heard?” She stuck the black velvet on her friend’s face. “This will be an early evening, because we’re all leaving for Hampton Court tomorrow. Will you be coming along?”
She sounded as though she hoped not.
“I’m not sure,” Rose told her. She’d found no opportunity to discuss it yet with Mum. Half of her wanted to go to Hampton Court just to spite these women, while the other half thought the peace of Trentingham Manor would be heaven in comparison.
Unfortunately, there were no potential husbands at home.
The blonde chose a patch for herself—a cupid—even though she was already wearing nine and had no pimple to cover. Patches were quite in fashion, and Rose wore one herself—a small heart at the outside edge of her right eyebrow—but she thought the woman’s face looked diseased with so many black shapes all over it.
Maybe the blond Lady W was diseased. Maybe most of the patches were hiding hideous smallpox scars. Although Rose knew it wasn’t nice of her, the thought of that made her smile.
“What?” the Lady Ws barked together.
Rose shrugged and walked out of the little chamber. She was certain they started talking about her the moment she cleared the door—and she doubted they had anything good to say. But she decided she didn’t care.
Stepping into the drawing room, she stopped short when she saw Kit. He was standing there, gazing into space and looking uncomfortable. Well, he didn’t belong here at court, so that wasn’t such a surprise. Perhaps the king wanted the drawing room renovated too, and he was studying it.
She noticed Kit was taller than she, but not terribly much taller. Maybe half a head, while she only came up to Gabriel’s chin. Kit didn’t make her feel petite like the duke did.
He finally took note of her. “Rose,” he greeted with a smile.
No Lady. Did that mean he considered her a friend now?
“Kit. You’re still here. “ She suddenly remembered her plans. “Will you kiss me?” she asked.
“Here? Now?” His eyes widened, becoming more green than brown.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rushed out, cursing herself silently for her habit of speaking before she thought. “I just…well, I just want to see how you do it.”
He looked amused. “Like anyone else does it, I imagine.”
He was wrong, so wrong, about that. As he moved closer, the little bubbles began dancing in her stomach.
He was very, very wrong.
His gaze locked on hers, now purest green with only flecks of brown. Flecks she was close enough to see. Though his scent wasn’t heavy, it still overwhelmed her—that woodsy perfume mixed with the clean sweat of hard, honest work.
“Are you certain you want a kiss now?” he teased. “Right here, in front of the entire court?”
“Haven’t you heard?” another man cut in. “Our Lady Rose quite enjoys kissing.”
Startled, Rose turned to find Lord Davenport standing behind her. She’d kissed him earlier and been disappointed, but at least he’d had good manners.
“Greetings, my sweet Lady Rose,” he said and kissed her again, right there—as Kit had said—in front of the entire court.
It was a chaste kiss. But it snapped Rose out of her trance. What had she been thinking,
