by Olivia Drake
His throat ached suddenly. She must be the same tender age Emily had been at the time of his marriage to her. Almost the same age Emily had been at her death.
The dull pain of loss welled from deep within him. Then resentment choked Kent, resentment that Juliet Carleton could inspire a comparison to Emily. The two women looked vastly different, and doubtless the disparity was more pronounced in temperament. His wife had been all gentleness and virtue; a woman raised in the shadow of Emmett Carleton could only be corrupt. What the hell had he expected, anyway? A snake haired Medusa? A sloe eyed temptress? A female replica of Emmett Carleton?
Like frost over a barren field, resolve chilled Kent’s soul. He must focus on his purpose and disregard sentiment; he must concentrate on capturing her trust. He must avenge Emily’s death.
As he drew closer, he noted a faint blush on Juliet Carleton’s cheeks; she must be wondering why he’d stopped outside her house today, why he’d come here tonight. Grim anticipation gripped him, for the chase was about to begin.
Relaxing his mouth into a well bred smile, he turned to her mother. Dorothea Carleton retained her girlish figure, though her fair features bore a tracery of wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. They had met years ago, at a charity reception to which the hostess had inadvertently invited both him and the Carletons. To Kent’s dark satisfaction, Emmett had seethed all evening.
“Mrs. Carleton,” he said. “How pleasant to see you again.”
Dorothea hesitated. One elegant gloved hand lifted to touch the brilliant diamond pendant at her throat, a pendant that must be worth far more than he spent annually on seed and labor. Kent reflected cynically on her dilemma: should she order him to leave and risk a scene, or yield to his superior rank?
She curtsied. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice composed. “This is most unexpected.”
“I hope my presence won’t cause you any inconvenience.”
She gazed at him uncertainly. “Is it wise for you to stay? If Mr. Carleton should come out of the drawing room...”
“But I’m here to hold out the olive branch, nothing more. It’s time we put old enmities aside, don’t you agree?”
“I... yes, of course, but—”
“Then you won’t mind introducing me to your daughter.”
With inbred civility, Dorothea said, “Your Grace, I should like you to meet Miss Juliet Carleton. Juliet, His Grace, the Duke of Radcliffe… Kent Deverell.”
Juliet dipped a curtsy that was a shade shy of complete homage. “I’m honored,” she murmured.
Despite her words, she didn’t look deferential in the least. Her eyes were green rimmed with gold, and annoyingly similar to Emmett’s piercing gaze, except for her long lashes. Kent gritted his teeth against the rising bile of hatred as the opening notes of a waltz wafted through the ballroom.
“Then perhaps,” he said, taking firm hold of her arm, “you won’t mind granting me the honor of a dance. Do excuse us, Mrs. Carleton.”
Looking alarmed, Dorothea murmured, “But Your Grace—”
Juliet missed the rest of her mother’s protest as the duke propelled her toward the multitude of couples gathering on the dance floor. She tilted her head to look at him; he stood taller than her other dance partners. His features, both rugged and noble, held an undeniable force of character. A curious exhilaration beat in her blood. With a faint shock, she realized that from the moment she’d seen him in the landau, she’d wanted to meet him. Yet she could forget neither his identity nor his audacity.
“You might have asked me instead of ordering me.”
Sliding an arm around her waist, he clasped her hand in his. “Would you have agreed?”
“Of course not. Lord Breeton signed my card for this waltz.”
“Breeton,” he scoffed. “He’d only bore you with his exploits at the hunt.”
She swallowed an unexpected bubble of laughter. “He’s a superb dancer.”
“So am I,” Kent Deverell said with unashamed conceit. “And since you’ve already danced with that popinjay—and every other man here—it’s my turn now.”
