by Olivia Drake
Near the front door, a liveried footman stood at rigid attention, awaiting the arrival of the first guests. A battalion of maids had cleaned the house until every inch of the floor gleamed and every bit of brass sparkled. The vivid scent of roses and carnations drifted from a scattering of cloisonne vases.
Her heels scuffed softly across the marble floor as she moved toward the drawing room with its emerald silk paneled walls. Before she could enter, the butler emerged. “Ah, Miss Carleton. Mr. Carleton asked to see you in the library.”
“Thank you, Potter.”
As she started down the long, echoing corridor, uneasiness pricked her spirits. Now what had she done wrong? Surely Mama wouldn’t have reported such a minor transgression as weed pulling.
Portraits of people in old fashioned garb stared down from the walls; this sprawling house had come equipped with noble ancestors, Juliet decided with a smile. The success of her father’s myriad business interests had enabled her parents to move here last year while she had been away at boarding school. Unlike the smaller town house of her youth, this place felt cold in spirit, more a museum than a home.
The library doors stood ajar; she pushed open one carved panel. Twisted loops of gold cord fastened the crimson velvet curtains. Scattering the room were mementos of her father’s trips to India: brass pots from Benares, an elephant’s foot stool, a collection of exotic figurines from his import business. The air bore the scent of leather book bindings and the rich tobacco of her father’s cigars.
Emmett Carleton stood by a window, his head tilted toward the dusk light filtering through the Nottingham lace panel. He cut a handsome figure in a black evening suit and white cravat. With his robust frame and his mane of thick gray streaked hair, he reminded Juliet of a lion, king of his domain.
Lost in thought, he stared down at something cradled in his palm. With the other hand he smoothed his sweeping mustache. The unexpected sadness on his leonine face touched her heart and awakened her curiosity.
Keeping impulsively silent, she tiptoed nearer and saw that he held a filigreed gold locket. Tucked into either side was a tiny photograph; both images appeared to be of women, though Juliet could not discern their features. Then her petticoats rustled and Emmett pivoted toward her.
In the same swift motion, he snapped the locket shut and tucked it into a pocket of his waistcoat. She had the oddest impression that he looked guilty before his face settled into a familiar jovial expression.
“Ah, Princess,” he said, his green eyes crinkling. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Whose locket is that, Papa?”
His smile seemed a trifle forced. “It belongs to a business associate. He left it by mistake in my office and I thought to return it to him tonight.”
“He’s one of our guests? Who?”
“No one important. Now, allow me to say, you look radiant tonight.”
The matter of the locket was closed, Juliet knew by the firmness of his voice. And when Emmett Carleton made a decision, no amount of persistence could turn him onto another course.
She reluctantly stifled her questions and twirled, her snowy skirts swaying. “Do I pass muster, then?”
“The noble swells will be smitten,” he declared, fists planted at his waist. “No doubt your mother and I shall soon be entertaining an endless stream of titled suitors.”
She laughed. “Poor Papa. If the prospect disturbs you, perhaps we should cancel the ball and avoid the headache of launching me into society.” Sobering, she added, “I could always study botany at Trinity College.”
“No daughter of mine is going to turn herself into a bluestocking. I prefer blue blooded grandsons to carry on the family tradition.”
The reference to their long standing debate stung.
With a cool stare, she said, “And what of what I want?”
His bushy gray brows lowered. But he merely said, “No arguments, Princess... not tonight.” Reaching into a pocket of his frock coat, he withdrew a strand of pearls. “Your mother asked me to present you with this. Your grandmother—the Lady Beckburgh—wore these pearls on the occasion of her debut.” Stepping behind her, he fastened the cool silver clasp at her nape.
Her annoyance sank beneath a rush of warm emotion. The sentimental gift meant more than a maharaja’s treasure trove. She brushed her fingertips over the glossy pearls. “Oh, Papa, I never expected—”
Bursting with affection, she swung around to embrace him, pressing her cheek to the fine fabric of his lapel. His scent of cigars enveloped her, bringing back fond memories of childhood, when her favorite time of day had been the brief moments each evening in which she visited her parents to bid them good night.
For an instant, he held her tight; then he drew stiffly back. Clearing his throat, Emmett Carleton adjusted his impeccable cravat. “A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice. One never knows when a servant might walk in.”
Vaguely disappointed, she nodded. Couldn’t he for once forget the rigid rules of propriety? “Of course, Papa.”
“Shall we proceed to the foyer? I can’t wait to show you off, Princess... the jewel in my crown of achievements.”
Her vision of the future failed to match that of her parents, Juliet reflected uneasily. She suddenly recalled Kent Deverell, but decided against mentioning his strange appearance. No need to ignite the short fuse of her father’s temper, especially not now, and spoil his pleasure in the ball.
As she took his arm, she felt a fluttery mix of excitement and disquiet. Half of her looked forward to the magic of the evening. The other half felt like a choice plum being placed on display at the greengrocer’s.
“Who has your first waltz?” Lady Maud Peabody squinted at the dance programme Juliet held in her white gloved hands. “Egad, the inimitable Lord Breeton. Or shall I say, Lord Brayton?”
Juliet grinned, then glanced around the crowded ballroom to see if anyone had overheard the impudent pun. No one paid attention to the two debutantes, who stood in a nook half hidden by the feathery foliage of an aspidistra. The gas jets cast a blaze of smoky golden light over the assembly of ladies and gentlemen. Glittering like a fairyland, the ballroom had huge, gilt framed mirrors and an arched ceiling from which hung several crystal chandeliers. The buzz of voices mingled with the tuning of instruments from the musicians’ alcove.
“My father encouraged his lordship to sign my card for two waltzes and a polka,” Juliet whispered, grimacing. “I’m afraid my parents regard him as a potential son in law.”
“You could do worse.” Her fair features as dainty as a snowdrop, Maud fluttered a silk fan and confided, “My parents are favoring that beastly Roger Billingsgate. Imagine... I saw him spit into a vase of carnations when he thought no one was watching.”
Juliet laughed. “What did you do?”
“Affected not to notice, of course.” A gleam entered Maud’s nearsighted blue eyes. “On the other hand, he does have pots of money. Perhaps the right woman might tame the savage beast.”
Amused, Juliet shook her head. “I wouldn’t count on it. If you’re wrong, you’ll be staring at him over the breakfast table for the rest of your life.”
“Oh, fiddle,” Maud said with a dismissive wave of her fan. “I can scarcely see past my nose, anyway. Besides, we’re not schoolgirls anymore; I can manage any man—” Her words broke off as she squinted at the crowd. “Don’t look now, but I think that’s Breeton heading this way. Searching for you, no doubt.”
Juliet kept her gaze longingly trained on the French doors leading to the formal gardens. “I’m tempted to hide on the terrace until the first dance is over.”
“He’d only come after you. You’re too rich an heiress to let slip through his greedy fingers. Now, smile.”
She assumed a civil expression just as Lord Breeton ambled out of the throng. The pompous dandy wore a stiff boiled collar and a shiny formal coat sporting a red rosebud on the lapel. Muttonchop whiskers and a thatch of curly brown hair framed his pallid face. His fea
tures were regular, except for the fact that nature had failed to provide him with a chin.
“Your ladyship,” he said, bowing first to Maud, then to Juliet. “Miss Carleton, I was beginning to despair of ever finding you. Rather like chasing down a fox at a hunt.”
The comparison irritated her. Dipping into the obligatory curtsy, she said sweetly, “Perhaps your lordship ought to have brought his pack of hounds.”
He looked momentarily puzzled; then he let loose a braying laugh. “Hounds at a ball, you say—hee haw, now, that would create quite the stir, wouldn’t it?”
Maud lifted the fan to her face and uttered a choked cough. Juliet wanted to sink into the polished parquet floor, but thankfully, his loud guffaw attracted little attention.
“Are you all right?” she asked Maud in mock solicitousness. “A pity if you fell ill and had to leave the festivities.”
“I’ll be fine.” Her eyes twinkled above the zealous wagging of her fan. “It’s this stuffy air. Settles in the throat, you know.”
“I say,” interjected Lord Breeton, “the musicians are striking the first notes. Do pardon us, your ladyship.”
Taking firm hold of Juliet’s arm, he whisked her toward the dance floor. The lively whirl of a waltz restored her sparkling gaiety; for all his faults, Lord Breeton was a superb dancer. So what if he could only converse on the horse and the hunt?
Afterward, he delivered her to her mother’s side, where a morose young nobleman awaited his turn to partner Juliet. Another hopeful, she decided, as he droned on about the disrepair of his country estate, and then belatedly added a gushing testimony to the heritage of the house and his own ancient lineage.
Never lacking for escorts, she danced away the hours. Between sets, she stood surrounded by a bevy of admirers as she drank champagne. The effervescent wine sped straight to her head. She couldn’t deny a giddy delight in being the center of attention. Flattered the number of gentlemen who requested an introduction, she had to remind herself the attention stemmed from her extravagant dowry as her father’s sole heir.
Then she saw him.
She was laughing at a long winded tale told by Viscount Hazlitt of a soda siphon battle with the Prince of Wales, when an odd prickly sensation pulled her gaze to the musicians’ alcove.
A man stood there, one broad shoulder propped negligently against a pillar. His hand rested in the pocket of his formal coat, drawing back the black fabric and emphasizing the superb fitness of his body. A light breeze wafted through the opened French doors and ruffled his black hair. Clean shaven, his features were handsome in an aggressive sort of way, with striking cheekbones and a proud set to his jaw.
Kent Deverell.
Her heart tripped over a beat. Beneath black brows, eyes dark as pitch studied her with frank absorption. His scrutiny unnerved her. Unlike the refined admiration she’d received from other gentlemen, this man radiated a dynamic intensity, a disturbing aloofness. With a twist of chagrin, Juliet realized she couldn’t tell what he thought of her.
Why had he come here?
Obeying reckless impulse, she raised her chin and shot him a haughty glare. His mouth quirked into the hint of a smile, half mocking, half mysterious. Unaccountably the breath squeezed from her lungs. He seemed disinclined to come forward and make her acquaintance, so why did she feel the overwhelming urge to defy convention and introduce herself to her father’s business rival?
“What a handsome devil,” whispered Maud. “Who is he?”
Juliet tore her gaze from the duke to see her friend squinting over the fan. Lord Hazlitt and the others had wandered off, leaving them alone with Lord Breeton. Before Juliet could gather the shreds of her composure, the marquis spoke.
“Radcliffe,” he said, his lip curling in cultured distaste. “I say, what do you suppose he’s doing here?”
“Radcliffe?” piped Maud, her eyes owlishly wide. “Do you mean the Duke of Radcliffe?”
Breeton nodded. “Kent Deverell, none other. He and I attended Harrow together.”
Juliet frowned, puzzling over his presence. Her mother hadn’t issued an invitation to the duke. Unless she’d been wrong this afternoon… unless Papa had invited Kent Deverell without informing Mama. Was it possible the feud had been settled?
Burning with curiosity, she swung sharply toward him again. But the place by the pillar stood empty; the duke had vanished.
“I say,” Breeton went on, “this must be the first time Radcliffe’s come out in society since the scandal.”
Maud perked up; her fan dipped to reveal an avid expression. “What scandal?”
Breeton rubbed his receding chin. “I’m no backstairs gossip... but I heard Deverell’s wife took her own life three years ago. Leapt from the parapet of Castle Radcliffe.”
Shock and pity struck Juliet speechless.
Maud gasped. “Egad!”
“A sad tale, indeed,” Breeton mused. “Especially since the duchess was... er... enceinte.”
“Oh, the poor man!” Maud exclaimed. “To lose both his wife and his heir. But are you certain this is true?”
“Of course, my lady,” Breeton said, puffing out his thin chest. “My valet has a cousin in service near Radcliffe’s estate. Said the local vicar tried to refuse to bury Emily Deverell in consecrated grounds. Radcliffe went half mad and claimed the death was an accident. Actually threatened the vicar with bodily harm until he relented.”
“Perhaps it was a tragic accident,” Juliet said.
Lord Breeton held himself pompously erect. “You are doubtless unaware of the late duchess’s background. She was born on the wrong side of the blanket, poor thing. Talk has it, she was prone to melancholia.”
“How typical of an ill bred commoner,” she murmured dryly.
“Yes... er... no.” Breeton flushed beet red to his ears. “I say, Miss Carleton, I meant no offense—”
“Then don’t repeat rumors,” she snapped, glancing from his disconcerted expression to Maud’s guilty countenance. “Pray excuse me.”
Pivoting, she swept into the swarm of guests. Almost immediately she regretted her outburst. Breeton merely acted his usual priggish self; Maud obeyed her compulsion for gossip.
So why, Juliet wondered, had she leaped to the duke’s defense?
The image of his darkly handsome face invaded her mind. He’d lost his wife and unborn child to calamitous circumstance; no wonder he gave the impression of brooding emotions hidden within those midnight eyes.
Sympathy softened her heart. What if his wife really had committed suicide? What could make a woman so unhappy that she sought death as her sole escape? Juliet shivered, baffled and curious. Unless Kent Deverell was a devil in disguise...
Concentrating on her thoughts, she nearly bumped into her mother at the doors to the ballroom.
“Oh, darling, there you are.” Stunning in Nile green faille, Dorothea Carleton spread the pearl sticks of her fan and looked to the couple beside her. “Have you welcomed Lord and Lady Higgleston?”
Juliet greeted Maud’s parents warmly, though she scarcely knew them, for they took scant interest in their only daughter, a child of their middle age. Like a pair of matched cobs, both were stout, gray haired, and stoop shouldered. Lady Higgleston spent part of each year as lady in waiting to the queen and the other part pursuing philanthropic causes, while Lord Higgleston hibernated at his club.
Her ladyship snatched Juliet’s hand and squeezed it with evangelical fervor. “Dorothea has been telling me about the banquet Mr. Carleton is sponsoring next month for the orphans of the Rosemary Lane Hospice. Such generosity is to be commended! Don’t you agree, Arthur?”
Lord Higgleston cupped a hand to his ear. “Eh? Whatever you say, m’dear. Whatever you say.”
“We all have a duty to succor the less fortunate,” said Mrs. Carleton.
Lady Higgleston gave a vigorous nod, setting the ostrich feather in her coiffure to bouncing. “Indeed so. I shall make certain the queen hears of your benevolence when she
returns from Balmoral. Her Majesty is a champion of the downtrodden, you know. Did you hear what she did for Lady Frith?”
Bemused, Juliet shook her head and extracted her hand. “No.”
“Her ladyship’s father was a commoner who made his fortune in the sausage trade. He disapproved of her eloping with that penniless Earl of Frith and tried to cut her off, but the queen interceded and made him pay the dowry. Isn’t that so, Arthur?”
“Eh?” He blinked. “Yes, m’dear. Whatever you say.”
“Pray excuse us,” said Lady Higgleston. “I see Reverend Wilder by the punch bowl. I must question him on his interpretation of last Sunday’s scripture.” