Trentingham Manor, the South of England

September 1677

Standing in her family's small, crowded chapel, Rose Ashcroft shifted on her high Louis-heeled shoes, wishing she were in a cathedral so there would be somewhere to sit.

Wishing she were anywhere but here watching her sister get married.

"Randal John Charles, Earl of Newcliffe, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." The confident words boomed through the magnificent oak-paneled chamber, binding Rand to Rose's sister Lily.

But Rose wasn't listening to the ceremony. Instead she heard twenty-one, twenty-one, twenty-one running through her head. Twenty-one and a lonely spinster…while both her sisters had found love.

Happy tears brightened their mother's brown eyes. She leaned close, bumping against Rose's left side. "They're perfect together, aren't they?" she whispered.

Rose could only nod dumbly, staring at her sister's petite form laced into a gorgeous pale blue satin wedding dress embroidered with gleaming silver thread. Lily's hair, the same rich sable as Rose's, cascaded to her shoulders in glossy ringlets. Beside her, Rand beamed a smile, looking tall and utterly handsome in dark blue velvet, his gray gaze steady and adoring.

The two were so clearly in love, Rose knew they belonged together—and truly, she was happy for her sister.

If only Lily wasn't her younger sister.

The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. "Lady Lily Ashcroft, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…"

Standing on Rose's right, her older sister Violet shifted one of her twin babies on her hip and gazed up at her husband of four years, Ford. Sun streamed through the stained glass windows, glinting off her spectacles. "Oh, isn't this romantic?" she sighed.

Holding their other infant, Ford squeezed Violet around the shoulders. Seated cross-legged at their feet, their two-year-old son Nicky traced a finger over the patterns in the colorful glazed tile floor, obliviously happy.

Rose gritted her teeth.

Her friend Judith Carrington poked her from behind. "I cannot believe Lily is getting married before I," she whispered in a tone laced with disbelief. "I was betrothed first!"

Rose couldn't believe Lily and Judith would both be married before she even received a proposal.

"…so long as ye both shall live?" the priest concluded expectantly.

In the hush that followed, even knowing it wasn't well done of her, Rose half wished Lily would fail to reply.

But Lily didn't, of course. "I will," she pledged, her voice as sweet as she was, ringing clear and true.

A few more words, a family heirloom ring slid onto her finger, and Lily was clearly and truly wed now, the Countess of Newcliffe.

And Rose was clearly and truly miserable.

When Rand lowered his lips to meet her sister's, Rose turned away. Behind her, Judith was grinning up at her own betrothed—although only a little way up, since his stature was less than impressive. Lord Grenville was five-and-thirty to Judith's twenty, and his pale brown hair was thinning on top, but Rose imagined that the way Judith looked at him made him feel like a king. And he looked down on her in a way that surely made pretty, plump Judith feel like a queen.

Rose wanted someone who'd make her feel like a queen. Good God, a duchess or countess would do. Or even a lowly baroness…

As the years crawled by without a husband on the horizon, she was getting less picky. So long as the man was titled, handsome, rich, and powerful, most anyone was acceptable.

The guests parted as Lily and Rand made their way from the chapel, followed by a cat, a squirrel, and a chirping sparrow.

Rose moved to hug her sister. "It was was beautiful," she murmured. "I'm so happy for you."

She was. Truly she was.

Lily leaned to pick up the cat, straightening with a brilliant smile. "Your turn next."

A hurt retort came to Rose's mind, but she wouldn't snap at her sister on her wedding day. "I'm happy for you, too, Rand," she said instead, rising on her toes to give her sister's new husband a kiss on the cheek. But not too far up on her toes, because Rose was a tall woman. Too tall, perhaps, or too slim, or too quick-tongued…or too something.

There had to be some reason she had yet to find love.

Too intelligent, most likely. At one point, she'd thought Rand might be the man for her. Handsome, titled, and a professor of linguistics at Oxford—surely a good match for Rose, given her own exceptional command of foreign languages. But he'd chosen her little sister.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world," he said now, making Rose feel the unluckiest woman.

She'd had better days.

Lily must have noticed her melancholy expression, because her fingers stopped stroking the cat's striped fur. Concern clouded her lovely aquamarine eyes. "You will be next," she said quietly.

"Undoubtedly so, since I'm the only one left," Rose quipped. "Unless, that is, Rowan manages to find himself a bride before I find a groom."

They both swung to look at their eleven-year-old brother where he stood with Violet's young niece, Jewel, their dark heads close together as they whispered animatedly.

"He may have found himself a bride already," Rose added dryly.

Lily's laughter rang through the chapel, echoing off the molded dome ceiling. "Surely some man will nab you long before Rowan gets it in his head to wed. Why, you're the most beautiful of all of us, Rose!"

Rose had always thought Lily the most beautiful, but she knew she was beautiful, too. Yet beauty, she'd learned, was not enough to hook a husband.

Well-wishers pressed closer. Rose began moving toward the drawing room and found Judith by her side. Forsaking her betrothed, Judith clutched Rose's arm. "Who is that handsome fellow?" she whispered conspiratorially.

Rose slid a glance to the man in question, a friend of Rand's whose gaze tended to skim her body in a way that made her heart pound. She found that more than disturbing, but he certainly didn't pique her interest. "That's Mr. Christopher Martyn—Rand calls him Kit. He's an architect," she added dismissively.

"Christopher Martyn, the architect?" Awe laced Judith's voice. "Hasn't King Charles recently awarded him a contract to renovate Whitehall Palace?"

"Along with Windsor Castle and Hampton Court."

"Ah, a man of intelligence to complement yours." Clearly Judith considered the man's lack of a title no impediment. "No need for you to play the featherbrained coquette for him."

"I've no interest in him. And I've never acted featherbrained." Perhaps Rose was prone to a bit of flirting, but she knew for a fact that flattery was the way to a man's heart. On her sisters' advice, she'd tried to win Rand by appealing to his intellect, but that hadn't worked at all. Never again would she attempt to attract a man by flaunting her brains. No matter what her family or Judith said, she knew there were better ways to entice men.

Unfortunately, where Rand was concerned, she'd come to that conclusion too late. To her intense embarrassment, she'd stooped to propositioning him in her family's summerhouse, and when that hadn't worked, desperation had driven her to attempt bribery and trickery of the worst kind.

She couldn't imagine what had come over her that day and had feared she'd never be able to look Rand in the face again. But to her utter relief he seemed at ease with her, as though he'd forgotten that humiliating episode.

"You cannot tell me," Judith whispered, dragging Rose back to the present, "that you don't find Mr. Martyn attractive."

Rose slanted Kit another covert look. Dressed in forest-toned velvet, he was tall and lean, his hair dark as jet, his eyes a startling mix of brown and green. She dredged up a wry smile. "I'd have to be blind to claim that."

"And he looks ever so nice. Is he not nice?"

"He's nice enough." Except for those unusual eyes, which were decidedly not nice. Wicked would be a better description.

"And good Lord, he's building things for the king! I'm certain he has money—"

"Money," Rose interrupted pointedly, "does not make up for lack of a title."

Her sister Violet walked up, sans children for once. "Who needs a title?"

Judith crossed her arms. "Lady Rose apparently wishes to become Lady Something-Higher."

"Oh, well." Violet sent Rose an indulgent smile. "That's only because she has yet to fall in love."

"You're right about that," Rose agreed. "And given that it's as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, I've decided to concentrate on the former."

As they returned to their respective men, Violet and Judith exchanged a glance that set Rose's teeth on edge.

Since Lily had given their mother barely two weeks to plan the event, the wedding party was small. Still, there were more than enough guests to fill the drawing room and spill out onto the Palladian portico and into the exquisite gardens. Trentingham Manor was known for its gardens, thanks to Rose's father and his passion for flowers and plants.

But it was a warm, sunny day, and Rose feared for her creamy complexion, so she opted to stay indoors. She wandered the crowded drawing room, sipping from a goblet of the new and frightfully expensive champagne her parents favored for celebrations. Although she enjoyed sharing a word or two with various relatives and neighbors, she was generally feeling at loose ends, not quite sure what to do with herself.

Until she heard her father's voice and turned to see him addressing Kit Martyn.

"…one of those newfangled greenhouses," Lord Trentingham was saying. "On the east side of the house, I'm thinking, to catch the morning sun. Since autumn is nearly upon us, I'd be much obliged if you could build it immediately."