As he guided her around in perfect time to the Viennese waltz, Juliet felt as graceful as a lily petal scudding over a crystal pond. Through her thin glove, his hand felt strong and calloused, unlike Breeton’s baby soft palm. When she spied, on the fringe of the crowd, his lordship’s sulky face, she could summon no remorse. Her gaiety faltered only when she noticed a number of guests staring and murmuring.
Because a Carleton was dancing with a Deverell? Or because of the scandal surrounding the death of the duke’s wife?
The impulse to defend him seized her; absurd, because he looked more than capable of defending himself. Yet she lifted her chin in studied nonchalance and softened her lips into a smile. Let people talk. She would enjoy her dance with the handsome duke.
“When a woman smiles like that,” he said, “it generally means she’s up to something.”
“Or that she simply enjoys a fine waltz.”
“I’m glad you find dancing with me such a pleasure.”
His nearness, his bold stare, unsettled Juliet. She lowered her gaze to the white, bell like blossom adorning his lapel. “Where did you get that foxglove bloom? You weren’t wearing it when you came in.”
“I noticed you prefer a man who sports flowers.”
“Lord Breeton again?”
“None other.” His voice lowered to a husky undertone. “And I do so want to win your favor.”
A slow heat suffused her. “Why?”
“Are you angling for compliments, Miss Carleton?”
Her cheeks grew hotter. How easily he could fluster her. “Foxglove is an odd choice. The flower of a poisonous plant.”
“Rosebuds are too tame. You strike me as the sort who prefers something wilder, more exotic.”
“Perhaps,” she said breathlessly. “But you never answered my question. We haven’t any foxglove in our garden.”
“On the contrary. I’ll show you.”
In a smooth motion, he spun her through the throng of dancers and out an opened doorway. The terrace lay in moon dappled shadow, the formal gardens lit by strings of festive lanterns that bobbed against the starry sky. Couples strolled the concentric pathways. After the stifling closeness of the ballroom, the balmy night air caressed her skin and aroused a reckless anticipation inside Juliet. The breeze carried the vivid odors of blooming roses and fresh turned loam, along with a heady hint of the duke’s masculine scent.
He released her hand, but kept his arm curved around her waist as he escorted her down the marble steps. “Far more agreeable out here, isn’t it? Not only do the Carletons sponsor the finest ball of the season, they manage to order perfect weather as well.”
The trace of derision rang a discordant note into the music drifting from the ballroom. Stepping away, she turned, searching the lean angles of his face through the velvety shadows.
“Why did you wait outside the house this afternoon?”
“Because I heard Emmett Carleton had a pretty daughter. And for once, the gossipmongers told the truth.”
The silken words warmed her. “You must have had more reason than that,” she persisted.
“As I told your mother, I want to end the hostility.”
“But why now? Why tonight?”
His tall form lined by moonlight, Kent Deverell stood silent, drawing an oak leaf through his long fingers. “This is my first chance,” he said quietly. “You see, I’ve been in mourning, so I’ve not visited London in quite some time.”
Her heart ached with compassion. Impulse urged her to lay a hand on his sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I heard what happened to your wife and child—” Unsure if he’d resent her presumption, she drew back. “Excuse me, I’m being forward.”
“Please, don’t apologize for a gesture of friendship,” he said, dropping the leaf to fold her hands in his. “I want you to be frank with me.”
“Then tell me, why does Papa hate y
ou so?”
“He hates me because he hated my father, Miss Carleton. As my father has been dead for four years, I see no reason to extend the feud to the second generation.” He lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “Let’s not spoil the evening with ancient hostilities.”
The warm squeeze of his fingers echoed his sincerity. “My father may not agree with you,” she warned. “He’s not one to easily forget a slight. He’ll be furious if he finds you here.”
The duke shrugged. “I’ll be glad to talk to him... later.”
Misgiving shivered inside her; then longing blotted out the sensation. She wanted to close her mind to the dispute, to open the night to magical possibilities...
