by Olivia Drake
“Are all these people Radcliffe ancestors?”
Rose gave a proud nod. “Illustrious people form the branches of our family tree... aristocrats, diplomats. The Deverells have always had a strong sense of public duty. My great uncle was governor of Bombay.”
“Kent told me the family has a tradition of interest in India.”
“The second duke made a fortune there through the East India Company. We can even claim royal blood. See there?”
She pointed to a large portrait dominating the base of a stairwell. Lusterless with age, the painting depicted a dapper gentleman with a wealth of dark, curling locks tumbling to his crimson and blue cloak.
Juliet slowed her steps. “He looks familiar.”
“He should... that’s Charles the Second. The seventh earl of Ashingham wed one of the king’s bastard daughters and became the first Duke of Radcliffe.”
“Expedient,” Juliet said dryly.
“Perhaps,” Rose conceded, as she led the way up the age worn stone steps. “I’ve been compiling a family history, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re quite the freethinking lot. We’ve had more than our share of rogues and eccentrics. And the first duke wasn’t the only one to wed a bastard.”
Slyness glinted in Rose’s brown eyes... or was it a trick of the fading light? Graciously Juliet said, “Oh?”
“Yes, didn’t Kent tell you? His first wife was of illegitimate issue.”
Her heart clenched as she recalled Lord Breeton’s portrayal of Emily Deverell: Born on the other side of the blanket, poor thing... she was prone to melancholia.
Was bastardy at the root of Emily’s despair? Had a lack of self honor driven her to suicide? Questions crowded Juliet’s mind, but civility kept her from probing the issue until she knew Rose better.
“Yes,” she said, “Kent told me.”
Pausing at the head of the stairs, Rose arched her eyebrows. “And you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Why should I?”
She afforded Juliet a measuring look, then shrugged. “I suppose I’d expected you to be shocked, having been raised in polite society.”
Pivoting in a whisper of gray skirts, Rose headed down another murky corridor. Clearly she’d been testing her new sister-in-law. Juliet renewed her vow to prove to the Deverells that a Carleton was neither haughty nor prone to holding grudges.
Rose opened an oak door, and they entered a sitting room. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in faded green, the satin on the walls rotting in spots. As in the drawing room, the vaulted ceiling held a painting, this one of nymphs and porpoises cavorting in sea foam.
“This is the Alcove,” Rose said, walking across the faded carpet to a gilt framed door. “And here’s the duchess’s chamber.”
She marched into a huge bedroom, Juliet following at a slower pace, her neck craned in awe. Dominating the gloomy grandeur of the room was the bed with its green and gold hangings of Utrecht velvet; she spied a few moth holes. Across the mattress lay an embroidered counterpane, and ducal coronets graced the bedposts. Even the looking glass and writing desk bore the Radcliffe crest. A great chandelier drew her eyes to the ubiquitous painted ceiling and cobwebbed cornices.
“You’ve a dressing room through there,” Rose said, pointing. “And that door leads to Kent’s suite. When we heard yesterday that you were coming, Augusta had the place aired and the linens freshened.”
Juliet could scarcely credit that; a smell of mildew pervaded the room. She turned her attention to a series of drawings arranged above the mantel. Strolling nearer, she saw several romantic studies of the castle.
“Don’t touch those drawings,” Rose said, hurrying over. “I only just hung them this morning.”
Wondering at the girl’s protectiveness, Juliet said, “The sketches are lovely. They’re your father’s work, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I had them framed and placed here.” The pride Rose took in William Deverell’s talent glowed in her eyes. “How did you recognize his style?”
“Kent showed me a portfolio of drawings that he found in your London town house.”
“Some new ones?” Her voice breathless with excitement, Rose took a step forward. “Did he bring them back here, to Radcliffe?”
“I don’t know.”
“I must go ask him immediately. If he shuts himself in the estate office, it’ll be hours before he emerges.”
She started toward the door. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Dinner is at eight-thirty. When Ravi sounds the gong, just follow the stairs back down and turn left. Do excuse me.”