Rose couldn't believe her ears. It was the second time her father had asked the esteemed architect to build him a lowly greenhouse. Half tempted to ball up the lacy handkerchief that was tucked in her sleeve and stuff it into her father's mouth, she hurried to join them.

"Mr. Martyn builds things for the king, Father! Palaces, for God's sake. He hasn't—"

"Well, not quite palaces," Kit interrupted. "Renovations to palaces, additions to palaces, but I've yet to build an entire—"

"See?" Rose met her father's deep green eyes, speaking loudly and slowly to make sure he could hear her over the hubbub of the celebration. "Palaces. He hasn't the time to build you a greenhouse."

Kit sipped from his own goblet of champagne, then grinned at Rose's father. "Oh, I think I might find the time," he disagreed, his words infused with a hint of laughter. "In exchange for a dance with your beautiful daughter."

He shifted to look at Rose, making it clear which daughter he meant. His green-brown gaze swept her lazily, almost as though he were mentally undressing her…and if his expression was any indication, he plainly liked the results.

Lord Trentingham frowned. "My bountiful bother?"

Kit looked confused, and Rose knew she should remind him that her father was hard of hearing at the best of times—and in a crowded room, he was all but deaf.

But she couldn't seem to speak. The audacity of the man, thinking he could trade a building for time in her company. Surely her father would never—

"I'll be most pleased to build your greenhouse," Kit reiterated, "if your lovely daughter will oblige me with a dance."

"Oblige you with advance?"

Understanding dawned in Kit's eyes. "A dance," he shouted. "May I have the honor of a dance with Lady Rose?"

"Yes. Of course," her father said. "Now, about that greenhouse—"

"I'll do a preliminary design before I leave," Kit all but bellowed.

"Excellent." Lord Trentingham turned a vague smile in Rose's direction. "Run along, dear. Dance with the man."

Her mouth dropped open, then shut when she found herself propelled from the drawing room by a warm hand at her back. Before she could open her mouth again to protest, she was stepping out onto the covered portico, which had been pressed into service as a dance floor.

A dance, she told herself. It was only a dance.

Three musicians in one corner were playing a minuet, a graceful dance that facilitated conversation. The wedding guests chatted and flirted, their shoes brushing the brick paving in unison. Though the dance was already in progress, Kit handed both their champagne goblets to a passing maid, took Rose's hands, and swept her into the throng.

She'd never touched him—certainly not skin to skin—and the contact reminded her just how attractive she'd thought him the first time they met. The mere sight of him had set her blood to singing inside her. But that, of course, had been before she'd discovered he was a plain Mister. Since then, seeing him had had no effect on her at all.

So it was disconcerting to find that touching him now seemed to make the champagne bubbles dance in her stomach.

"Lovely Corinthian capitals on the columns and pilasters," Kit noted, ever the architect. "Do you know if they were carved by someone of note?"

She pliéd and stepped forward with her right foot at the same time she finally found her tongue. "Edward Marshall, who also carved the Ashcroft family arms in the pediment. And in future, please keep in mind that there's no need to ask my father's permission for a dance. Ashcroft women make their own decisions."

"So Rand has told me," Kit said, breezing over the implication that she might have refused him.

They rose on their toes, and when he pulled her closer, she caught a whiff of his scent. A woodsy fragrance with a base of frankincense and myrrh. It smelled nice, she thought, wondering if she could duplicate it in her mother's perfumery.

"I'll keep that in mind," he added. "But your family is an odd one. I don't allow my sister to make her own decisions. Not the important ones, in any case."

She felt sorry for his sister. "Our family motto is Interroga Conformationem."

He looked at her blankly.

"Question Convention," she translated. What sort of educated man didn't know Latin? Certainly not one she'd ever consider husband material.

It was a good thing he wasn't in the running.

They each dropped hands to turn in place, then he grasped her fingers again. "Is it true, as Rand said, that your father allows his daughters to choose their own husbands as well?"

She noticed Lily and Rand dancing together—much closer than the dance required. Surprisingly, envy didn't clutch at her heart. She only smiled. "Yes."

"In future, I'll keep that in mind," Kit said with a disarming grin.

