by Olivia Drake
Kent followed the direction of her gaze. “Painted by Louis Laguerre, late seventeenth century. A pity we can’t remove it and sell it.”
“Have you sold other art treasures?” she asked, glancing at a wall where a large square shone lighter against the yellowing varnish.
“Only a few. The second duke added most of Radcliffe’s furnishings to the entailment, which by law remains intact from generation to generation. At least you’ll have a bed to sleep in and chairs to sit on.”
His faintly sardonic tone bothered her. Did the treasures mean so little to him, or was he hiding his pain at parting with them? Sympathy swept her. He lacked the luxury of preserving the Deverells’ proud heritage; the priceless antiques would be snapped up by the accusative nouveau riche like her father. If only she had the means to help Kent refurnish the castle...
“We’re in one of the towers, aren’t we?” she asked.
He nodded, then crouched to add a log to the low burning fire. “Bosworth Tower. In honor of an ancestor who fought against Richard the Third at Bosworth.”
Walking close to him, Juliet welcomed the warmth of the blaze. She glided a finger over a peacock cut into the marble chimneypiece, part of a whimsical Indian motif of strange gods and writhing serpents. “Yet the mantel dates much later.”
Glancing up at her, he said, “This was my father’s favorite room. Before the family money ran out, he had the mantel added.”
Again, mockery shaded his voice. Did it bruise his pride to bring his wife to such dilapidated surroundings? “The castle is charming,” she said firmly. “You’re fortunate to be master of a place so rich with history.”
Straightening, Kent studied her, his expression watchful. She sensed a turmoil of emotion in him, a need for her. She held her breath as he lifted a hand as if to caress her.
“Juliet, I hope–”
The tramp of footsteps came from the hall. To her intense disappointment, his hand dropped to his side and his gaze veered to the doorway. A white haired retainer entered, his gaunt arms precariously balancing a huge silver tea tray.
Augusta hovered near his frayed sleeve. “Do take care, Fleetwood. That set is an heirloom.”
“Yes, madam,” said Fleetwood, his tone long suffering.
The Pekingese trotted behind, so close he threatened to entangle himself in Fleetwood’s feet. Unperturbed, the old servant shuffled forward, the china and silver clinking. Juliet found herself sighing in relief as he managed without mishap to lower the tray to a fruitwood table near the hearth.
Tall and thin as a silver birch, Fleetwood turned to Kent. “Welcome home, Your Grace. Mrs. Fleetwood and I should like to extend our best wishes to you and Her Grace.”
With a cool ducal nod, Kent accepted the congratulation. “I brought a pair of field glasses for your bird watching. And some apricot cordial for your wife. Ask Ravi to fetch them for you.”
The butler’s wrinkled face broke into a gap toothed grin. “Bless you, Your Grace, for remembering.”
“Run along now,” Augusta said, clapping her hands as if chiding a lazy child. “You may take Her Grace’s wrap with you.”
Juliet considered countermanding the order, but something in those narrowed hyacinth eyes stopped her. Of course, Augusta must resent relinquishing to a Carleton the role of chatelaine. Deciding to exercise prudence for now, Juliet surrendered the braided jacket and sank onto a threadbare settee. A few feet away, Punjab settled onto an old crimson cushion by the fire, his beady black eyes regarding her suspiciously.
“Do fetch Mr. Deverell,” Augusta said, as Fleetwood ambled toward the door. “We don’t want his tea to go to waste.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I brought gifts for you and Gordon, too,” Kent said, lowering himself to the settee.
“Thank you, but you shouldn’t have spent the money.” She swept toward the table and stopped, staring stiffly at Juliet. “Would you care to pour?”
As the new mistress, Juliet knew the duty now belonged to her. Yet she shook her head. “Go ahead.”
Augusta bent to the task. “There, Your Grace,” she said, handing a cup to Kent “Just the way you like it, without cream or sugar.”
“Thank you.”
Silently she served Juliet and passed around a tray of cakes; then she sat in a wing chair and reached into a basket of needlework. Punjab leapt up, yapping shrilly.
Augusta set aside her sewing. “Forgive me, my little darling. Did Mama forget you?”
Rising, she poured a saucer of tea, added a dollop of cream, and set it beside the dog, who slurped lustily at the liquid.
Watching her pat the animal’s head, Juliet sipped her tea to keep from smiling. Their affection held a certain reassurance, for at least it revealed a chink in Augusta’s armor. Juliet glanced at Kent to see his eyes gleaming over his cup; he, too, looked amused by the dour woman and querulous dog.
“Kent tells me you devote much of your time to the needy.”
“I do what little I can,” Augusta said, resuming her seat and jabbing her needle into a tiny white shirt.
“Don’t be so modest,” he said. “Augusta clothes half the babies in the district.”
“Oh, poppycock,” she demurred, though her waspish expression lost some of its sting.
Juliet set down her cup. “May I see?”
As she walked to Augusta’s side, Punjab growled.
“Hush,” said Augusta, a fond smile touching her lips. The dog quieted, but continued to glower, his bulging eyes fixed on Juliet.
“I doubt I could match your fine stitching,” she said, “but I’d like to help in other ways.”
“What could a city bred lady possibly do?”
“Grow vegetables to help feed the poor. Or fruit to make jams and jellies. Our cook has an excellent recipe for gooseberry jam.”
Augusta tipped back her head, the mole on her cheek prominent as she regarded Juliet dubiously. “Perhaps you don’t realize the work your offer entails, Your Grace. These people live in far humbler circumstances than a lady could imagine.”
Smiling, she sat beside Kent. “My constitution is perfectly strong. I assure you, I’m not likely to swoon.”
“You do too much,” Kent told Augusta. “Let Juliet help you. She can accomplish anything she sets her mind to.”
His affectionate regard warmed her far more than the bracing cup of tea. At moments like this, she could believe he hovered on the verge of admitting her into his heart—
“I’d be pleased to accept your assistance, then,” Augusta said tonelessly.
Juliet could not read the expression on that unlovely face. What thoughts swirled behind those uncommon blue eyes? What would life be like with the dour Augusta? She felt a sudden longing for Maud’s blithe chatter.
A man ambled into the drawing room. His shoulders drooped and his hands hid in the pockets of a maroon smoking jacket. From the untidy state of his thinning brown hair to the pencil stuck behind his ear, she guessed he’d been interrupted at his work. He peered vaguely through thick, round spectacles.
Hullo,” he said, his expression confused. “I observe you’ve returned to your domicile, Kent.” The magnified eyes shifted to Juliet. “And who might you be?”
Kent straightened. “Juliet, this is my cousin, Gordon Deverell. Gordon, my wife.”
Augusta frowned at her husband with the same maternal disapproval she’d directed at Punjab. “Don’t you remember the telegram I showed you, Gordon?”
He stared, his countenance oddly dreamy. He lifted his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. “If you allege so, my dear, then it must be a certainty. I confess I’ve been immersed in The Origin of Species. Quite the engrossing study—”
“Descended from the apes,” Augusta snorted, setting aside her needlework to pour another cup of tea. “Such poppycock is enough to curdle the cream.”
He wilted into a chair and fixed his gaze downward, as if the threadbare carpet contained a scholarly dissertation. Was this the playm
ate of Kent’s childhood? Juliet tried to picture Gordon as a boy, playing tag within the castle walls. But she couldn’t imagine this deflated man as a robust youngster. He looked so defenseless that she felt compelled to speak out.
“I’m familiar with Darwin’s treatise on the fertilization of orchids,” she said. “Perhaps, Mr. Deverell, you would be so kind as to tell me more about his evolutionary theory sometime.”
He blinked, his eyes owlish behind the spectacles. “Er... yes, I should be delighted to expound upon the topic.”
“Juliet has great regard for scientific inquiry,” Kent said, placing an arm across the back of the settee. “You see, she’s a botanist.”
“Really?” Augusta’s voice held a note of disapproval as she marched past to hand the cup to her husband. “And your parents allowed such unladylike studies? How very singular.”
“Yes,” Kent agreed with steely softness, “I find her uniqueness laudable. I admire a woman who refuses to be trapped by the narrow minded precepts of society.”
Color washed Augusta’s rough hewn cheeks; she bent to pick up the plate of sandwiches. “Yes, Your Grace. I’m sure you’re right. You always did favor newfangled ideas.”
She kept her eyes downcast as she passed the plate. Emotions seemed to roil beneath her sour surface. She must resent a stranger coming in and disrupting her tidy world.
Juliet turned her gaze to Gordon. What an odd pair. If Augusta were a nettle, tall and prickly, Gordon was a pennywort, short and meek. Only when he fumbled with his cup did Juliet notice his hands. Her stomach took a sickening plunge. Though Gordon Deverell was barely middle aged, his fingers were gnarled like an old man’s, the joints lumpy and swollen. He managed to lift the cup to his lips, but as he lowered it, his awkward grip splashed tea down his brown trousers and onto the chair.
“Gracious!” Augusta exclaimed, hastening to set down the plate. “Can’t you be more careful? That chair is an antique.”
Looking bewildered, he stood. “I didn’t endeavor to spill, my dear. It just happened.”
Juliet snatched up a napkin and sponged at the dark splotch on the faded brocade seat. “I’m sure it’ll come clean. If not, I’ll write and ask my mother for her stain removing formula.”
“There’s no harm done,” Kent said. “Take your seats, everyone.”
Augusta plopped back down and seized her sewing. “Please don’t bother your mother with our rural disasters. I’m sure she must be a busy woman, what with all those society receptions.”
A thread of query lifted her tone; she must itch to know more about the Carletons. Let her wonder, Juliet thought uncharitably as she settled back down.
“Mama would be delighted to share her knowledge,” she said, ignoring the shaky ground beneath her words. Had Papa’s hatred corrupted Mama as well?
“I should like to make the acquaintance of your parents,” Augusta persisted. “Will they be coming to visit soon?”
Juliet blinked in surprise. “You can’t truly expect my father to pay a friendly call here.”
“I beg your pardon.” Augusta drew herself erect. “Is there a reason he shouldn’t deign to visit the household of the Duke of Radcliffe?”
Kent leaned forward. The skin taut over his cheekbones, he stared at her. “Yes, there is a reason,” he said quietly. “You see, her father is Emmett Carleton.”
Chapter 9
Punjab growled as if the very name incensed him. Augusta’s jaw worked like a trout’s. The fire crackled in the stupefied lull.
Juliet knew with bitter certainty that Kent’s telegram had withheld the identity of his bride. Resentment stabbed her. Why hadn’t he warned her that his relatives didn’t know who she was?
Astonished hyacinth eyes bored into her. “Carleton?” Augusta sputtered. “You, a Carleton?”
Gordon clasped his gnarled hands. “Uncle William wouldn’t have endorsed such an alliance, Kent. I advised you so once before—”
“My father is dead,” Kent snapped. “And so is the feud.”
“Is it?” Augusta said, the mole on her cheek quivering. “Or have you carried William’s quarrel into the second generation? Have you added yet another page to his vile volume of hatred?”
A small gasp came from the doorway. “How dare you, Cousin?” spoke a feminine voice.
Turning, Juliet saw a girl standing there, her delicate face framed by a halo of loose sable hair. Her fingers clutched at the lace fichu tucked into the neckline of her modest gray gown.
Rose. Juliet guessed her identity from the family resemblance in the dark coloring. Deep inside, she felt the impact of those large, liquid brown eyes. Yet the girl was staring not at her, but at Augusta.
“How dare you speak ill of my father,” said Rose, her features dainty yet determined as she stepped inside the circle of chairs.
Punjab growled again; Augusta sat bolt upright. “I spoke nothing untrue. William Deverell brought about his own downfall by being so obsessed with his own superiority. He couldn’t bear to be bested by a commoner.”
“You always were jealous of the duke because your own father was a mere knight.”
Augusta tipped her sharp nose into the air. “You’re one to speak of bloodlines—”
Kent cut her off with a slashing gesture. “Stop this squabbling immediately. You’re hardly giving a favorable impression to my wife.”
