“Rose.” Her name was a husky entreaty. He tore his mouth from hers to open the cloak and press kisses to her throat, her chest, the tops of her breasts displayed in her low décolletage. Lord Cravenhurst had touched her there, and she’d felt nothing but revulsion. But now her skin prickled, and beneath her chemise and the long, triangular stomacher that covered her laces, her nipples tightened.
It was all she could do to keep from tearing her own clothes off.
This would never, ever do.
“Kit,” she breathed on a sigh.
He lifted his head and kissed her mouth, a warm clinging of lips. “Hmm?”
“I think we should go back.” She didn’t want to go back, but she had to. This wasn’t where she belonged. “Please, take me back. I…I’m afraid this isn’t right. I mean…we aren’t right.”
He paused a long, heart-stopping moment before stepping away. Then he took her hand and started down the path. She didn’t pull her hand from his. She knew she should—but she just couldn’t.
“I think, dear Rose, we are very right,” he said after a while. “And I believe that in time you’ll agree.”
It was a good thing he was just a friend, because she feared she might agree already.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“LADY TRENTINGHAM?”
Chrystabel turned to the Duke of Bridgewater and took note of his troubled expression. “Yes, your grace?”
“I thought I should let you know your daughter is missing.”
“Oh?” Poor man, he really seemed to care. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“She went off more than an hour ago. I was hoping she’d return within a reasonable time, so I’d have no need to alarm you—”
“Did she go off with Kit Martyn?” Feeling sorry for him, she laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Martyn is a friend of the family. I asked him to escort her.”
“Back to your apartments?” When she didn’t answer, he apparently took that for an affirmative. “She did say she felt peaked. Will she be returning later this evening?”
“I’m not certain,” Chrystabel said slowly, feeling a twinge of guilt for misleading him.
But she hadn’t really lied, had she? She’d merely allowed him to jump to a conclusion. He truly did seem concerned. A pity he was all wrong for Rose—too dull and unchallenging.
Although her daughter would make her own decision, Chrystabel had no doubt that, with her subtle help, in the end Rose would choose the right man.
Bridgewater suddenly frowned. “It seems that, besides Lady Rose, a number of other ladies have gone missing.”
Chrystabel looked around, surprised to find he was right. There were noticeably fewer women than earlier. The abandoned men shifted restlessly, standing in little groups and talking about heaven knew what.
“Do you expect they’re all feeling peaked?” Bridgewater asked. “Perhaps the prawns were bad.”
“You men ate prawns, too, did you not?” Dull, just as she’d thought. But his heart was in the right place. Looking over to her right, she brightened. “Oh, here comes Rose now.”
Her daughter’s step was lighter, her cheeks pinkened from the fresh night air—and perhaps an encounter with Kit.
Chrystabel could only hope.
Bridgewater swept Rose a bow. “We missed you, my lady.”
“Did you?” she murmured distractedly.
Chrystabel took that as a good sign. If Rose was failing to flirt with a duke, she must have another man on her mind.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.
“I…um…not really, I’m afraid. I…I just returned for my cloak.”
“You’re wearing a cloak,” he pointed out.
“Oh.” She blinked. “I borrowed this one.” She unfastened the gray wool garment and shrugged it off, handing it to Chrystabel. “Will you both excuse me?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE ATTIRING room was so crowded, Rose had to edge her way inside.
“Marry come up!” a lady was saying. “Will you look at this? How do you expect it works?”
“Very well, I can assure you,” another courtier said smugly.
“But this”—there was a pause during which Rose heard pages flipping—“this looks bloody uncomfortable.”
As a mass, the women all leaned closer. “Uncomfortable for the man,” a high-pitched voice put in. “But I’d like to be that lady!”
Amid laughter, Rose worked herself toward the center. And then froze. Eleven—no, twelve—courtiers were huddled over Ellen’s book.
She was beginning to back away when one of them glanced up. “Lady Rose! Could this book be yours?”
“Mine?”
The pimply, black-haired Lady W held up Rose’s purple cloak. “We found it under this. It’s yours, isn’t it?”
“The cloak, yes. But the book…” Oh, dash it—she couldn’t leave it here, so there was no sense in lying. “It belongs to a friend,” she said, holding her head high. After all, given the behavior she’d witnessed here at court, these women had no call to think her a wanton—not for simply having a book.
“A friend? Wherever did he find it?”
“She,” Rose corrected. “And why? Have you heard of this book?”
“Heard of it?” a plump brunette said. “Why, I Sonetti Lussuriosi is known far and wide.” She pronounced the Italian words with a horrible English accent. “It was suppressed by the Vatican in the last century; didn’t you know? There are few copies surviving, and many men searching for them.”
“And women,” someone added, prompting giggles.
“Lord Chauncey has a set of the engravings on his bedchamber walls,” one lady slyly informed them. “I’ve seen them.”
“A crude set,” a second lady put in. “Copies. Nothing like the fine artistry of these originals.”
“You’ve seen them, too?” a third lady asked.
“You haven’t?” a fourth replied with an arched brow.
From the laughter that ensued, Rose concluded that Lady Number Three—and she—were the only women at court who hadn’t found their way into Lord Chauncey’s bedchamber.
Odds were he might be a good kisser. Unfortunately, he also sounded like a terrible rake.
A wistful sigh came from one of the ladies. “I do so wish I could read Italian. These sonnets must be fascinating.”
“That they are,” Rose said.
As one, the assembled group stopped focusing on the book and