In lieu of gasping at his impertinence, Rose gazed across the wide daisy-strewn lawn toward the Thames while she struggled to reclaim her composure. She was wording a retort in her head when Rowan raced onto the portico, looking like a miniature version of their father in a burgundy suit with his long midnight hair streaming behind him.

A quite ordinary-looking man followed more sedately, but as he wore red and white—the king's livery—he attracted more attention.

The musicians stopped playing, and the dancers ground to a halt.

"There he is," Rowan said, pointing to Kit in the sudden silence. "Mr. Christopher Martyn, the man you seek."

---

"If I may speak to you in private, sir," the messenger said. "I bring word from His Majesty."

Kit nodded and stepped off the portico, silently leading the way to the summerhouse he'd spotted earlier. He felt the eyes of the other wedding guests following him and heard their speculative murmurs, but the sudden appearance of the king's man didn't intrigue him as it did them. He was, after all, completing several Royal projects. Likely Charles simply wanted a change.

As Kit crossed Lord Trentingham's celebrated gardens, he thought instead of Rose, vaguely wondering where he'd found the nerve to imply he might be interested in marriage. He'd been drawn to her when they first met, but quickly dismissed it when she failed to respond to his advances. There were plenty of women in the world, and feelings of attraction toward one was no novelty.

But today she'd sipped champagne, and he'd noticed her lips were made for kissing. And he'd taken her hands and felt something like a punch to his gut. And she'd challenged him verbally, and those words had jumped out of his mouth.

Ludicrous words. As a man who'd never wanted for female attention, he was frustrated by Lady Rose's obvious disinterest, but deep down he knew that pursuing her was an absurd waste of time. Although he thought her lovely and intelligent—he'd watched her decipher a coded diary weeks earlier and been nothing short of astonished—he had no illusions of winning Lady Rose. Or, for that matter, any Lady at all. He knew his place in the world.

Commoner, through and through.

His best friend might be an earl who'd grown up in a mansion, but he'd been raised in a single-room cottage. No Martyn had ever borne a title. Before him, he doubted any Martyn had ever even considered the possibility.

He knew that, social perceptions aside, he was damn well as good as anyone else. But he was also well aware that he wasn't considered good enough for the Earl of Trentingham's daughter. And wishing things were different would never make it so.

At least, not in the near future.

The circular red-brick summerhouse was a small building with classic Palladian lines. He ushered the King's man inside. Owing to the admirable design—large arched windows over each of the four doors—it was bright beneath the cool, shaded dome.

Bright enough to make out the seriousness in the messenger's eyes.

Apprehension soured the champagne in Kit's stomach. "Yes?" he asked.

The man's words were anything but reassuring. "This concerns one of your projects. I've been sent to advise you that the ceiling at Windsor Castle is falling—"

"Falling? Has anyone been hurt?"

"I should say chunks of plaster have fallen—not the ceiling itself. But it's sagging, and there are many cracks. There have been no injuries, but His Majesty wanted you to know—"

"I understand." Kit understood Charles's underlying message all too well. If he failed to complete this project on time and satisfactorily, his dream of being appointed Deputy Surveyor—a step toward someday becoming Surveyor General of the King's Works, the official Royal architect—would be good as dead.

And without that, the rest of his dreams—his plans to obtain a title for himself and marry his sister Ellen to a peer of the realm—would die along with it.

He yanked the door back open. "I shall depart for Windsor posthaste."

"Sir." The man bowed and preceded him outside.

Back at the house, Kit looked around for Rand, but his friend was nowhere to be found. He went instead to give his apologies to his hostess. "Forgive me, Lady Trentingham, but I must take my leave. There's a problem at Windsor Castle. I cannot seem to locate Rand—"

"He and Lily have a habit of disappearing," she told him with a suggestive twinkle in her eye that took him by surprise. She was, after all, the girl's mother. But then her brown eyes turned sympathetic. "I'll explain," she added. "He'll understand."

In no time at all, Kit was settled in his carriage, rubbing the back of his neck as the vehicle lumbered its way toward Windsor.

Could he possibly have made an error in designing Windsor's new dining room? Had a flaw in the plans gone unnoticed? He unrolled the extra set he always carried, spreading the linen they were drawn on over his lap. But he couldn't seem to concentrate.