She darted out, her sable hair swaying.
Juliet shook her head and smiled. She didn’t quite know what to make of the girl; her mood was alternately furtive and friendly, sly and sincere. Ah, well, she’d get to know Rose better soon.
She poked around, opening the drawers of a gilt desk and peeking into the dressing room. There wasn’t a single personal item left from Emily. The knowledge left Juliet with an oddly mingled sense of curiosity and relief.
She wandered to one of the windows, recessed in deep stone. Pushing back the dusty velvet drape, she wrestled with the latch. With a jarring creak, the window swung open. She leaned on the casement and drew in the moist, moss scented air. The room commanded a breathtaking view of the Avon, now a gray glimmer in the twilight. Great stands of willow and cedar overhung the water, along with clumps of underbrush, unidentifiable in the deepening gloom. Tomorrow, Juliet thought, she’d go exploring and find the south garden and the greenhouses.
A faint shriek pierced the liquid murmur of the river. Though logic told her the sound emanated from one of the peacocks, she shivered. The ancient ambience somehow set her nerves on edge.
Intent on ridding the room of its stale odor, she went from window to window, flinging each wide open. The breeze fluttered the drapes and bed hangings, and chilled the air. Longing for the cheering warmth of a fire, she searched for a bell cord to call a servant, but saw only the frayed end dangling from the ceiling. She subdued her irritation. She could manage alone; often enough she’d watched a house maid light the bedroom fire.
In the grate, coals lay neatly stacked atop a few sticks of kindling. Juliet found a box of matches and knelt to execute the task. Despite try after try, the green wood failed to ignite. She burned her finger; tears of frustration stung her eyes. Sitting on her heels and sucking her finger, she felt inundated by a flood of homesickness, a longing for the bright, familiar walls of Carleton House, for attentive servants and fresh gowns, for Mama’s comforting presence and Maud’s cheery gossip.
The thickening darkness of the room added to her utter isolation. Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for becoming mistress of such an archaic household. Nothing had prepared her for coping with the shrewishness of Augusta, the contempt of Ravi, the capriciousness of Rose.
Juliet squared her shoulders. This was Kent’s home and hers now, as well. She wouldn’t let her own uncertainties daunt her. The castle was like a neglected garden; with tender care and devoted nurturing, she could coax life back into its timeworn walls and happiness into its emotion-scarred occupants.
With renewed vigor, she struck another match and applied it to the kindling. Long moments later, a tiny flame licked at the wood. Soon the coals gave off a blessed, blazing heat.
Shadows snaked in the corners of the antiquated chamber as she closed the windows. Carrying a single candle to the dressing room, she found her hatbox on a rickety dressing table. She tidied herself to the best of her limited resources, then returned to the bedroom and sat in a wing chair by the fire to study her lone botany text. Her attention meandered to the state of the bedroom. If she had the money, she’d invest in new wallpaper and bed hangings, a more cheerful decor...
Somewhere in the distance, a gong sounded. Finding her way through the murky passageways, she joined the others in a cavernous dining room. At the lead of the table, Kent’s place lay conspicuously empty; Ravi entered to report that the sahib h
ad rung for a tray in his office. Though annoyed, Juliet summoned a smile and asked Augusta about her works of charity, then engaged in a polite dialogue with Gordon about his studies of evolution and questioned Rose about the family history. Though the conversation flowed freely, Juliet longed for her husband’s presence.
Afterward, the party retired to the drawing room. Kent still failed to appear. Would he often absent himself, sending messages through Ravi? Restlessness drove her to make her excuses and retreat to the bedroom. Minutes ticked into hours. Trying the connecting door, she found it locked. She pressed her ear to the gilded panel. Silence. As she resumed pacing, her irritation slowly dissolved into resentment, then anger. Didn’t he care enough to check on how she’d fared with his eccentric relations?
By the time she heard a few faint noises coming from his bedroom, she’d worked herself into a justifiable fury. Marching to his door, she rapped hard.
