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and jet. His high-heeled shoes sported gold and sapphire buckles.
    Not only was he a duke, he was a rich duke!
    Rose felt deflated when the dance came to an end. One never danced with the same man two tunes in a row. But when Gabriel bowed over her hand and kissed it, she knew he would ask her again.
    No sooner had he straightened than another man rushed over and begged the honor of a dance. And after that, another. And another and another until the evening grew late and the men all blended in her head. They were marquesses and earls and barons, but, quite frankly, none of them was as perfect for her as the Duke of Bridgewater.

Chapter Four
    Kit walked briskly through the dark castle grounds toward Christopher Wren’s apartments—the official apartments of the Surveyor General, apartments he hoped to own for himself someday. Not that he’d actually live there. He’d just put the finishing touches on a brand-new house here in Windsor, situated on an enviable plot of land on the banks of the River Thames.
    In fact, his sister, Ellen, was waiting for him there now.
    At least, he hoped she was waiting for him. She had declared herself in love with a completely unsuitable man—a pawnbroker, for God’s sake—and he feared she might be off at his damned pawnshop.
    Ellen had never been the type to pay heed to his brotherly concerns.
    Arriving at his destination, he knocked twice on the old oak door and waited for Wren to admit him, slightly startled when the man himself answered, dressed in shirtsleeves. He’d obviously been working. He wore no periwig, and his long, dark hair was a mite disheveled, as though he’d been raking his hands through it.
    Wren didn’t reside in the official Surveyor General’s apartments, either, using the rooms as office space instead. The Dean of Windsor’s son, he’d been raised right here in the castle deanery, a playmate of the young Prince of Wales—now King Charles. Wren had recently built an impressive house for himself in town, but he and his monarch were still intimates—and Kit was hoping that long-standing relationship would help Wren convince the King that he was the right man for the Deputy Surveyor post.
    But the look on Wren’s face was not reassuring. “This new development does not bode well,” he said without preamble, motioning Kit inside. He waved him toward a chair but didn’t sit himself, instead perching one hip on a large drafting table strewn with copious drawings.
    Like Charles, Wren was two decades Kit’s senior, but they’d been acquainted for years, ever since Kit had found himself Wren’s student at Oxford. Professor and pupil had grown close, and although Kit knew Wren was also acquainted with his rival for the position, he knew as well that Wren had never held the man in high esteem. Gaylord Craig, now the Earl of Rosslyn, had never been a stellar student, and Wren was a man who valued intelligence augmented by hard work.
    Unfortunately, however, the decision was not Wren’s alone. Charles owed many Royalist families for their support in the Civil War—and government appointments were less costly than most methods of repayment.
    “Until this inopportune occurrence,” Wren continued,
    “you were the front-runner for the appointment. But Charles hasn’t the patience for costly errors—the monarchy, I’m afraid, is as cash-strapped as ever.”
    Kit rubbed the chunk of brick in his pocket. “The ‘error’
    wasn’t strictly mine—my foreman chose to use substandard materials. Not,” he rushed to add, “that I don’t take responsibility. Quite clearly I erred in hiring the man in the first place. I will cover the losses.”
    Wren nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes sympathetic.
    “Regardless, I am now under pressure to award the post to Rosslyn. Last I saw, the dining room was coming along beautifully, though—your design and eye to detail are impeccable. Charles plans to inspect it tomorrow, so if you can make certain the site is safe and