ROSE CLOSED the lodging’s door and leaned back against it, then released a long, long sigh. A sigh of relief.
She didn’t dislike kissing after all!
Kit, of course, had no business kissing her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry he’d done so. She’d watched him walk away, knowing she should call after him, berate him for having the nerve to take such a liberty, inform him that he was never to do so again.
But she hadn’t found the strength to do that. She’d felt weak, boneless. And happy—so happy to find that nothing was wrong with her.
She enjoyed kissing!
And somehow, after experiencing Kit’s kiss, she knew that she would enjoy the other things that happened between a man and a woman. All the things that the marriage manual Aristotle’s Master-piece had described…those things she’d been so eager to try until she’d tried kissing and decided it wasn’t to her taste.
Now she knew differently. How silly she’d been to jump to such a conclusion. Obviously a woman’s enjoyment of kissing depended on the skill of the man. How unlucky she’d been to kiss so many men and never find a talented one until now.
“Dear? Are you out there?”
“Yes, Mum.” Rose took a deep, calming breath and crossed the small sitting room toward the even smaller bedchamber she and her mother were sharing.
Chrystabel was seated at the heavy carved wood dressing table. While her maid Anne twisted the back section of her hair up into a bun, she tore a small sheet of red Spanish paper from a tiny booklet and rubbed it lightly on her cheeks. “Did you have a nice time, dear?”
Feeling heat flare in her face, Rose was glad her mother was busy looking in the mirror. “It was a fine day,” she said carefully, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic.
She certainly didn’t want her mother finding out she’d allowed Kit—a commoner!—to kiss her.
Mum set down the Spanish paper and lifted a kohl pencil. “What did you do?” she asked, carefully rimming an eye.
“Oh, we had dinner and then I translated part of the book.” The sound of an ungraceful snore drew Rose’s gaze to Harriet, dead to the world on a pallet laid out on the floor. Shaking her head, she crossed to her trunk and rummaged through it herself. “I met Kit’s sister, Ellen.”
“Was she nice?”
Rose held up a frosty pink gown and then rejected it; she was feeling much bolder than that. “I liked her. But she’s eighteen and fancies herself in love. With a pawnbroker.”
“Perhaps she is in love. And in a bustling town like this, a pawnshop is likely to be a thriving business.”
“Surely she can do much better than to live life above a pawnshop. Look at the house she’s living in now!”
Chrystabel turned to her, raising one kohl-darkened brow. “You liked it, then.”
“Kit’s house?” Rose shook out a bright red gown. Perfect. She laid it on the old canopied bed. “It was very impressive. It must be lovely to live right on the river like that and yet in a bustling town, too. And the house is beautifully designed.”
Another thing of beauty, she thought, standing over her sleeping maid. “Harriet!” she called softly.
The girl bolted upright. “Yes, milady.” She scrambled to her feet. “Forgive me, milady. I was tired.”
Rose waved a dismissive hand, thinking she was a mite tired herself.
“You like the house’s designer, too,” her mother said.
“Kit? He’s a pleasant man.” Memories flashed: his smile, his laughter, his eyes…his kiss. Rose shivered, then made a show of rubbing her arms, moving closer to the fire on the grate. Curling tongs sat heating in the embers. “It’s cold in this stone building, don’t you think?”
“Not particularly.”
Her mother’s gaze was making her uncomfortable, so she turned to let Harriet unlace her gown. “I’ve been thinking, Mum…”
Shifting back to the mirror, Chrystabel opened a little jar of pomade. “Yes?”
“You’ve always cautioned us to kiss a man before we agree to marry him. I think that is excellent advice. I believe that if I see Ellen again, I shall tell her. Perhaps she’ll find she doesn’t love the pawnbroker, after all.”
Chrystabel slicked the pomade on her lips, then stood and waved Rose toward the stool in her stead. “Love has to do with more than kisses, dear.”
“Well, of course it does!” Rose settled herself, watching in the mirror as Harriet slid the pins from her hair. “But since a woman is expected to kiss her husband, she should at least make sure she likes his technique.”
Leaning forward, Rose darkened her lashes with the end of a burnt cork while Harriet used the hot tongs to fashion perfect ringlets. What a pity the Duke of Bridgewater was such an abysmal kisser. He’d seemed so perfect.
Well, there were other suitable, handsome men at court. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to kiss them all before she found one as talented as Kit.
“Kisses,” Harriet murmured with a sigh.
Chrystabel stepped into high Louis-heeled shoes fashioned of golden brocade to match her gown. “Have you met any men here at Windsor yet, Harriet?”
The girl’s freckles went three shades darker. “Not yet.”
“Harriet’s shy,” Anne put in.
“Well.” Chrystabel straightened and gave her skirts a shake. “We shall have to see about an introduction.”
Rose barely resisted an impulse to snort. Whoever heard of “introductions” for servants? Only her hopelessly romantic mother would even think of such a thing.
“Mum,” she started.
“Yes, dear?”
On the other hand…at least Mum didn’t seem to be foisting any men upon her.
“Never mind,” she said lightly, thanking her lucky stars her mother had found someone else to bedevil.
The last thing she needed was interference in her love life.
Better Chrystabel busy herself matching Harriet.