ROSE KNEW SHE shouldn’t have left the castle, especially with a man. But she’d wanted so much to escape. And Kit was a friend.
She’d never had a male friend before.
“It’s quiet out here,” she said.
“Unlike your friends at court, most folks rise with the dawn and seek their beds when the sun sets.”
“I guess that’s why none of the windows are lit.” The hill was steep, the uneven cobblestones treacherous. “It’s so dark.” A little wobble in her voice matched a sudden lurch in her gait.
He reached to steady her. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“No,” she snapped, then added, “Well, maybe. A little,” when she caught him looking at her sideways.
What was it about this man that made her spill her most embarrassing secrets?
She waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t. “I’d know the way with my eyes closed,” he said. “Here, take my hand.”
She did, though she knew she shouldn’t be doing that either. But Kit’s fingers felt good linked with hers, comforting instead of intimidating. His skin felt warm, his palm rougher than those of the other men who’d touched her tonight. Work worn, she supposed. And while she was holding his hand, the night didn’t seem quite as dark.
At the bottom of the hill, rowdy laughter drifted from a tavern called Bel and the Dragon. The sound of common men thick with drink. Kit was common, too, but for now she didn’t care. It was peaceful here, away from court. And no one was threatening to kiss her.
Not even the man she wished would.
When they reached Kit’s house and he turned and started up the steps, Rose pulled her hand from his. “You said we were going to the river.”
“We’re stopping here only a minute.” He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door; it was late enough that Graves wasn’t there to open it. “Wait here,” Kit whispered, ushering her into the entry. A single oil lamp burned on the small marble-topped table. “I’ll be right back.”
Hugging herself, she watched him walk deeper into the house. Through an open window, more laughter floated from the river, faint and joyous. People celebrating on a barge, she imagined.
She didn’t have to wait long. A minute later Kit was back, a cloth sack in one hand and a cloak in the other. “Ellen’s,” he explained. “I thought you might be cold.”
He moved close and settled it over her shoulders, wrapping her in its warmth. Fine gray wool with black and silver braid, it was much heavier than her own velvet one and smelled faintly of Ellen, a light, carefree fragrance compared to her own heavier perfume. But Kit being so near, his own scent seemed stronger—woodsy, masculine, and heady enough to overwhelm her.
She was on the verge of asking for a kiss again when he stepped away.
“Thank you,” she said quietly as he guided her back outdoors. “It was very kind of you to take me for a walk. Away from…all that.”
“I needed a break from my work. And now that I’ve taken it, I’m realizing I’ll be needing sleep soon, too.”
Ellen was counting on that, Rose thought, wondering why she felt disloyal. Whose side was she on regarding this brother–sister tug of war? She wasn’t sure. She only knew that right here, right now, she was in the right place.
The streets were deserted this time of night, the river slow and dark, the moon illuminating its ripples. Kit guided her past the bridge that led to Eton, its shops dark and shuttered. They came to a wooden gate with white lettering that gleamed in the moonlight. “Romney Walk,” Rose read aloud.
The gate creaked when Kit opened it. “There’s a place near Trentingham named Romney as well, isn’t there?”
“There are many such places, I believe.” Beyond the gate, the path angled closer to the river. Although the moon provided enough light that she could trod the packed dirt without tripping, she allowed Kit to keep a steadying hand on her elbow. “The word derives from a Saxon word, rumnea, meaning water.”
He looked at her with admiration. “You know ancient languages, too?”
She smiled, liking that look. She couldn’t remember a man ever admiring her for more than her appearance.
It was the difference between a suitor and a friend.
“No, Rand told me about that. I’m not so much interested in old tongues—I’d rather learn languages I can use someday when I travel. What’s in the sack?”
“Bread. For the swans.” Several had been following them as they walked, gliding soundlessly on the water. One of them honked now, as though he’d heard Kit and knew food was in the offing. “I thought you might like to feed them.”
“It would never occur to me to bring bread. Lily would think like that.”
“She loves animals, doesn’t she?”
“Almost as much as she loves Rand.”
