by Olivia Drake
“Alas, yes.” Henry Hammond-Gore waved a leather glove at a black stallion cropping the grass at the edge of the village green; a small urchin held the animal’s reins. “I was just now on my way to assess the situation.”
“You’ve come the long way around, haven’t you?”
He shrugged, his grin unaccountably charming. “I confess, catching a glimpse of the new duchess appealed to me more than bridling old Bossie. And diligence has rewarded me. You look quite fetching. Your Grace.”
Again, his gaze traveled over her gown. Juliet felt a flash of annoyance at his curiosity. “You must excuse me for wearing castoffs. My own trunks have been inadvertently delayed.”
Henry Hammond-Gore gave a sheepish grin. “Ah... now that you mention it, that pink frock does seem familiar. Emily wore it at the May Fair, not long after she wed Radcliffe. She did me the honor of a waltz...” He blinked and cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Your Grace, I’m chattering like a magpie.”
Pain burned inside Juliet. Had everyone in the region adored Emily? Suddenly she felt too impatient, too resentful, to cool her heels waiting for Kent. She would see him now.
“I should like to go with you,” she said.
Henry cocked his head. “With me, Your Grace?”
“To assess the situation.”
“Ah... the field. Are you quite sure? You’ll be bored to tears.”
“In that unlikely event, I trust you’ll be gentleman enough to lend me your handkerchief.”
A blond eyebrow arched and his mouth formed an appealing smile. “I’m honored to escort a lady of such delightful wit.”
He helped her into the dogcart, then sauntered to his horse and flipped the small groom a coin. Several other boys gathered around; Henry tossed a penny to each. Watching him call out a jest as he mounted, Juliet wondered if Henry Hammond-Gore was really the shallow dandy his manner suggested.
She carefully flicked the reins and the pony began plodding down the rutted road. Henry rode alongside the cart, his pale features and smart figure a flawless foil for the black horse. As they meandered past the river and castle, he entertained her with tales of parties he’d attended with Prince Edward and the Marlborough House set. Somehow Henry managed to leave her shocked, yet amused and intrigued at the same time.
“If I can believe even half of what you say,” she said over the clop of hooves, “I can see why we’ve never met in society.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I hardly think most papas would regard me as a proper suitor.”
“Why aren’t you in town for the Season?”
“Had a bit of a misunderstanding with Lord Melton over his daughter, the Lady Marianne. Thought I ought to absent myself for a while.”
Juliet had only a passing acquaintance with the Meltons, Lady Marianne being nearly a decade her senior. “What happened?”
“The vixen tried to trap me in a compromising circumstance, but I outfoxed her. Stole a few kisses and...” Beneath the curling mustache, his mouth formed a rakish grin. “I shan’t offend you with the details, Your Grace. Lady Marianne’s handsome enough considering her long stay on the shelf, but she chose the wrong prey this time. I’ve no wish to marry.”
“Why not?”
He idly stroked the horse’s silken mane. “Why, indeed? Shall I give up my footloose ways and become a dreary country gentleman with a throng of squawking offspring?”
She smiled. “That hardly sounds dull.”
“It hardly sounds exciting, either.”
“Perhaps you haven’t met the right woman.”
“Perhaps,” he said, shrugging. “Give me a woman who can carry on a decent conversation, a woman who can see past the nose on her face.”
As the lane topped a hill, he commented on the splendid vista. Juliet let his praise of the scenery distract her. This was Radcliffe land, she thought with pride. Cultivated fields of ripening grain abutted green pastureland, the squares bisected by hedges and thickets of oak and elm. The melancholy bleat of a sheep drifted through the warm air.
“There’s our destination,” Henry said, pointing to the base of the hill.
Juliet gazed over an expanse of wheat, rippling golden in the sunlight. In the pasture beyond, Guernsey cows grazed the lush grass. Workmen scattered the length of hedge bordering the field.
Near a jagged opening in the shrubbery stood Kent. Her heart jolted from more than the bumpy ride. Sunlight gleamed on his raven hair, his broad back. His arms were plunged inside the hedge; from a distance, she couldn’t see what he was doing.
