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 had challenged the earl to a duel.
Over her.
Ignoring all etiquette, Bridgewater didn’t give the man till morning. Instead he dragged him from the building and into Clock Court. The courtiers followed en masse. Rose snapped from her trance and hurried after them, fearing for Gabriel’s life.
She heard the clash of swords before she reached the courtyard, but the cheers and catcalls from the crowd of onlookers were even louder. The men’s rapiers flashed in the torchlight. Her heart pounding, she wedged herself into the circle, wincing at each ringing bash.
It wasn’t long, however, before her concern for Gabriel turned to terror on behalf of the poor earl.
The man obviously paid more attention to his wardrobe than his swordsmanship, because it rapidly became clear that the duke was but toying with him. A flick here, and a few of the man’s precious buttons went missing from his coat. A swipe there, and half his lace cravat fluttered to the stones. Featherstonehaugh waved his own sword so ineffectively that Rose reckoned even she could do better.
Raging anger was evident in Gabriel’s eyes, in his clenched jaw, in his carefully controlled movements. Panic clutched at Rose’s throat. The rutting lout had acted abominably, but she had no wish to witness his death, most especially if it happened in defense of her.
“Gabriel!” she shouted, taking a step forward and then another when he paid her no attention. “Don’t kill him! Gabriel, don’t—”
“Hush,” came a voice from the crowd. Warm arms went around her from behind, pulling her back into the circle as a familiar scent of frankincense and myrrh enveloped her.
“Don’t distract him,” Kit said quietly in her ear. “Even an expert can falter if his attention is elsewhere. You don’t want to be responsible for the duke’s death.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for the earl’s murder, either!”
“Hush.” One of his hands came up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “This cannot be more than a tiff. It won’t come to that.”
“But what if it does?” she wailed, trying to struggle free.
His arms tightened. “Just watch. The duke is all but finished.”
And so he was. He’d run out of buttons to flick off the other man’s coat, and although not a drop of blood had been spilled, the brocade itself was in shreds. In addition to being half naked, the earl was thoroughly humiliated.
Disgust marring his fine features, Gabriel knocked the sword from Featherstonehaugh’s hand with an easy twist of his wrist. Then, while the earl was busy gasping, he reached out and nicked him under his chin—a cut so tiny only a single bead of red leaked out.
“First blood,” he claimed as he shoved his rapier back into its scabbard. “You lose. Touch her again and your head will come off next time.”
It was over. Kit’s arms dropped from around Rose as babbling broke out among the assembled courtiers. She couldn’t tell whether the chatter signaled approval or disappointment. Maybe it was a bit of both.
Louise de Kéroualle turned to her, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Nothing this exciting has happened in weeks!”
Rose suspected the duchess was happy to see everyone’s attention focused on something other than her embarrassing black eye, which had made her the butt of much nasty teasing. But better everyone look to Louise for their entertainment. Now that the spectacle had ended, more than one gaze shifted Rose’s way. Ladies whispered behind their fans. She couldn’t fathom what they were saying, but she wanted no part of this.
She turned to Kit. “Take me away from here.”
“Lady Rose!” Courtiers dispersed as Gabriel strode toward her. “I’d like a word with you, if you will.”
Kit shrugged, swiped a roll of linen off the ground, and walked away.
Rose faced the duke. “Yes?”
“In private.”
Still shaky, she let him take her arm and lead her from the courtyard, under Henry VIII’s clock tower, and into Base Court. Her high heels wobbled on the cobblestone paths that crisscrossed the grass, but Gabriel seemed happy enough to steady her. In the galleries, a few lights flickered from apartments where courtiers had sought their lodgings, but the night was still young, and most everyone was returning to the Presence Chamber.
“My dear Rose,” Gabriel started.
“A duel!” she interrupted loudly, the words echoing in the deserted courtyard. “I cannot believe you challenged that fool to a duel.”
He hurried her into one of the galleries. The corridor was breezy, but the torches along the walls gave off heat as well as light. “I will never let anyone impugn your honor,” he said gallantly.
“I appreciate your sentiments, your grace, but a duel!” The red tiles here were smoother than the cobblestones beneath her feet. She felt steadier, more in control. True, part of her had been secretly thrilled to see a man—a duke, no less!—leap to defend her honor. But a larger part had been terrified. “Not only is dueling barbaric, it’s illegal.”
As they walked past a diamond-paned window, the glass reflected his elegant shrug. “I don’t see anyone rushing to arrest me. Featherstonehaugh deserved it.”
“That may be, but I was taking care of him myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to take care of yourself.” They heard the low murmur of people talking in an apartment, and he waited until they’d strolled past it. “Rose, I want to take care of you. I wish to make you my wife.”
She stopped walking, the corridor suddenly silent without the rhythmic clicks of her heels. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
He turned to face her and crowded her against the brick wall. It felt rough and cool behind her back. “Yes,” he said. “I’m not very good at this, am I? I’m better with actions than words.”
He was a duke, and surely that was good enough. A duke, asking for her hand. He tilted his head and moved nearer, brushing her lips with his. His technique really wasn’t that bad. He didn’t smell of frankincense and myrrh, but he didn’t smell unpleasant, either. And he was a duke.
“Rose, will you marry me?”
Of course she would. She wasn’t brainless. She opened her mouth. This was what she’d been waiting for. “No.”
She blinked and felt as surprised as Gabriel looked. “I’m sorry,” she added quickly. Out of habit she almost added that her heart belonged to another, but surely that wasn’t true. “I must go,” she said instead.
Avoiding his stunned gaze, she sidestepped free and ran down the gallery toward her lodging. The heavy old door creaked when she opened it. She slammed it shut and leaned back against the thick wood, a hand to her trembling mouth.
How could she have refused him? Had she not been waiting for this proposal? Had she not come here to Hampton Court hoping to receive it? Had she not refused other perfectly suitable men because she wanted a duke?
How could she have turned down a duke—and a perfectly nice one, at that? One who had fought and risked his life for her? Never mind that he’d fenced circles around the earl—he couldn’t have known the man was so incompetent when he issued the challenge.
There was nothing for it. She would have to seek him out and change her answer to yes.
But not tonight. She couldn’t face him tonight. Furious at herself, she straightened and wandered toward the bedchamber. “Mum? Harriet?”
It was empty. “Harriet, where are you?”
No one was here. Not her mother, not her maid, not her mother’s maid, either. She threw herself facedown on the bed.
The boned bodice of her gown poked into her, so after a moment she rolled over. But there were whalebone splints in the back, too, not to mention the bulky lacing that ran down her spine.
Where the devil was Harriet? Rose cursed the maid along with whatever fool was responsible for dictating court fashion. She’d claimed to be able to care for herself—well, she could slap an impudent courtier, all right, but she couldn’t manage to undress herself when her blasted gown was laced down her back.
The apartment was too silent. She sat up and sighed. She didn’t really want to undress—she’d been hoping to finally try gaming tonight.
But first she would take a walk—a calming walk, out in Hampton Court’s immense public gardens—and steel herself to change her answer to Gabriel tomorrow.
She’d bet the Duchess of Bridgewater would never find herself without a maid.