She wondered what her sister was doing this evening. In the middle of the night, so soon after her wedding…Rose was afraid she knew. She’d lay odds Lily was doing those things that were still a mystery to her, those things that she feared would be distasteful…except when she thought about doing them with the man here with her now.
She released a long sigh. “Lily is nice to everyone and everything, human and animal alike. I could never live up to her perfection.”
“No one’s perfect, Rose. Not Lily or anyone else.” He reached into the sack and handed her a few cubes of stale bread. “Shall we sit?”
The bank rose here, forming a little grassy hill that overlooked the river. Rose lowered herself to the springy ground, tucking Ellen’s cloak beneath her. She tossed a bread cube out on the water and watched the swans rush to gobble it. “I wonder what it is about you that makes me so glib,” she mused.
He sat beside her. “You don’t seem tongue-tied with anyone else.”
She blushed, thankful for the cover of darkness. “I don’t generally admit to people that I’m imperfect.”
“I hesitate to disillusion you,” he said wryly, “but I imagine they could figure that out without you informing them.”
Laughing, she shoved at his shoulder and tossed more bread. Swans honked, demanding still more. Across the river, a tiny bridge was barely visible over small rapids gleaming white in the moonlight. The sounds of running water were soothing.
After a moment of silence, Kit reached over and took her hand. When she didn’t pull away, he raised it to his mouth and pressed his warm lips to the back.
She knew she shouldn’t allow it. But his kiss on her hand felt different from Lord Hathersham’s, so different it made her shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“No. Will you kiss me?”
“Shy as usual,” Kit teased, sounding pleased as he reached for her.
Her heart began pounding. “I don’t mean…” Agitated, she scrambled to her feet. “Good God, I just want to see how you do it.”
He rose and moved close. “Like any other man, as I told you.” With a hand beneath her chin, he tilted her face up and leaned near. His warm breath brushed her lips. “A kiss is a kiss.”
“Oh, no,” she breathed. “It isn’t.”
Then she couldn’t say more, because his mouth had met hers.
She tried to concentrate on his technique. But as his work-roughened hands cupped her face, as his gentle pressure turned into more, as the kiss deepened and his tongue tangled with hers, she couldn’t seem to think straight.
Was he more tender? Not really—and not at all when the caress turned more demanding. Was he more skilled? She had to think so, but she couldn’t discern how. Did he taste different? Well, certainly. He tasted like Kit, only Kit…the most divine flavor ever to grace her lips.
She heard a moan and realized it was hers, and then she couldn’t think at all. She could only feel. A wonderful heat began spreading through her. She wound her arms around Kit’s neck and threaded her fingers into his hair, pressing her body against his. It seemed she could feel his pulse, his lifeblood, beating in tandem with hers. A perfect moment.
A thing of beauty.
When he broke the kiss, she tugged him back for another. He obliged her for a moment before drawing away with a low laugh. “So I’m different, am I?”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed. “But I cannot figure out how. I…I don’t like deep kisses.”
“Oh,” he said, “I think you do.”
“Only yours.” He was kissing her neck now, little wet kisses that should disgust her, but they didn’t. Instead, they made her shiver again. “How do you do that to me?”
“Maybe,” he murmured, his lips teasingly warm on her earlobe, “I do that to you because we belong together.”
“No.” That couldn’t be it. She couldn’t belong with a commoner. Kit was her friend, and she liked kissing him, and that was all. “No.”
“No?” He nibbled lightly along her jaw. She should hate this, but she didn’t. His lips inched toward her mouth, making her own lips tingle with anticipation. “Shall I kiss you again to prove it?” he asked, his mouth moving closer, but not quite there.
Frustrated, she took his head in both hands and crushed her lips to his. And with another low laugh, he set to proving his words right.
It was a kiss to sink into. This time his arms went around her. His hands spread on her back, pressing her close. She molded her curves to his body as the fluttery bubbles in her stomach became a hot, insistent ache.
Then his hands moved lower and cupped her bottom. She would swear she felt their warmth through her gown and Ellen’s cloak, along with an odd, exciting tingling. The viscount had touched her there, and she’d hated it. But when Kit’s hands pulled her closer, she melted against him. She felt a hardness where their bodies met, a hardness that made her think of the engravings in I Sonetti.
“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.