Free Rose (Flower Trilogy) by Lauren Royal

sister’s was peacock blue with a lovely canopied bed, a sitting room with a settle, a desk, and a marble fireplace, and a mirrored dressing room that made Rose fairly seethe with jealousy. They were also the only cluttered rooms in the house, with pretty little items decorating every flat surface. She wondered what his sister was like.
    Kit’s chamber boasted more classic oak paneling, a red-draped half-tester bed, and a beautiful sitting room surpassed only by the luxurious dressing room. It had the biggest bathtub Rose had ever seen—not a tub that the servants had dragged upstairs, but a permanent one positioned before a fireplace.
    Rose could imagine herself in that bathtub, not to mention that bed. She hoped the Duke of Bridgewater lived half as nicely. Many of the estates she had visited were much too old and drafty, and she’d met quite a few men who seemed more than happy living with their grandmothers’
    choices in decor.
    When the Ashcrofts had seen and admired everything, Kit led them downstairs. “Ellen isn’t here,” he muttered darkly as though to himself. “Anywhere.”
    “Ellen?” Rose asked.
    “My sister,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck.
    “Graves!” he called. The butler reappeared. “Will you send someone to the pawnshop to seek out Ellen? Should she be there, I wish to see her directly.”
    “Of course, sir.” The butler went off, presumably to fetch and instruct a footman.
    “Well.” Kit set the book on a small marble-topped table in the entry. “I hope you enjoyed the grand tour.”
    “I did.” In truth, Rose was overwhelmed. She’d never imagined a commoner would own such a lovely home. And Kit not only owned it, he’d designed it. He was responsible for the pleasing proportions of each room, the tasteful wall and window treatments, the spare but perfect accessories.
    All it needed, she thought absurdly, was flowers. Yes, beautiful arrangements of flowers would be the crowning touch. Her fingers itched to design them. She’d use silver vases in simple classic shapes to match the house.
    Chrystabel lifted the book. “ ’Tis a shame you cannot read this.”
    “Languages.” Kit flashed a self-deprecating smile. “The one subject I failed in school.”
    “Rose could read it to you. Could you not, dear?”
    Rose was still planning her flower arrangements. Red, she thought, would suit this entry perfectly. The black-and-white floor called for something bold.
    “I desperately need to lie down, but why don’t you stay here and translate this book for Kit? I’m certain he can find someone to escort me home.”
    “Stay here?” Rose echoed, wrested from her vision of the multicolored arrangement she would create for the lovely dining room.
    “ ’Tis early still, and you have nothing else to do until Court this evening. ’Twould be a kindness.”
    She collected her thoughts and considered. Not only was Mum right, she was known for being hospitable. While Rose herself was known, she knew, for being selfish. Inside, she’d never felt like the woman others seemed to perceive her, and if she wished to alter those perceptions,
    ’twould not be a bad thing to follow in her mother’s hospitable footsteps.
    And truth be told, she’d enjoy the challenge of translating a book on architecture. Although she generally hid her linguistic talents from men, Kit was just her brother-in-law’s friend and—now that he was building the greenhouse—her father’s hireling. She certainly didn’t care if he thought she was too intelligent, since she wasn’t interested in him as a husband.
    “Rose?” her mother queried.
    “Very well.”
    Kit’s eyes lit, suddenly looking more green than brown.
    “Graves! It seems we’ll be requiring dinner, after all.”

Chapter Eight
    Before Rose could change her mind, her mother had departed, and she and Kit were in the beautiful paneled dining room, a lovely dinner of beef in claret and carrot pudding set before them. To her surprise,