What would he say when he learned of the letter she’d posted?
She clenched the reins and looked at Henry, who lazed in the saddle as the horse trekked down the dirt lane. “What are the men doing about that gap in the hedge?”
“They’ll reinforce the bushes with wire, then intertwine the branches.”
“It’ll take weeks for new growth to fill such a large break. That looks like crataegus monogyna.”
He shifted in the saddle to stare at her. “Cm—what?”
At his blank faced astonishment Juliet felt a flush rise over her throat. “Hawthorn, I mean.”
His amused eyes wandered over her. “So you’re a scholar as well as a beauty. I like you, Duchess. No wonder Radcliffe succumbed to matrimony again.”
As they neared the bottom of the hill, he swung down from the horse. Little did he know, she thought, drawing the pony to a halt, that Kent had succumbed only to the need to replace his dear departed love. Fighting despair, she looked toward the hedge. Several of the laborers had turned to gape, but Kent remained engrossed in his toil.
Henry strolled to the cart to give her a hand down. Striving for lightness, she said, ‘Mama always insisted that men dislike intelligence in a woman. It scares them.”
“Ah, but a quick-witted female knows how to hold a man’s interest.”
“You sound as though you prefer that sort.”
He laughed. “On the contrary, I’ve been accused of liking all women, the shrewd and the artless, the bold and the timid. ...” A sudden soberness creased his brow. “I do hope Radcliffe won’t neglect you in favor of his farming.”
“What do you mean?”
His gaze wandered to Kent. “Perhaps if he’d devoted a few more hours a day to Emily, she might not have...”
The pensive words startled Juliet. “You believe the rumor that she took her own life?”
“Alas, we shall never know for certain.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Be that as it may, if Radcliffe ever makes you unhappy, you can come to me, send a message anytime, day or night—”
“Up to your old woman’s gossip again, Hammond-Gore?”
That mocking voice made Juliet jump. Peering past Henry’s shoulder, she saw Kent striding toward them, the muslin shirt damp with sweat and adhering to his broad frame. Sunlight glazed his features as he yanked off a pair of thick work gloves. Awash with untimely longing, she pulled her hand free and stepped toward him.
He stopped dead. His glare raked her from breast to toe. His face went taut with a shock so palpable, the greeting withered in her throat.
He jerked his head toward Henry. “Well?” he said coldly. “What are you doing here?”
Henry toyed with the curled end of his mustache. “I met your charming duchess in the village. She displayed an interest in the process of mending a hedge.”
“I’m surprised you’d know a hedge from a hedgehog. I’m on to your practice of leaving gaps for your beaters to slip through on the autumn hunts.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Capital notion, Radcliffe.” He cast a speculative look at Kent. “You’re testier than a newly gelded Thoroughbred. I wonder why.”
“I’m tired of your bloody cows trampling my grain.”
“I’ve sent a few of my men to help with the hedgerow. What more do you want?”
Kent slapped the gloves against his palm. “Since you ask,” he said through clenched teeth, “I’ll tell you. I wan
t you to stay away from my property.” He gave Juliet a pointed stare.
Shocked, she burst out, “That’s absurd! No one dictates whom I associate with.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Except your husband,” he said, his voice too low to reach the laborers. “You’re free to do whatever you wish so long as you don’t make a fool of yourself... or me.”
The blood drained from her cheeks as she stared at his taut lips and angry eyes. She could scarcely believe this same man had called her darling in the dark of night, had transported her to such glorious heights of pleasure in his bed. But of course, she bitterly reminded herself, he’d been pretending she was Emily.
“I say, Radcliffe–”
He swung on Henry. “Stay the hell out of this. I suggest you hoist your elegant rump onto your expensive horse and ride on.”
Oddly, Henry looked more amused than offended. “I shall at that. Adieu, Your Grace.”
Tipping his bowler to Juliet, he swung onto the stallion. He cantered away, his coattails flying, dust pluming in his wake.