Grasping her arm, he steered her away from the gardens and toward the southern side of the mansion. Pools of light spilled from the windows, leaving great shadowed areas that wrapped the footpath in intimacy. Expectation fluttered inside her belly. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“To find that foxglove. Remember?”
Enthralled, Juliet let him lead her into the gloom as the sprightly tune of a lancers set drifted from the house. She stole a glance at his strong profile as he peered ahead into the darkness. No other couples had strayed so far. She risked her reputation by going off alone with him, yet she would not turn back, not even to please her father. It was time she began making her own decisions.
“Here we are,” he said, halting midway along the wall.
There, nestled against the gray Portland stone of the house and half hidden by a row of clipped boxwood, three foxglove spikes reached toward the yellow light from the drawing room. Each scraggly stalk bore a line of large, tubular white blooms.
“They’re lovely!” Heedless of her skirts, she sank to her knees and stripped off a glove to run her fingertips over one velvety flower. “What an odd place for wildflowers to spring up.”
“The wind probably blew some seeds from another garden.”
“Probably.” Curious, she tilted her face toward his towering figure. “How did you know they were here?”
His smile gleamed through the shadows. “You forget, I wouldn’t have been let in through the front door, I was forced to find an alternate entrance.”
“You came through one of the garden gates?”
“No, straight over the fence there.”
Following his pointing finger, Juliet glanced at the wrought iron enclosure bordering the property. Flattered and amused, she imagined His Grace, the Duke of Radcliffe, clad in formal attire, skulking through the darkness and leaping the wall.
“You’re quite the athlete,” she teased.
He hunkered down beside her. “I had considerable incentive. Once I saw you this afternoon, I knew I’d do anything to meet such a beautiful woman.”
His husky words caught her off guard. “I thought you were staring at the house.”
“You truly think I’d prefer cold gray stone to you? You’re too modest, Miss Carleton.”
Aware of his nearness, she felt an unseemly urge to reach out and trace his sculpted cheek as she might caress a perfect orchid. Flustered, she looked down at the foxglove. “Digitalis purpurea,” she said in a breathy rush, ‘they’re usually purple blooms. I wonder if the white variety flourishes better in the city.”
“How do you know the Latin name?”
At his sharp tone, Juliet flushed. Would he, too, disdain her unladylike interest? Lifting her chin, she met his eyes and said, “I devote a great deal of time to studying plants, Your Grace.”
With that disquieting alertness, he stared back. Then his gaze dipped over the billows of tulle surrounding her crouched form, and lingered an instant on her breasts. “A lady botanist?”
“Yes. I can’t claim a university education, but I’ve learned on my own through reading books and working in the garden and greenhouses.”
You’re better off without a degree. Experience has taught me far more than all the agriculture lectures I heard at Trinity.”
She sat back on her heels. “Agriculture?”
He inclined his head. “Put plainly, I’m a farmer. Even a duke must sometimes earn his living.”
Her gaze fell to his strong and callused hands. Absently she drew the long kid glove between her fingers. Odd, that her father would consider a farmer his rival. She burned to pursue the puzzle, but a reluctance to shatter the spell held her back.
“What was Trinity like?” she asked.
“A lot of highbrows more involved in sculling than studying.” Scooping up a handful of soil, he let it filter through his fingers. “This is how you’ll learn best, Miss Carleton, just as you’ve been doing. With a plot of ground and a sack of seeds.”
Thrilled that they shared an interest, she said, “It’s amazing how beautiful flowers can spring from something so mundane as dirt. Sometimes I feel like an artist plying a brush, helping nature create a lovelier palette. Have you ever felt that way?”
“Farming isn’t quite so aesthetic.”
His indulgent smile made her feel suddenly shy. “You probably think I’m being fanciful.” A poignant memory tugged at her, and copying Kent, she reached down to sift the cool earth through her fingers. “Whenever I made up a whimsical story as a child, my father used to call me his little Dreamspinner.”
His hand convulsed around a handful of dirt, his knuckles going white. “What did you say?”
