“Not to court, but to my own apartments would be lovely. I must fetch Harriet and see that she meets the charming guard at the gate.”
FORTY-NINE
AS THE EVENING wore on, Rose received a brooch in the shape of a bow set with precious gemstones, a locket filled with a hopeful suitor’s hair, another bouquet of flowers, and two more proposals. Every unmarried man, it seemed, had proposed.
Except the duke.
There were a few new men attending court here at the palace, but they seemed ruder than those Rose had met at Windsor. One of them didn’t even ask her to dance before maneuvering her behind the tall, exquisitely painted screen that set off one end of the Presence Chamber, serving the same purpose as the curtains in Windsor’s drawing room.
Out of curiosity she’d allowed some of the men to kiss her, but none of their kisses had affected her anything like Kit’s. More disturbingly, their hands seemed to wander boldly as they murmured about I Sonetti and asked if she’d share its secrets.
I Sonetti. Taking a cup of spiced wine from the refreshment table, Rose found herself wishing she were back at Trentingham giggling over the book with her sisters. Or, no—she wished she’d never seen the thing at all. It had brought her nothing but trouble…whoever would think she could earn a wild reputation by simply possessing a book? More than anything, she wished she could find a way to get back to Windsor and return the volume to Ellen.
All her life she’d yearned to come to court, but now that she was here she was finding it tedious beyond belief. It was a sad day when she found chatting with the king’s mistresses more enjoyable than dancing with handsome men.
“My lady.” Another man bowed before her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”
“Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she said flatly, barely stifling a yawn. Her flirtatious nature seemed to have deserted her somewhere around the fourth or fifth kiss.
He swept her an even deeper bow. “The Earl of Featherstonehaugh. Would you honor me with a dance?”
He’d said the magic words. “It would be my pleasure.” She hesitated to saddle herself with his too-long name and wished it were spelled Fanshaw—the way it was pronounced—but she’d long since given up searching for perfection. At least he was polite enough to ask for a dance. And he hadn’t mentioned the blasted book. Perhaps, being a newcomer, he hadn’t heard about it.
She downed the rest of her wine, handed her cup to a serving maid, then let him lead her onto the dance floor. The musicians were playing a lively country tune, and the accompanying dance was performed in two lines, not affording much chance for conversation. Instead, she sized up the earl as they progressed.
He was a certified fop. His wide, powdered periwig draped in curls down his fuchsia brocade-clad chest. Long rows of fancy solid gold buttons adorned both his coat and waistcoat, and the coat flapped open with the movements of the dance, flashing a blinding yellow satin lining. In addition, the abundance of white lace that spilled from his cravat and cuffs was enough to choke a horse.
His outfit, she decided, would look much better on the Duchess Mazarin.
But if he turned out to be a good kisser, perhaps she could teach him how to dress more to her liking. It would no doubt prove easier than teaching a good dresser how to kiss. Feeling a bit more cheerful, she gave him a wide smile as the dance ended.
Evidently he took her smile the wrong way, because the next thing she knew, she found herself propelled behind the screen. Heaving an internal sigh, she tilted her face up for his kiss. As long as he had her here, she might as well find out how he measured up in that department. No sense mentally ordering new clothes if the fellow left her cold.
But he surprised her by dropping to a cushioned stool and reaching to pull her onto his lap.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
One arm snaked over her shoulder. His fingers slipped inside her gown and clamped a tender breast while his other hand went around her waist and began pulling her skirts up in bunches. He tilted her head back and crushed his mouth down on hers, at the same time shoving one leg between her two and twisting to wrap the other around and over her knee.
“Let go!” She tore her mouth free and reached back to brace herself, to push herself away, but his body covered the stool and her hands found no purchase. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
His fingers still working at her skirts, he surged against her until she could feel his arousal through his breeches and her clothes. “Position Ten,” he grunted. “Haven’t you been dying to try it?”
With an outraged gasp, she finally managed to twist off his lap and whirled to slap him on the face.
As her hand connected with his cheek, the priceless screen crashed to the floor, the musicians stopped playing, and Gabriel arrived like an avenging angel. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she spat, rubbing her palm where it hurt. “He, however, is a rutting lout!”
The duke nodded, then turned to Featherstonehaugh, murder in his eyes. “Choose your second,” he grated through gritted teeth, his fingers working to untie the peace strings that prevented his sword from being drawn.
The entire court had gone quiet, frozen as though in a tableau. The Earl of Featherstonehaugh remained silent. All that could be heard was Gabriel’s harsh breathing and the scraping sound of his rapier as he pulled it from its scabbard.
“Outside,” he demanded. “Now.”
And then everyone seemed to be moving.
Stunned, Rose just stood there a moment as it slowly sank in that the duke
