Rose (Flower Trilogy) by Lauren Royal Page A

wet, but not totally disgusting. “Lord Cravenhurst at your service.”
    His voice wasn’t too grating, and, unlike the last man, she guessed he’d bathed within the week. His perfume was light and not too cloying. Perhaps he’d ask her to dance before claiming a kiss. That would be nice.
    But she was not to be so lucky. He leaned close, sneaking a peek at himself in the silver-framed mirror above the table. “I hear you enjoy kissing,” he uttered in a confidential tone.
    Rose fluttered her lashes. “Why, yes, actually, I do.” If it was with the right man.
    Maybe he would be the one.
    Although she would prefer a dance—or sitting somewhere alone where she could put her feet up—she allowed him to guide her behind the curtain again. There was a good view over Eton, but apparently he didn’t feel like looking. One arm came around to clamp her tight, and his mouth descended on hers, parting her lips immediately.
    She dropped her fan. He tasted funny, and his tongue felt slimy. When he snaked a hand down her bodice, she gasped and shoved him away. “I never gave you leave to do that!”
    He didn’t look at all fazed. “I was told you were a wild one.”
    “By whom?”
    He shrugged. “ ’Tis all the buzz.”
    “Well, the buzz is wrong. A kiss is not an invitation to be mauled.” One hand went to cover her probably bruised breast while she tossed open the curtain with the other.
    “Now go out there and tell everyone they were mistaken.”
    “And let them all know you refused my advances? I think not,” he huffed and stalked away.
    She barely had time to catch her breath before another man hurried over.
    The Earl of Rosslyn, Kit’s friend. Since they’d already been introduced, he wasted no time on preliminaries. “My lady,” he said with a bow, “I have it on good faith that you particularly enjoy kissing.”
    The cur. “You’re married!”
    He grinned. “Then you know I have much experience.”

    “What I know is that you’re an adulterer.”
    “Why should that matter?”
    Indeed. Looking around the chamber, she spotted couples in all sorts of embraces, doing everything, it seemed, short of actual coupling—and she had grave doubts that most of them were married. To each other, at least.
    And where was her mother? She might as well have come here by herself for all the chaperoning she was receiving.
    She scooped her folded fan off the floor, half tempted to bash Rosslyn on the nose with it. “Go away,” she told him instead.
    To her vast relief, he did. She aimed a shaky smile at two passing women, but they both pointedly avoided her gaze, whispering behind their fans. And yet another man was headed in her direction.
    The Duke of Bridgewater, she realized, her tension easing. At least he was a real gentleman. He was wearing russet tonight and looked even more aristocratic than she’d remembered. She composed herself as he drew nearer, opening her fan and curving her mouth in welcome.
    “Gabriel,” she greeted softly with a sigh. “Where have you been all this evening?”
    “I was detained until now,” he apologized smoothly,
    “and I’ve dearly missed your company. Was Rosslyn bothering you?”
    In truth she could take care of herself—had she not just proven it? But she sidled up to him, waving the fan coquettishly. “I’m glad you arrived to protect me.”
    “You’re in good hands, my dear.” Looking pleased, he linked an arm through hers and started guiding her toward the terrace.
    Good God, the blasted terrace again.
    “Would you not rather dance?” she asked, then whirled at hearing the meaty sound of a fist connecting with someone’s skull.
    Nell Gwyn’s voice carried across the chamber. “Don’t make me sorry I talked Charles into releasing you from the Tower!” she spat as she stalked off.
    The Duke of Buckingham stood watching her go, his mouth hanging open, one hand held to the spot above his ear where petite Nell’s punch had apparently landed.
    What a woman.