Rose (Flower Trilogy) (15 page)

’Twas all she could do to keep from tearing her own clothes off. This would never, ever do.

“Kit,” she sighed.

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 . . . this is not right.”

He paused a long, heart-stopping moment before stepping away. Then he took her hand and started down the path.

“I think, dear Rose, it is very right,” he said after a while.

“And I think in time you will agree.”

’Twas a good thing he was just a friend, because she was afraid she might agree already.

“ Lady Trentingham?”

Chrystabel turned to the Duke of Bridgewater and took note of his troubled expression. “Yes?”

“Your daughter is missing.”

“Oh?” Poor man, he really seemed to care. “Whatever makes you think that?”

“She went off over an hour ago. I . . . I was hoping she’d return within a reasonable time so I’d have no need to alarm you—”

Feeling sorry for him, she laid a hand on his arm. “Kit Martyn is a friend of the family. I asked him to escort her.”

“Back to your apartments?” When she didn’t answer, he apparently took that for an affirmative. “She did say she felt peaked. Will she be returning later this evening?”

“I’m not certain,” Chrystabel said slowly, feeling a twinge of guilt for misleading him. But she hadn’t really lied, had she? She’d only allowed him to jump to a conclusion. He truly did seem concerned. A pity he was all wrong for Rose—too dull and unchallenging.

Although her daughter would make her own decision, Chrystabel had no doubt that, with her subtle help, in the end she would choose the right man.

Bridgewater suddenly frowned. “Besides Lady Rose, it seems a number of other ladies have gone missing.”

Chrystabel looked around, surprised to find he was right.

There were noticeably fewer women than there had been earlier. The abandoned men shifted restlessly, standing in little groups and talking about God knew what.

“Do you expect they are all feeling peaked?” Bridgewater asked. “Perhaps the prawns were bad.”

“You men ate prawns, too, did you not?” Dull, just as she’d thought. But his heart was in the right place. “Oh, here comes Rose now.”

Her daughter’s step was lighter, her cheeks pinkened from the fresh night air—and perhaps an encounter with Kit.

Chrystabel could only hope.

Bridgewater swept Rose a bow. “We missed you, my lady.”

“Did you?” she murmured distractedly.

Chrystabel took that as a good sign. If Rose was failing to flirt with a
duke,
she must have another man on her mind.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.

“I . . . um . . . not really, I’m afraid. I . . . I just returned for my cloak.”

“You’re wearing a cloak,” he pointed out.

“Oh.” She blinked. “I borrowed this one.” She unfastened the gray wool garment and shrugged it off, handing it to Chrystabel. “Will you both excuse me?”

The attiring room was so crowded, Rose had to edge her way inside.

“Marry come up!” a lady was saying. “Will you look at this? How do you expect it works?”

“Very well, I can assure you,” another courtier said smugly.

“But this”—there was a pause during which Rose heard pages flipping—“
this
looks bloody uncomfortable.”

As a mass, the women all leaned closer. “Uncomfortable for the man,” a high-pitched voice put in. “But I’d like to be that lady!”

Amid laughter, Rose worked herself toward the center.

And then froze. Eleven—no, twelve—courtiers were huddled over Ellen’s book.

She was starting to back away when one of them glanced up. “Lady Rose! Could this book be yours?”

“Mine?”

The pimply, black-haired Lady W held up Rose’s purple cloak. “We found it under this. ’Tis yours, is it not?”

“The cloak, yes. But the book . . .” She couldn’t leave it here, so there was no sense in lying. “It belongs to a friend,” she said, holding her head high. After all, given the behavior she’d witnessed here at Court, these women had no call to think her a wanton—not for simply having a book.

“A friend? Wherever did he find it?”

“She,” Rose corrected. “And why? Have you heard of this book?”

“Heard of it?” A plump brunette sighed. “Why,
I Sonetti
Lussuriosi
is known far and wide.” She pronounced the Italian words with a horrible English accent. “ ’Twas suppressed by the Vatican in the last century; did you not know? There are few copies surviving, and many men searching for them.”