Kent caught her wrist and drew her to the other side of the cart, out of earshot of the workmen. Furious, she yanked free. “You had no right to speak to me that way,” she snapped. “Or to drive Henry away.”
“Henry, is it?” He fixed her with a fearsome scowl. “You’re on familiar terms for a man you’ve only just met.”
“He’s a perfect gentleman—more a gentleman than you’re acting right now.”
Kent gripped the work gloves so tightly, his knuckles turned white. “Your naivete is showing. He’s the biggest bloody rake in the empire. Give him half a chance and he’ll have you on the ground with your skirts above your waist.”
His crudeness staggered her. The urge to slap him scorched her. She started to lift her hand, but stopped at the thought of their audience. Instead, she dug her fingernails into her palms, the pain a balm to her numbing fury. Her husband might be rude, but she wouldn’t stoop to his level.
Had she been too bold last night, after all? She could think of no other reason why he would insult her so.
The volcano of pain and resentment that had been seething all day exploded. “Odd, that’s exactly what my father warned me you would try,” she said scathingly. “I suppose I have been a fool. Only a fool would be so blind to the fact that you want to shape me into the sort of namby pamby wife you prefer.”
His eyes narrowed. “Shape you—? You’re speaking nonsense.”
“Am I? You’ve made your opinion of my character plain enough. It’s a shame you married so far below your class.”
Pivoting, she grasped the side of the cart to climb in. Kent snared her wrist and brought her back around. His furious frown eased to watchfulness. “Wait a moment,” he said. “You’ve got this all wrong.”
His sunlit image shimmered behind a humiliating blur of tears. She yanked at his grip. “Let me go.”
“No.” Tossing down his work gloves, he touched her cheek, his callused fingers abrasive on her soft skin. “Juliet... I didn’t mean to be so harsh. More worldly women than you have succumbed to Henry. I only wanted to protect you.”
His penitent voice somehow enhanced her misery; his nearness tempted her beyond reason. She could see every handsome angle in his sun-browned face. She wanted to lay her head against his chest, to accept the comfort of his arms. But he offered only empty words designed to placate a dim-witted female.
Swallowing hard, she said coldly, “Protect me? By suggesting I’d sleep with another man, that I’d betray our marriage vows? Is that the sort of woman you think I am?”
“Of course not. I spoke in haste. You see, I...” A muscle leapt in his jaw. “I suppose I was shocked to see you acting so friendly with him.”
“That’s no excuse for what you said, Kent. I don’t appreciate being dressed down in public.”
“Juliet, I...” He lowered his eyes, his expression wary. “I was angry about something else… and took it out on you.”
Pain stabbed her. When would he open up and discuss his troubles with her? “Angry about what?”
“About the estate problems that mounted during my absence. Oh, nothing critical, just a lot of little things. Juliet, you’ve never had to face money problems, this blasted waste of time on the hedge... ”
She sensed he held something back. “And?”
His brooding gaze swept over her. He hesitated, then loosed her wrist. “I suppose I was also surprised to see you in that gown. Where did you find Emily’s dress?”
His puzzlement confused her. “Augusta brought it to me. She said you wanted me to have a new wardrobe.”
“Augusta,” he said in disgust. “She can certainly be a penny pincher.” Kent touched her arm in a brief caress. “I never meant for you to wear ill fitting cast offs, Juliet. I wanted her to sew you something new.”
The darkness inside her lifted a little. “You mean... you don’t want to turn me into Emily?”
“Turn you into—” He studied her blankly. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t remember, do you?” She forced the words past the sickness in her throat. “Kent, last night as you were falling asleep you called me Emily.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. A dull flush crept up his cheeks. Sliding his thunderstruck gaze from her, he stared at the field of wheat, the long stalks undulating in a whisper of wind. The breeze sifted his hair, the sun transforming the tousled strands to living sable.
When he looked back at her, his eyes were hooded. “I hardly know what to say,” he murmured. “I can’t imagine how I could have made such a blunder.”
“Because you can’t stop thinking about her,” she said, forcing herself to voice the tormenting words. “You’re obsessed by her. I thought you were pretending I was her.”