Especially when his carriage jostled past the village of Hawkridge, where he'd grown up.

Toying with the small, worn chunk of brick he carried in his pocket—a chip off his first building—he found himself gazing out the window as memories assaulted him. Nights whiled away in his family's snug cottage, he and Ellen playing on the floor while his mother read by the fire. Days spent with his father, learning carpentry and building. Afternoons fishing with the local nobleman's son, Lord Randal Nesbitt, both of them starved for companionship their age.

That felt like a lifetime ago. Rand was married now, a man who declared himself in love. As for Kit, love wasn't high on his list of priorities.

A luxury, love was, and one Kit felt quite capable of living without. After all, love had done his parents no favors. They'd been happy together, content with their simple lot in life—and both ended up in early graves.

That wasn't going to happen to Kit or his sister.

For twelve years—through school, university, and a quickly rising reputation—he had dedicated himself to one goal. The Deputy Surveyor post was almost within his grasp.

He couldn't fail now.

---

"You look melancholy," Rose's mother said later that evening. Standing with Rose in her perfumery, Chrystabel picked over the many flower arrangements on her large wooden worktable, plucking out the marigolds. "Why the long face, dear? Are you sad to see your creations destroyed?"

"Of course not." Rose added a purple aster to a pile of flowers and some ivy to a bunch of greens. She looked up and forced what she hoped sounded like a romantic sigh. "The wedding was beautiful, wasn't it?"

"Made more so by your lovely flowers." Rose had filled the house with towering creations made of posies cut from her father's gardens. "Which is why," her mother added, "I thought—"

"I don't care what becomes of my flower arrangements. Honestly, Mum, it makes no sense to let the blooms wither and die when we can turn them into essential oils for your perfumes. I don't mind in the least." With a bit more force than was necessary, Rose tugged two lilies from the vases and tossed them onto the table. "Whatever happened to Kit Martyn, do you know?" she asked in an attempt to change the subject.

"That messenger brought news of a problem with one of his projects. He had to leave."

"Which project?" Rose asked.

"He didn't say. Or perhaps I don't remember." Chrystabel fixed her with a piercing gaze. A motherly gaze. "Does it matter?"

"Of course not. It was only idle curiosity." A headache threatened, pulsing in Rose's temples. "Why should I care what happens to the man's projects?"

"You danced with him—"

"Father traded that dance for a greenhouse. It meant nothing."

Her mother nodded thoughtfully, beginning to pluck petals from a bunch of striped snapdragons. "You just look melancholy."

If Rose wasn't already suffering from a headache, that swift change back to the original subject might have prompted one. She lifted the lid off the gleaming glass and metal distillery that Ford had made for her mother while he was courting Violet. "It's nothing, Mum."

"It doesn't bother you that your younger sister is wed?"

"Why shouldn't I wish her happy?" She was chagrined to hear her voice crack. "I do, Mum, I vow and swear it."

"It's no failing of yours, dear, that Lily found love first."

"Stuck as we are in the countryside, it's a wonder she found a man at all, whether she loves him or not." It was an ancient complaint, but in her present mood Rose had no compunctions against dragging it out again. "We hardly ever get to London, or anywhere else we might meet eligible—"

"You have a point," Mum interrupted.

"Pardon?" Rose blinked.

"You heard me. You haven't much opportunity here to meet men." Chrystabel tossed the pink petals into the distillery's large glass bulb. "I'm thinking that we—you and I—should attend court."

"Court?" Rose decided she couldn't be hearing right. One of them had clearly drunk too much champagne. "As in King Charles's court?"

"I believe they're at Windsor now—they do move around, as you may know."

"What I know is that you and Father have always claimed court is no place for proper young ladies."

"Well, you're not so young anymore," Chrystabel said, then came to wrap an arm around Rose when she winced. "I didn't mean it that way, dear. But you're one-and-twenty now, a woman grown. And I will be there to chaperone. It's perfectly acceptable."

It was more than acceptable, Rose knew—girls as young as fifteen went to court, many of them unchaperoned. And she also knew the licentious men there treated them like full-grown women. Violet had been to court with Ford, and she'd come back with stories that had made Rose's eyes widen.