The ragged quality of his voice yanked her gaze to his face. His jaw was rigid; his lips thinned. Confused and wary, Juliet studied him. The mere mention of Papa angered the duke...
“Dreamspinner,” she repeated. “It’s just a silly name from my youth. Papa hasn’t called me that in a long time.”
“How long?”
“Oh, three or four years at least.” Cocking her head, she peered closely at him. “I thought you wanted to end the rivalry. You look ready to go to war, not make peace.”
His fingers slowly unclenched, dropping the soil. He brushed off his hands. “I’m sorry. My mind strayed to another matter.”
Despite the formal apology, shadows lingered in his eyes, shadows that suddenly alarmed her. Kent Deverell could be charming and open, yet she sensed a well of secrecy within him, a secrecy that both fascinated and frightened her. She really knew so little about him.
“I should like to get up.” she said.
“Of course.”
Rising with negligent ease, he extended a hand. When his fingers closed around her gloveless ones, the shock of his warm, roughened skin struck the breath from her lungs. Her legs felt about to buckle. He kept their hands inexorably joined, and the black bitterness in his eyes made her shiver.
Pulling free, she took a step toward the lighted gardens. “I’d better return to the ballroom or people will talk.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Come now, you don’t appear the sort to let a little gossip bother you.”
Juliet busied herself with tugging the long glove up her arm and over her elbow. “Of course not,” she said firmly. “But a lady can be ruined by the slightest infraction, Your Grace.”
She started down the path; he fell into step beside her. “And you, of course, don’t wish to be ruined. Else Breeton might beg off marrying you.”
Annoyed, she shook her tulle skirt free of the clinging dirt. “I’ve no plans to wed his lordship, not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Pardon, I was merely speculating that your father would want his only daughter to wed a titled man.”
“He’ll allow me to make my own choice.”
“Will he?” Kent gave a short laugh. “I wonder.”
That satirical note returned to his voice, making Juliet feel as uncertain as a foxglove battered by a storm. “If you truly wish to forget the past,” she said, tilting her head at him, “then why do I have the feeling you still despise Papa?”
Only the barest faltering of his gait betrayed any emotion. His expression remained congenial, polite as any gentleman escorting a lady on her walk. “I didn’t
mean to give that impression,” he said. “Please try to understand, I learned to dislike Carletons at my father’s knee. It’s hard to shake a belief so deeply ingrained, but I’d like to try.”
She bit her lip. “How do I know you’re sincere?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
Candor etched that austerely handsome face, a candor that softened her heart. Perhaps it was naive, but something about him inspired faith. She gave Kent a tentative smile, then watched with pleasure as his stern mouth eased into an answering grin.
As they rounded the corner of the house, her skirts swished to the lilt of another waltz. Through the bright lit windows of the ballroom, she glimpsed the dancers, the ladies’ gowns forming a jeweled bouquet that contrasted with the formal black attire of the men. Couples still wandered the garden, their figures silhouetted by strings of lanterns.
Why did she feel surprised that everything around her appeared so normal? she wondered whimsically. Had she expected a hue and cry to be raised over her brief disappearance?
As they reached the terrace steps, Kent caught her wrist. “Let’s not go in, Juliet. Not yet.”
He spoke her name like music, and those devilish eyes radiated an invitation that beckoned to her. Despite the barrier of her glove, the caress of his thumb against her inner wrist sparked shivers over her skin. Somehow the night seemed charged with magic, and a scandalous longing flamed inside her, a longing that quickened her blood. She wanted to press her cheek to his silk shirt, to feel his arms holding her close, to smooth away the harsh lines etching his face...
A movement near the house caught her attention. Emmett Carleton had emerged from an opened French door at the far end of the terrace. As he paused to peer toward the gardens, dismay drove the joy from her. As much as she wanted he and Kent to settle their differences, she felt a half guilty desire to avoid a confrontation.