“And women,” someone added, prompting giggles.

“Lord Chauncey has a set of the engravings on his bedchamber walls,” one lady slyly informed them. “I’ve seen them.”

“A crude set,” a second lady put in. “Copies. Nothing like the fine artistry of these originals.”

“You’ve seen them, too?” a third lady asked.

“You haven’t?” a fourth replied with an arched brow.

From the laughter that ensued, Rose concluded that Lady Number Three—and she—were the only women at Court who hadn’t found their way into Lord Chauncey’s bedchamber.

Odds were
he
might be a good kisser. Unfortunately, he also sounded like a terrible rake.

A wistful sigh came from one of the ladies. “I do so wish I could read Italian. These sonnets must be fascinating indeed.”

“That they are,” Rose said.

As one, the assembled group stopped staring at the book and swung to her instead. A few of them sidled closer. “Can
you
read Italian?” one of them asked. Or rather, slurred.

She was wearing the newly fashionable plumpers—cork balls inside her cheeks to round out her face.

Rose nodded. “Yes, I can read it.” Perhaps it wasn’t considered ladylike to study languages, but she was far past trying to impress these women.

And oddly enough, they didn’t seem disapproving at all.

Quite the contrary. “Will you read this book to us?” one asked.

Rose’s face flamed at the thought. “I . . . I don’t read Italian that well,” she fibbed. “Not well enough to read aloud.”

They all sighed together rather theatrically.

“But I am translating the sonnets for a friend,” she found herself telling them. “One at a time. I could bring the written translations to Court, too, if you’d like.”

The brunette’s overly made-up eyes widened at this offer.

“Would you?”

The pimply Lady W smiled. “We would be most grateful.”

“Mosht grateful,” slurred the woman with the plumpers.

The blond Lady W stepped forward. “I must say, dear Lady Rose, that is very kind of you indeed. I am so pleased to have made your acquaintance here at Court.”

’Twas a good ten more minutes before Rose managed to make her way out of the attiring room,
I Sonetti
hidden under her cloak. ’Twas another hour before her mother had fallen asleep and she could sneak from their bedchamber into the tiny attached sitting room. She closed the door between the two rooms quietly, then lit a candle, fetched paper and ink, and set to work.

In the old days, she would have feasted her eyes on the engravings first thing, but she was determined to become a new, better Rose. She would not allow herself to look at the pictures until she’d translated the first sonnet for Ellen.

It proved an exercise in frustration. She worked until the candle guttered and she had to light another. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to make the English sound like a sonnet.

Let us make love, my beloved,

quickly, for we were made to make love.

And if you adore my yard,

then I will love your seat of womanly pleasure.

The world would be worthless without this.

And if it were possible to make love after death,
let us make love until we die of it,
and then make love to Eve and Adam,
who found death so distasteful.

Truly and verily,

if the scoundrels had not eaten forbidden fruit,
I know not whether the lovers would have been contented.

But let us stop speculating, and drive your yard into my core,
until my spirit comes alive and then dies.

And if it be possible, push even more of you inside me,
So we should witness every pleasure of making love.

’Twould have to do, she finally decided—Ellen had said that Thomas didn’t care for sonnets, anyway. A clock on the mantel was striking three when at last she allowed her gaze to stray to the drawing.

’Twas nice, as she’d remembered. Bare skin notwithstanding, the couple looked relaxed, the pose romantic.

Their arms were wrapped around each other, their lips meeting above while their bodies met below. As Rose studied the picture, that slow heat started building again in her middle.

She imagined herself with one special man, and the heat built to an ache. This, she realized suddenly, could be beautiful.

Releasing a shuddering sigh, she turned to the second engraving, and then the third and the fourth—the one where the man and woman were reaching out to touch each other.

Her cheeks burned, no matter that she was there alone. Unable to resist, she flipped to Position Five, an engraving she had yet to see.