A little part of her wondered if this was really such a grand idea.

But she wasn't going to argue when faced with such surprising good fortune. "Gemini, I'd best go talk to Harriet. She'll doubtless need to alter some of my gowns, and it will take me hours to decide what to bring before she can even begin."

"There's no time for alterations, dear." In opposition to Rose, whose stomach was churning with excitement, Chrystabel calmly plucked petals. "I mean to leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Rose dropped the stem in her hand. "Tomorrow?"

"There's no time like the present," her mother said with an enigmatic smile.

At another time, Rose might have been vexed at the implication that she was only getting more spinsterish as the days sped by. But this was no time to be touchy.

No, it was time to prepare.

She was going to court! Leaving her flowers on the table, she rushed to her chamber to pack.

---

"What a day." Chrystabel slipped beneath the counterpane to join her husband in bed, sinking into the mattress as she relaxed for the first time in what seemed like weeks. "Thank God they're married at last."

"I suspect you're really thanking God they can no longer create a child out of wedlock," Joseph teased, leaning up to kiss her lightly on the lips. He lowered himself to an elbow, smiling into her eyes, his own a deep, sparkling green.

She pushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead. "Well, there is that," she admitted. When Lily and Rand's marriage plans had been threatened by Rand's father, she'd been mortified to realize she'd allowed them to share a bed before her daughter was safely wed. It had seemed a fine idea at the time, but it wouldn't be happening again with Rose—or Rowan, for that matter.

Chrystabel reckoned she could learn from her mistakes.

"But mostly," she added, "I'm just gladdened to see them happy at last. Everything worked out."

"It usually does," said her ever-practical husband.

She released a contented sigh. "Another wedding."

"Another wedding night," he responded with a lustful grin.

A tradition, their wedding nights. That was one of the reasons she so loved arranging other people's marriages. Not that either of them needed an excuse to make love, but there was something thrilling about watching a wedding while anticipating their own wedding night to come.

She smiled as he kissed her again, then moaned when he slipped a hand beneath her night rail's neckline to caress a sensitive breast. For long minutes they said nothing, their breathing growing louder and more ragged in the stillness of their thick-walled room.

Here, in their quiet, private chamber, her Joseph could hear whatever she said. Every word, those spoken as well as the silent ones that passed between two as attuned as they.

But they didn't need words now. Actions would do. A brush of lips, warm skimming hands. Bodies coming together, creating a thrill that the years had done nothing to dim. Soft cries filled the chamber, matched by a low groan of pleasure that echoed into the night.

When their hearts had calmed, when Joseph leaned away to blow out the single remaining candle, Chrystabel sighed. "I'll miss you."

"Where are you going?" The words vibrated against her throat where he'd settled back into her arms.

"I'm thinking to take Rose to court at Windsor. With your permission, of course," she rushed to add, knowing he would never deny her.

"Court? Do you expect that's wise? The men there—"

"I'll watch her like a hawk. And rest assured, there's not a man at court I want for Rose. She belongs with Kit Martyn. He's at Windsor as we sleep, checking on a project—"

"Kit Martyn? Chrysanthemum my love, I know you fancy yourself a matchmaker, but Rose has shown no interest—"

"Which is exactly why he's the perfect man for her."

Joseph lifted his head and searched her eyes in the dim, flickering light from the fire. "Come again?"

"You know how she is. As soon as she sets her sights on a man, the act begins. The flirting. The flattering. Don't you see? She has a much better chance of winning a man she thinks she doesn't want. With Kit she'll be herself. Charming, intelligent, sharp-witted….why, he cannot fail but fall in love with her."

"I suspect he's taken with her already," Joseph said dryly. "But what good will that do if she doesn't fall for him? We've promised her she can choose her own husband."

"Making her fall," Chrystabel said, "will be Kit's problem, and I've no doubt he's up to the task. I need only provide the opportunity."

"You cannot push, Chrysanthemum."

Her laugh tinkled through the darkness. "I would never. I know full well our daughters pledged to avoid me arranging their marriages. Yet I managed to match both Violet and Lily without either being the wiser, didn't I? Have no fear, darling—Rose's romance will follow suit. And she'll have no idea I was behind it."

---