“I don’t know.” Rose laid her head on his shoulder. “The entire barge used to be rather shabby. Violet had mentioned it was being refurbished, but I never imagined they’d scuttle the bed.”
“They have a family now. A table makes more sense.”
“Not to us.”
“It’s not such a long journey, and they set out a veritable feast to occupy us. Did you eat anything at the wedding?”
“I was too busy talking to people.” She smiled at the wonderful memories. “But I’m not hungry.”
“No? Drink, then.” He handed her a goblet, waiting for her to sit up before raising his in a salute. “To a lifetime of love.”
“And beds,” she said, draining her cup in one long swallow.
He laughed and pulled her near. Violin music drifted in from the deck, and the boat rocked gently as it made its way downriver. She relaxed against him again, just breathing, existing, enjoying the closeness as he munched cheese and bread and sipped wine.
Suddenly she felt so happy, tears pricked her eyes. “Kit, I’m so glad I married you.”
He squeezed her tight. “Then you wouldn’t rather be here with the duke?” he teased.
“I expect he’d be puking all over me.”
He gulped and swallowed. “What?”
“The duke gets seasick.”
“Ah.” She heard laughter in his voice. “Good thing you chose me instead.”
“Good thing,” she sighed in agreement, then sat up when she felt a bump. “Good God, we’re here.” She jumped off Kit’s lap as a knock came at the door.
“Mr. Martyn?”
“One moment,” he called, shrugging back into his waistcoat. He laughed at her fumbling fingers. “No need to rush. Careful of your dress; you’ll want to wear it to the queen’s ball.” He made short work of attaching her stomacher, then swung her up into his arms and started carrying her off the barge.
“Kit!” She laughed, thinking she was much too tall for this. This wasn’t just a few feet like in the maze. And there were people watching. “You’ll hurt yourself. Put me down.”
“I think not.” They had docked right beside his house—their house—and he walked around to the front. “I’ve been told I should carry you over the threshold. Else we could have bad luck.”
“Only if I trip.”
“Well, this way you won’t trip, will you?” The wind whipped her skirts, practically blowing them up the portico’s steps. “I’m ensuring our future,” he informed her as the front door swung open and he carried her inside.
Holding the door grandly, Graves grinned at them both.
“Put me down,” Rose said, feeling windblown and silly.
“Not a chance.” Kit continued up the stairs. “We’ve one more threshold before we’re safe.”
He crossed that one—their bedchamber—before he set her on her feet.
“I feared for your heart,” she said and kissed him.
But he didn’t even seem winded. “You weigh nothing,” he assured her, and she supposed she didn’t—at least compared to big beams.
By the fireplace a small round table sat between two chairs, its polished surface covered with dishes of fruit, a pile of cakes, and bowls of whipped cream and strawberry sauce. Kit dipped an orange slice in both and slipped it between her lips. “Dessert,” he said with a smile.
The combination was tart and sweet, but she still wasn’t hungry. “I’d rather have a kiss,” she told him archly.
He obliged her, thoroughly, so thoroughly her knees felt weak when he finally drew back and turned her around to face a low chest of drawers.
She blinked and focused. “There it is!” she cried, spotting a square of white underneath it. “The letter!”
“The letter?” he said from behind her.
“The note I left for you, explaining about Ellen. It must have fallen off the washstand and somehow wound up under there.”
“I don’t care about the letter.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Look up.”
And there, on the oak-paneled wall, was an oval gilt-framed painting.
Of her.
The Rose on the canvas was the same one he’d sketched that first day, her lips curved gently, her eyes holding secrets. “I drew a hundred pictures of you,” he said softly, “but I always came back to this one.”
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, staring. She imagined him painting it, his brush stroking lovingly while she worried needlessly he might not want her. Her heart squeezed in her chest. “I wish I could paint you.”
He stepped in front of her, his gaze glittering green. “Do you mean that, sweetheart?”
Something in his voice gave her pause. “Oh, yes, but I cannot.”
“I think you can,” he said, drawing off his surcoat.
“I’ve no talent with paint,” she said uncertainly, watching him cross to his bed.
His red-draped bed.
Red is a color of power, she remembered him saying.
Her heart raced as he tossed the coat to the red counterpane, followed by his waistcoat. His shirt went next.
Her breath went shallow. “I’ve tried painting,” she said inanely, “but I can never get the colors right.”
“There’s only red and white,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
“Red and white?” She licked her lips, staring at his bare chest. Gemini, he was magnificent. How could she have wanted an idle aristocrat when a working man like Kit had muscles that made a woman’s hands itch to run all over him?
Those muscles rippled as he strode over to the small round table and opened a curved drawer, rummaging inside. At last he pulled out a little brush. A paintbrush.
“White,” he said, dipping it in the whipped cream. “And red.” He swirled it in the strawberry sauce.
The sweets glistened in the firelight as he handed the brush to her with a grin.
His gaze was more wicked than ever.
“Here,” he said. “Paint me.”
She gave a startled laugh, then stroked the brush down his chest, leaning to lick off the sweets with a long, hot swipe of her tongue. Cream and sugar and strawberries and Kit.
This kind of painting she could do.
“HOW ODD,” Chrystabel said as she crawled into bed that night. “By the time of the wedding, Rose didn’t seem anxious at all.”
Glad to see she hadn’t bothered with
