by Olivia Drake
The air smelled pure after the settling dust of the greenhouse. A peacock strutted the garden, its fan spread. Kent’s heart thrummed against her breast; his muscles shifted rhythmically as he walked.
A flash of brownish gray caught her eye. Tilting her head, she saw a horse cropping the weeds beside an overgrown bank of rosebushes. “Where did that nag come from?”
“That nag,” Kent said, with a glint in his dark eyes, “could win a steeplechase.” Swinging around, setting her head to whirling, he called to Fleetwood, “Fetch a stable boy. I want this horse to have a good rubdown and a hearty serving of oats.”
The postern gate stood ajar; Kent passed under the stone archway. Gordon wandered across the dusty, sunlit courtyard. He stopped and blinked, his eyes dreamy behind thick spectacles.
“Why are you holding her, Kent? Is she dead?” His thin voice elevated. “Is Emily dead?”
His confusion shocked Juliet and stirred her compassion. “It’s me, Juliet,” she said gently. “And I’m perfectly fine.”
“She suffered an accident in the greenhouse.” Kent narrowed his eyes on his cousin. “Where have you been?”
Gordon waved a misshapen hand at the manor. “Researching Machiavellian theory in the library. Heard a crash, then shouts and tramping feet and the like. Disturbed my cogitation...” His voice faded, as if he’d lost the thread of thought.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Kent said.
“Certainly.” The glaze suddenly left Gordon’s eyes; he looked remarkably lucid. “Er... felicitations on your happy condition, Juliet.”
“Thank you.”
The great hall lay in gloom. His boot heels ringing on the stone floor, Kent carried her down a winding corridor.
“How oddly Gordon behaved,” she said.
“He’s absentminded, that’s all. Don’t worry about him. You need to concentrate on watching over yourself.”
His high handed manner annoyed her. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Though she kept her eyes downcast, she felt his gaze trickle her skin. She stared at his white shirt, where a few curling black hairs escaped his unbuttoned collar. As if she weighed no more than a spray of roses, he bore her up the steps. Was it the curving of the staircase or his tantalizing nearness that made her so deliciously dizzy?
Pushing open a doorway, Kent walked through the alcove and into her bedchamber. He settled Juliet on the vast canopied bed and propped two pillows behind her. Then he disappeared into the dressing room, returning a moment later with a wet cloth. The mattress dipped as he sat down on the bed. He brushed aside her tumbled hair and began to cleanse her brow.
“Are you certain you’re all right? The doctor should take a look at you.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” Only then did she recall her dishevelment. An inexplicable wave of shyness inundated her. “Although I must look a fright.”
His eyes briefly met hers. “The sight of you alive and well is all that matters.”
Yet his tone held a distracted quality; she had the impression his thoughts ranged far from her and this ancient bedroom. She swallowed an upsurge of frustration and dismay. The uncompromising set of his face proved he hadn’t forgiven her for appealing to the queen.
For trampling his pride and seeking what was rightfully hers.
He cares more for the feud than your love.
Her scraped cheek stung beneath a swipe of damp linen; she winced.
His hand stilled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
His formality smarted more than the wound. “It’s only a scratch. Believe me, I’ve suffered worse pain.”
His gaze sharpened. For an instant he seemed on the verge of speaking; then he tightened his lips and looked back at her cheek. He gently angled her jaw as the cool cloth glided over her skin.
Tears pricked her eyes; blinking, she prayed he’d attribute it to the abrasion. This was hardly the romantic scenario she’d envisioned, being placated with soft words of forgiveness, wooed with tender kisses of reconciliation. Instead, she faced a cold-eyed stranger who seemed more inclined to silence than peacemaking.
His callused fingertips lightly inspected her cheek. “It’s only a minor scrape, thank God. Ought to heal without a scar.” Taking firm hold of her wrist, he wiped the grime from her palm. “I want you to rest until dinner. I’ll give orders that no one’s to disturb you.”
Resentment burst inside her. “You’re good at giving orders.”
His fingers tensed; his gaze shot to hers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, tugging her hand free and sitting up straight, “that you’ve been gone for nearly three days. Doesn’t it occur to you that I might be interested in hearing what happened with the queen?”
Something flashed across his features. Guilt? Regret? Annoyance? “Of course I intended to tell you about the audience. But you’re too shaken right now.”
“Kent, I’m fine. How many times must I say so?” She bit down hard on her lip. “Mama wrote that Papa received a summons, too. Was he there?”
He bent his head to examine a small scratch on the back of her hand. “Yes, Emmett was there.”
“And?”
“Her Majesty commanded him to dower you properly. I expect you’ll be hearing from his solicitors within a fortnight.”
His reticence maddened her more than her father’s capitulation pleased her. “Is that all?”
“It was a brief meeting.”
“Did...” She held a long breath, then expelled it slowly. “Did Papa ask after me?”
The relentless severity of his face softened; tossing the wet cloth onto the bedside table, Kent tunneled a hand into her hair. “Yes, darling, he did. I told him you were happy.”
His quiet words ended on the faint uplift of a question. A question she could not honestly answer. The murmur of the river drifted into the silence. A breeze billowed the velvet draperies and wrapped the bed in the fresh scent of summer sunshine. Against her neck, his hand lay heavy and warm. His aggressively handsome features bore a vulnerability that arrowed into her heart. He was waiting, she knew, waiting for her assurance.
Not yet... not yet.
“Do you still oppose my accepting the dowry?”
His steady gaze faltered, but only for an instant. “No. You’ve the right to use the money for the good of the people here and whatever else you please. ‘
“You’re not angry anymore?”
“No.” His mouth thinned into a grimace. “After what happened today, I can see how dearly we need money to safeguard this place for our child.”
She knew the pride the admission cost him, yet wariness thudded in her stomach. “Are you truly pleased about the baby?”
He exhaled in a hollow rush. “For Christ’s sake, Juliet. Of course I am. Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
The tender curve of his lips distracted her. “I wasn’t sure what to think... after that awful quarrel—”
His sudden taut embrace scattered her doubts like the feathery seeds of a dandelion. She reveled in the flex of male muscles, the possessive steel of his arms, the sandalwood scent of his skin. Beneath her hands, his shoulders were solid and warm. His mouth caught hers in an open kiss that spun into a long, lush outpouring of passion. He pressed her against the bed; she lay back willingly. When at last he moved his lips to her brow, his heart beat a swift tempo against her breasts.
“I was so afraid,” he muttered. “Afraid you might not be here when I returned. Then when I saw the greenhouse, I was even more terrified that you were here and hurt.”
She cupped his smooth cheekbones. “Don’t think about the accident anymore, love.”
“How can I not?” His grip tensed; his voice lashed almost angrily: “You might have been killed, Juliet. You and our baby. Just like...”
In a blinding slap of awareness, she knew he was recalling Emily. The old wound ached, but Juliet shoved it away. “We weren’t, Kent. I’m here for you.”
“
I can’t lose you. Not now. Not before we’ve had a chance at the future... children... happiness.”
Naked need blurred his features, a need that shot a shiver of longing through her. She wanted him now, with the birds twittering outside and sunlight filtering past the curtains. The depth of her yearning made her fingers quiver as she smoothed the black strands of hair edging his collar. “I’ve missed you terribly.”
His night dark lashes lowered; his broad palms weighed her breasts. “And I, you.”
“Then make love to me, Kent.”
Abruptly he sat up. “No, we can’t.”
She blinked. “Can’t?”
“You’ve had a shock, and you’re pregnant. You need to rest.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Are we back to that again?” She leaned toward him, her breasts finding the delicious solidity of his chest. Smiling seductively, she said, “The doctor told me that I could continue my normal schedule of activities.”
A muscle in his jaw leapt. Indecision hovered in the flexing of his hands on her shoulders, in the swift rise and fall of his breathing. “Later,” he said, pressing her against the pillows. “I want you to take a nap, get your strength back.”
“Nap! I haven’t taken a nap since I was three.”
“Darling Juliet, we do have tonight.”
Of course, she thought crossly, he made love to her only in the dark of night. Yet the flame in his eyes melted her annoyance. The truth was, she did feel a weakening wash of fatigue. “I won’t sleep,” she warned.
Smiling, Kent pushed up from the bed. “I trust you’ll try. I want you to feel well enough to attend dinner tonight.”
“I will. I’m hardly an invalid.”
Bracing a hand on either side of her, he planted a hard kiss on her lips. “Grant me a favor.”
“I tried to grant you a favor a moment ago.”
His eyes gleamed. “Wear the white gown to dinner. The one you wore at the ball when we first met.”
“Why?”
“Because you look lovely in it.”
“Is that all?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, Duchess.” Kent gently ran his knuckles along her cheek, where the scrape still burned. That odd preoccupied quality again shadowed his face. “I’ll be right next door if you need me.”
He strode from the bedroom and left the door ajar. Tonight she’d make certain he thought only of her. Rolling onto her side, she hugged the pillow and started to plan precisely how she would entice him into a declaration of love...
She opened her eyes to the dusky light of sunset. For a moment Juliet couldn’t recall how she’d come to be lying fully clothed, gazing at the green and gold canopy of her bed. She felt stiff, her muscles aching from the fall. Then a quiet rap sounded on the door and Mrs. Fleetwood trotted inside.
In contrast to her husband, she was short and stout; Juliet found the woman an efficient lady’s maid. She soon sat garbed in the gown of white tulle before the dressing table. A pair of candles dispelled the gathering darkness. The gray-haired woman chattered freely as she coiled Juliet’s hair atop her head.
“His Grace has a big to do planned tonight,” confided Mrs. Fleetwood. “He’s ordered everyone to dinner.”
“Everyone?”
“Even Miss Chantal and little Rose.” Clutching the hairbrush, she leaned forward. “Not that he hasn’t asked ‘em before, but that Miss Chantal is usually too snooty to come out o’ her tower.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t feel welcome.”
“Humph. Lordin’ it over the rest of the family, when she’s only a—” Catching Juliet’s frown in the mirror, Mrs. Fleetwood hastily patted the coiffure. “There now. You’ll do the duke proud, you will.”
She was carefully dusting a bit of face powder over the scrape on Juliet’s cheek when the door opened and Kent strode inside the dressing room. Mrs. Fleetwood bobbed a curtsy and scurried out.
Juliet rose. Tall and breathtakingly handsome in black evening garb and white cravat, her husband walked toward her. He was smiling, though the aura of concentration still hovered about him. She wondered if he could tell how fast he made her heart beat.
Taking her hands, he kissed her. “You’ve a sparkle in your eyes again. And you look ravishing.”
From beneath her lashes, she cast a cunning glance at him. “Then perhaps later you’ll ravish me.
Chuckling, he swiveled her toward the mirror. Reflected in the rippled glass, their images complemented each other, he so tall and dark, she so slender and radiant.
“I’ve brought a trinket to brighten your gown,” he said.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him draw something from his pocket, something that shimmered like a living entity in the candlelight. Reaching in front of her, he placed a necklace around her, the gems cold against her skin.
As he fastened the clasp, the surprise of his gift and the magnificence of the jewels dazzled Juliet into silence. A thick rope of emeralds hung from her neck. Above her breasts lay a splendid peacock worked in more emeralds, its tail fan winking with rubies and diamonds and sapphires. From its ruby beak dangled an emerald the size of a dove’s egg.
Now she knew why he’d asked her to wear the simple white gown—to set off this superb piece of jewelry. But where could he have gotten the money to purchase it? Was it a peace offering?
She met his eyes in the mirror. “It’s stunning,” she breathed, touching the glossy emeralds.
“Alas, it doesn’t shine as brightly as your eyes,” Kent said, running his fingertips along her cheek. “Nevertheless it’s in honor of the heir to Radcliffe.”
Her throat tightened. Turning her head, she pressed a kiss into his callused palm. “And what if the baby’s a girl?”
He smiled. “An heiress will do nicely.”
“Is the piece an heirloom?”
“It’s become one. My father acquired it in India. In Hindustani, it’s called Khwabon ke raja.”
The exotic words entranced her. “What does that mean?”
A breeze made the candle flame dip and gutter; shadows danced across his face. In the mirror his eyes appeared demon dark, as hard and glittering as the gemstones circling her neck.
“Dreamspinner.”
Chapter 16
“Dreamspinner!” Juliet whirled to face Kent. “But... that’s what my father used to call me when I was a little girl.”
Kent cocked a black eyebrow. “So you’ve said.”
“He was referring to this necklace? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was another legacy of the feud. He and my father once had a dispute over which man had the right to own Dreamspinner.”
The jewels suddenly hung heavy and cold from her neck. Stroking the smooth emerald drop, she sank onto the dressing table stool. “A dispute. Did they come to blows?”
He stood unmoving, watching her. “Yes.”
“William won,” she guessed.
A certain controlled emotion guarded Kent. “And Emmett never forgave him for the humiliation.”
“Papa must have had a reason for thinking the jewels belonged to him.”
“Shortly before the family fortune trickled away, my father purchased Dreamspinner from a maharaja, a prince of Kashmir. Emmett Carleton claimed the neck ice had been promised to him. My father denied all knowledge of that fact.”
“I see.” So the necklace was tangible evidence of their animosity. Juliet wondered which man had told the truth, William or her father. Her throat closed around a lump of sadness. She would likely never have the chance to ask Papa for his version of the story. “Kent, why did you keep the necklace all these years? It must be worth a small fortune. Couldn’t you have sold it and used the money for Radcliffe?”
“My father made me promise never to let Dreamspinner leave the family. And I do keep my vows.” He hauled her against his lean length. “Including my vow to make my wife happy. I’m sorry I left for Windsor in such a rage.”
“I’m sorry I kept such a secret fr
om you.”
She sensed a sudden tension in him. His hands skimmed her bare arms; his lips brushed hers. The display of affection weakened her knees, yet Juliet was uneasy. He had something on his mind, something that put distance between them.
He must be shaken by the accident, she told herself. He claimed to be pleased about the child. Perhaps he feared to admit outright how much he cared for his wife...
From far off drifted the boom of the dinner gong. “Shall we?” Kent said, offering his arm.
Juliet took his smooth sleeve. Strolling beside him, she said, “I understand Chantal and Rose will be joining us.”
Through the gloom of the corridor, he glanced at her, his lashes half lowered. “I thought it high time the family supped together.”
The odd edge to his voice discouraged further inquiry. Later, when they were alone, she’d dig below the surface of his reserve and unearth whatever he was hiding.
In silence they made their way to the drawing room. Everyone was gathered near the massive marble chimney piece. A silver candelabra on a rosewood table augmented the failing light of dusk.
Augusta perched stiffly next to Gordon on the settee. Punjab lolled at her brown hem. Directly opposite, Rose sipped a glass of sherry. Chantal wore a flowing fuchsia gown as regal as the Queen Anne chair she occupied. From beside an indolent Henry, Maud appeared to be directing the conversation with the grand gestures of an orchestra conductor.
She squinted toward the doorway. “Hullo!” she said, waving gaily. “Juliet, I was just telling everyone about the time we sneaked a bottle of champagne into school to celebrate your seventeenth birthday.”
As she and Kent walked closer, Juliet smiled. “Please, Maud. You’ll ruin my dignified image.”
Maud giggled. “Oh, fiddle. Don’t play the stuffy duchess with me.”
Suddenly Juliet noticed the others staring at her. The amusement withered inside her, bewilderment blooming in its stead. Augusta looked furious, Gordon startled, Rose awestruck, Henry worried.
Chantal sprang up, a tall purple iris in the elegant gown. “Dreamspinner,” she said, the word hissing like an oath. She made a dramatic sweep of her hand, her sleeve swaying. “Kent, how could you let her wear that... that thing?”