Augusta opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. Rose blinked, her eyes gone glossy with tears. “Forgive me, Kent,” she said. “I... I forgot myself. It’s just that I can’t bear to hear Father’s memory sullied so.”
His forbidding expression relaxed; he shot to his feet and slid an arm around her slight shoulders. “You’re forgiven. Now come, meet my bride.”
He looked the caring older brother, Juliet thought as she got up. With her high cheekbones and solemn eyes, Rose was a dainty version of Kent. As he executed the introductions, Juliet saw reflected on Rose’s face a veiled curiosity, a wistful interest that promised friendship.
On impulse, Juliet took the girl’s smooth hand. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve always wanted a sister.”
The slim fingers tensed; she lowered her eyes. “Yes, I’d like that, too,” she said, drawing her fingers back. “I had a sister once—”
“Augusta,” Kent cut in, “please pour a cup of tea for Rose.”
Lips pinched, the woman started to get up.
“You needn’t bother,” Rose said stiffly. “I’ve already had mine, in my room.”
Her eyes flicked to Augusta and Juliet wondered if animosity had prompted the refusal. The girl’s soft, sad demeanor caught at Juliet’s heart. So there had been another Deverell sister. A sister who’d died? Judging by the way Kent had interrupted, he clearly considered the matter closed. Propriety precluded her asking any questions on a topic of such delicacy. Yet she couldn’t help wondering what else he might be hiding.
“Perhaps I may escort you to the state apartments, Your Grace,” said Rose.
“Please, call me Juliet.” Weary of battling the undercurrents of hostility, she yearned for escape. “And yes, I’d like to rest before dinner, if everyone will excuse me.”
Augusta nodded stiffly; Gordon blinked benignly; Punjab glared balefully.
Kent touched Juliet’s arm in an absentminded caress that sent hot chills over her skin. “I’ll join you later,” he murmured. “I’ve a few estate matters to attend to first.”
His inky eyes seemed distant. Longing swept her, a longing for the dark of night, when she would gain his total attention. Subduing her impatience, she started toward the door.
“Mind you don’t light more than one candle,” Augusta called. “We can’t afford extravagance.”
“For pity’s sake,” Kent said in a low voice.
Juliet missed the rest of his words, for she and Rose entered the shadowy hall. A grimace tautened the girl’s milk pure complexion. “That woman ought to be gagged,” she muttered. “What a skinflint she is!”
&nb
sp; “Perhaps she only means to look out for Kent’s interests.”
“Then she should stop embarrassing him with her penny pinching ways. He can certainly afford a few measly candles.” She tilted a keen eyed glance at Juliet. “Especially now.”
“Now?”
“Well, you’re an heiress, aren’t you?”
The echo of their footfalls filled the stone passageway as Juliet searched for a polite response. “I’m not so certain about that,” she said. “My father didn’t exactly give his blessing to our marriage.”
“You mean because Emmett Carleton couldn’t tolerate knowing his daughter has joined the Deverell fold.”
Juliet shivered, as much from the ice in Rose’s voice as the chill in the air. She imagined Rose growing up exposed to the same sort of twisted stories about the Carletons as Juliet had heard of the Deverells. What an awful legacy her father and William Deverell had wrought with their rivalry.
“I’m sure my marriage is difficult for Papa to accept,” she said. “But I hope, given time, we can all bury the past.”
Rose stared. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she said, sounding reflective, as if the possibility were appealing. “You said you haven’t any sisters. Do you have brothers?”
“No, I’m sorry to say—”
“Then surely your father won’t cut off his only child. At the very least, he’ll have to endow you with a rich settlement.”
“Even if he did, Kent would never accept the money.”
“He’ll have to,” she said with a dismissive flutter of her hand. “My brother always champions his impoverished tenants. He can’t in all conscience turn down your dowry. The Deverells will prosper again, as we’ve done for centuries.”
A wistful smile curved her lips; Juliet didn’t have the heart to prick the girl’s dream. Much as she, too, wanted to help the estate, she doubted that Papa would dower her. Casting about for another topic, she glanced at the gilt framed portraits on either wall of the narrow passageway. Stern men in stiff Elizabethan ruffs stared; haughty women in jeweled coiffures glared.