A key rattled; the door opened. Kent stood with a drink in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned to his broad bare chest. A frown furrowed his forehead; weary lines bracketed his mouth. The black strands of his hair were mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through them. An arrow of concern punctured her wrath and roused the desire to soothe away his weariness.
“What is it?”
His testy tone buried the brief tenderness. “I’d like to speak to you.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No; I’ll only take a few moments of your time.”
Lips compressed, he studied her. “All right, then.”
Trailing him, Juliet saw that a single candle illuminated a room as vast and ornate as her own. Lending warmth to the setting were a few scattered mementos, a cluster of framed photographs on the mantel, a collection of books on the nightstand. Sketches of mowers and reapers were tacked above a desk. Beside the elaborate velvet hung bed stood Ravi, turning down the covers.
At her approach, he looked up, silent and expressionless. She clenched her teeth in annoyance and murmured to Kent, “Might we speak in private?”
“Of course.”
He shifted his gaze to Ravi; the servant bowed and left. When Kent turned back, wariness shaded his face. “What is it?”
She took a deep breath. “I wanted to know where you’ve been all this time.”
“Didn’t Augusta tell you? I was going over the accounts.”
“You couldn’t stop long enough to join us for dinner?”
Irritation creased his brow; he set down his drink, then bent his dark head as he worked at a cuff link. “I’ve been absent for more than a month, Juliet. I couldn’t spare the time.”
“Not even on my first night here? Didn’t you ever stop to think that I might appreciate your presence?”
His hand went still. He looked up, his eyes piercing. “Did someone say something to upset you?”
The concern sharpening his features encouraged her. Stepping closer, she clutched the folds of her skirt. “No, but that’s not the point, Kent. You brought me into a strange household, then vanished when I needed you beside me.”
He studied her for another moment, then walked away to deposit the cuff link on a side table. Picking up the glass, he took a swallow of the amber contents. “Forgive me. I thought you were quite capable of handling my relations.”
Frustrated by his lapse into formality, she tagged at his heels. “It isn’t just that, Kent. You’ve been keeping things from me, and that isn’t right.”
Like a sword, her words sliced into Kent. He clenched the glass. The uncustomary anger in her eyes jabbed his heart and banished his weariness. Christ, what had Juliet heard? Surely not the truth, not so soon.
He was hard pressed to keep his tone neutral. “Exactly what are you accusing me of keeping from you?”
“For one, that telegram. Why didn’t you tell me you’d sent word ahead?”
Deliverance spread through him, a deliverance so sweeping, his knees went weak. He propped a shoulder against the bedpost and sipped his brandy. “I forgot, I suppose.”
“You forgot. Is that also your excuse for not telling Augusta right away about my father? You let me assume she knew from the telegram.”
“I thought it might be better to let everyone meet you first before breaking the news.” Unable to resist, Kent let his fingers slide down her silken cheek. “I know you’ll win them over as easily as you did me.”
To his dismay, she stepped away and whirled to face him. “That isn’t all. Kent, I know precious little about you, about your past. Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister who died?”
He stared. What the hell did she mean—? The realization struck with the force of a thunderbolt. I had a sister once... Drat Rose and her incautious tongue.
Juliet bit her lip. “Please, Kent, don’t shut me out. I’m your wife. I want to share everything in your life... your sorrows as well as your joys.”
Gazing into her green gold eyes, he felt shaken by the violent urge to haul her against him, to kiss her until he steered her away from this dangerous quagmire of questions. Yet if he put her off, wouldn’t she query someone else here? He couldn’t always be present to guard her. Perhaps if he fed her a version of the truth, enough to satisfy her, she would cease wondering.
Perhaps, by some great miracle, she might never learn of his duplicity. She might never leave him, might never go running back to her Papa...
He finished the brandy and set down the glass. “All right. Sit down and I’ll tell you what I should have told you weeks ago.”
Taken aback by his grave tone, Juliet sank into a gilt armchair. Weeks ago? She felt a flash of foreboding, a fear that he was about to say something that would nip their fragile bud of closeness.
Kent sat on the edge of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees, his shirt open to the carved perfection of his chest. “First off, you should know that Rose is my half sister. She’s the daughter of my father’s mistress.”
Her mind whirled in shock. “Rose is illegitimate? No wonder she carried on so about the Deverells being freethinkers.”
“Did she?” His mouth tilted into a fond smile. “I’m not surprised. Rose knows more about our heritage than I do.”
“She said she was compiling a family history.”
“Yes, the research keeps her occupied.” A draft stirred the candle flame; shadows wavered over his face. “I suppose it’s a way of burying her grief over her sister’s death.”
Her thoughts took a great leap. “You mean... Rose had a sister who died, not you?”
He gave a curt nod. “Rose’s mother is Chantal Hutton. Chantal had a love child by another man, long before she met my father. Do you remember the sketch he did of her?”
“The pretty woman, reclining in a boat, in India?”
“Yes.” A long pause spun out as Kent regarded his clasped hands. “Juliet, there’s something else I haven’t told you about Chantal’s elder daughter. She was my wife... my first wife.”
His words struck Juliet with the force of a blow. “Emily?” she whispered.
He nodded. “After my mother’s death, Chantal came here to live. At the time, Emily was five years old and I was nine, so we grew up together.”
And eventually fell in love. The unspoken words echoed through the shadows. So Emily was the childhood friend Kent had played and laughed with. A terrible, unreasoning jealousy tore at Juliet’s heart. Unable to control a gnawing restlessness, she rose unsteadily and paced to the hearth. Atop the mantelpiece, in the center of a grouping of photographs, stood the small framed image of an angelic blonde, her smile sweet, her eyes sad.
Juliet knew the woman’s identity even before asking, “Is this Emily?”
“Yes.”
That one gentle assertion held a richness of emotion. The fact that he kept her photograph displayed in a place of honor spoke volumes. Her throat closed; she kept her face averted. Now she understood Kent’s avowal that he might never love again; he and Emily had been staunch friends as well as devoted lover
s. How he must have adored her, to have overlooked the taint of bastardy.
“Chantal still lives here,” Kent added, “in the north tower. You haven’t met her because she tends to keep to herself.”
“I see.” Juliet stared down at the cold grate. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”
“If I’ve been less than open, it’s because the circumstances of Rose’s birth, of Emily’s birth, have never mattered to me.”
Was that the only reason? Or did he love Emily so much, he wanted to keep her sainted memory all to himself?
The thought wrapped Juliet in dark despair. If she had carried such a blemish, would he have married her? Would physical passion and a desire for an heir have been cause enough for him to disregard the strictures of society?
“Juliet? What are you thinking?”
His voice sounded tentative, oddly alarmed. Too numb to respond, she kept her back turned. The bed ropes creaked and a clink sounded as he set down his glass; then she heard the tread of approaching footsteps. His warm hands settled on her shoulders and he twisted her to face him. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
From the breadth of bare chest to the beloved angles of his face, he was perfectly formed: lean, handsome, muscular. Resolution blazed to life inside her. Emily was dead, Juliet reminded herself. She was alive... and Kent belonged to her now. He openly admitted his need for her; she could use that physical attraction to win his love. With all the fire and sensuality burning in her blood, she would gently conquer his heart.
“Nothing’s wrong, Kent,” she murmured. “Nothing but the fact that I’m aching for you.”
Reaching up, she began to draw the tortoiseshell pins from her upswept hair. He frowned, his narrowed eyes following the movement of her hands, until the heavy mass rippled to her waist. She dropped the pins atop the mantel.
He caught her wrist. “Juliet, something I said disturbed you. Don’t you want to tell me about it?”
Uncertainty clouded his eyes. A sudden, sharp elation buoyed her spirits. Talk had gained her only frustration and heartache. Let him wonder about her innermost thoughts; let a bit of mystery shake him out of his complacency.