The man sat on the edge of a bed, the woman on his lap, facing away. She was reaching between her own legs and back to grab his . . . yard and guide it into herself. . . .

Rose swallowed hard and forced her gaze to the words.

Such pleasure I feel with my yard in your hand,
I shall explode . . .

On the next page, the woman had settled on the man’s lap.

You are filling me, thrilling me,
and I could stay seated here for a year.

And then she was lying on the floor, the man standing over her, holding her raised legs.

Spread your thighs, let me see your lovely bottom
and your seat of womanly pleasure.

The sight makes me pulse with passion,
and I’ve a sudden urge to kiss you . . .

Ah, she remembered the kisses. Kit’s kisses. And the thought of her on the floor, a man standing above . . . a certain man . . .

That ache was intensifying. A yearning ache, all but unbearable. Right where the man in the drawing was looking.

Spread your thighs . . .

Quickly she flipped another page and froze, staring.

Will you look at this?
she remembered a high-pitched voice saying.
How do you expect it works? This looks
bloody uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable, indeed. Why, the lady was practically folded in half, and . . . Good God. Rose’s hand fluttered up to her throat. Would her husband expect her to
do
this?

Position Nine was even worse, and Position Ten—did bodies twist like that? In Eleven the woman arched on one elbow and foot, her other leg raised in the air, while the man—

Gemini. If this was what awaited her in her marriage bed, she’d as soon remain a spinster. She flipped hurriedly through the rest of the engravings, sixteen in all, and finally slammed the book shut.

Shaking, she hid it carefully, then folded the translation and tucked it into her embroidered drawstring purse. As the clock struck four, she tiptoed back into the bedchamber and slid beneath the covers, leaving a lamp burning low as always.

But sleep eluded her as the pictures played over and over in her head.

Did her sisters do these things? Were Lily and Rand doing them even now?
Aristotle’s Masterpiece
had warned there would be “some little pain” the first time, and Rose had never worried about that. But from what she could see, there must be pain
every
time. And not a little, either. She ached just
thinking
about those positions.

The fire in the grate sputtered and died, leaving naught but glowing embers—and still Rose lay sleepless. At long last, she forced herself to remember the first engraving.

The beautiful one.

Her skin tingled where the sheets seemed to caress her . . . and she wished they were male hands instead. The man in the engraving hadn’t had a clear face. She shut her eyes tight and tried to picture the duke.

But the face she saw was Kit’s.

“ Did you not sleep well, dear?” Chrystabel frowned as Rose yawned for the dozenth time. “Perhaps you should go back to bed.”

“I slept fine, Mum.” And she had—for the three hours she’d actually slept. “I overslept, in fact. ’Tis after ten already, and I promised Ellen I’d visit her at the pawnshop this morning.”

“The pawnshop?”

She crossed to the window to check the weather. “I never made it back to the bookshop yesterday, and Ellen said the pawnshop has books. Foreign books. And I need to return her cloak.” It looked sunny, so she decided against wearing her own. “ ’Tis amazing how quickly we’ve become friends.”

“Sometimes friendships are meant to be. Just like some men and women belong together.”

“Like the ones you introduce to be married?” With an indulgent laugh, Rose turned from the window. She grabbed her little purse, slid the cord over her wrist, and draped Ellen’s cloak over one arm. “The Court leaves today for Hampton; did you know that?”

“Of course.”

“Will we go with them?”

“Do you wish to?”

“I’m not sure.” Rose didn’t want to make this decision.

She watched her mother pick up her own drawstring purse.

“Where are you going?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you go to the pawnshop alone, did you? A young lady does not parade around town on her own.”

Plenty of young ladies did, but Rose didn’t feel like arguing. She only hoped she would be able to slip Ellen the translated sonnet without Chrystabel noticing. Not that anything was wrong with what she was doing . . . but it wasn’t something she felt like sharing with her mother.

Outdoors, the courtyards were abuzz with servants hauling luggage. There was no sign of any courtiers, however.