His eyes glittered in the sunlight; his fingers bit into her shoulders. “God, no! I could never look at you and see another woman. I could never hold you in my arms and dream of anyone else.” He leaned closer, his hands gentling, stroking. “Much as you tempt me, Juliet, the north pasture is hardly the place for me to delineate all your unique qualities.”
His burning look at her bosom made her knees weak; his earthy aroma made her long for the flavor of his skin against her lips. Yet dismay diluted her desire. She felt a gnawing emptiness, a yearning for him to view her as more than a mere bed partner.
He watched her closely. “Will you forgive me?”
“I need time to think, Kent. I admit I’ve been naive, but there’s more to marriage than physical pleasure.”
Shadows veiled his eyes; he squared his shoulders to formal stiffness. “As you wish, then. We’ll speak more this evening.”
Steely hands gripped her waist and boosted her into the cart. He guided the pony around; then he lightly slapped the brown rump and the animal began trudging back up the hill.
Juliet scarcely registered the rhythmic tug of the reins in her hands. She couldn’t deny a niggling disappointment that he thought he could win her forgiveness by offering her physical satisfaction.
Perhaps her immodest behavior last night inspired his lust but repulsed his love. Yet why shouldn’t a wife arouse both ardor and affection in her husband?
As the cart crested the hill, she pivoted on the wooden seat and looked back. Fists planted on his hips, Kent stood in the lane. He raised a hand, then strode back to the hedgerow.
She admitted a deep pride in seeing him work alongside his men. Even if she could share her father’s conviction that Kent was a poor businessman, she assured herself he was certainly no pea-brained wastrel planning his next fox hunt.
Only as the pony plodded toward the distant castle did she recall Henry Hammond-Gore’s startling charges. Kent had neglected Emily in favor of farming? She’d committed suicide?
Nonsense. No woman could be despondent over bearing Kent’s baby, over possessing his love. The death had been a tragic accident. Like Lord Breeton, Henry only mouthed unfounded gossip.
As the stately gray towers of Radcliffe drew steadily nearer, Juliet let her thoughts stray again to the confrontation. Could she trust that Kent didn’t want to turn her into a replacement for his dead love? That he valued Juliet for herself? The whirlwind courtship had denied her the chance to learn his every facet.
Yet love glowed within her, mysterious and magical, fiery and fulfilling. She would fight for her husband’s affection. She held enough love inside her to embrace the life of an impoverished duchess; enough love to forsake the status of pampered daughter.
Daughter. Pain circled her chest in a tightening band. Kent had warned her that her father would never change; Mama’s letter only confirmed Papa’s intolerance. Because of the feud, she might never again see them, might never again feel the warmth of her mother’s embrace, might never again bask in Papa’s proud regard.
The heady scent of meadowsweet drifted from the tall stalks of feathery white flowers bordering the lane. Juliet sat straighter in the cart. She didn’t have to accept Papa’s stubborn pride. She wouldn’t simply give up on bridging the rift.
From the soil of her sorrow thrust a seedling of resolution. If she unearthed everything about the feud, maybe she could reason with her father, force him to see that past hatreds needn’t poison future happiness.
Apprehension stirred in her stomach. Of course, the letter she’d posted today would hardly restore her to his good graces...
The dogcart clattered over the drawbridge and into the castle. Late afternoon sunshine bathed the dingy courtyard and gilded the brooding battlements. She made an absentminded note to pull up the ragged clumps of groundsel and dockweed around the forlornly dry fountain. Leaving the pony to the care of a stable boy, she headed for the massive oak door of the entryway.
In the great hall, she encountered Ravi; his mud hued eyes gleamed inscrutably beneath the flat gray turban. “Memsahib,” he said, bowing. “I was on my way to deliver this to your room.” From a deep pocket of his robe, he withdrew a note.
Juliet unfolded the paper to see an elaborate script flowing across the lavender stationery. At a time convenient to Your Grace, I would be delighted to have the honor of your presence at tea. Chantal Hutton.
