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worried for a moment that he might be offended, but he only laughed. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he conceded good-naturedly.
    In a world filled with promiscuous spouses, her parents were known as uncommonly devoted.
    The dance came to an end, and the King raised her hand to his mouth, pressing warm lips to the back. “ ’Twas a pleasure, my lady. I wish you every success here at Court.”
    For a moment, while he still held her hand, Rose found herself suffused with wonder. Here she was, in the King’s Drawing Room at Windsor Castle, with none other than Charles himself. An experience like this could go to a woman’s head, she thought giddily.
    Then he led her from the dance floor, and she watched him go straight to a girl of no more than seventeen and kiss her soundly on the lips. Rose couldn’t help but notice his queen studiously gazing elsewhere, resignation etched clearly on her small, foreign-looking face.
    Apparently all was not lightness and fun here at the castle.
    But this was Rose’s first evening at Court, not a night for sad contemplation. She looked away, enjoying the spectacle that was Charles’s Court. Gentlemen walked with swaggering, elegant movements, and ladies fluttered exquisitely painted fans.
    “May I claim the pleasure of a dance?”
    Startled, she turned to see a heartbreakingly handsome man. “Absolutely, my lord . . . ?”
    “Bridgewater. The Duke of Bridgewater,” he clarified with a warm smile and a smart bow. Rose was pleased to see he wasn’t carrying one of those foppish ribbon-topped walking sticks.
    And he was a duke! Not only that, a youngish duke—of an age, Rose guessed, not above thirty. Most dukes, in her experience, were doddering old men of forty or more.
    As he swept her into the dance, her heart skittered with excitement. Already she was dancing with exactly the sort of man she’d come here hoping to meet.
    “My given name is Gabriel Fox,” he told her quite pleasantly. “You’re Trentingham’s daughter, are you not?”
    “Yes. Rose Ashcroft,” she said, gazing up at him—for he was tall. Tall enough to make her feel almost as petite as her sister Lily. Her gaze skimmed him from the top of his very-English blond head, past blue eyes, and down a patrician nose to his smiling mouth, each detail making her even happier.
    He was perfect!
    She was certain she was falling in love already.
    “My lady Rose—may I call you Rose?” he asked, and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “I hope your mother will approve of our dancing without a proper introduction.”
    Not only a duke, a gentleman as well.
    She gave a well-practiced flutter of her lashes. “To be sure, Your Grace.” Imagine being called Your Grace —her stomach fluttered at the mere possibility. “My mother brought me here to meet men such as you.” Men exactly like you, she revised silently, thrilled to have the attention of such a great catch.
    And she did have his attention. His hands gripped hers a little tighter than was necessary, as though he were loath to let her escape. Not that she minded. To the contrary.
    Court was wonderful. Even while dancing with Gabriel—
    for already, she thought of him as such—she couldn’t help but be aware of her surroundings. The entire room glittered with the light of hundreds of candles in the chandeliers above and tall torches held by liveried yeomen, not to mention all the flashing precious metal and gemstones that adorned everyone in attendance.
    That observation prompted her to check out Gabriel’s jewels. A heavy gold chain draped flat across the peacock blue velvet of his surcoat. Beneath that, a strand of fat pearls gleamed in the firelight, swinging a bit as he moved with the dance. His lacy white cravat was secured with a large diamond pin, and the buttons on his suit boasted sapphires and diamonds set in glittering gold. Froths of lace spilled from his sleeves onto hands adorned with various rings set with rubies, emeralds,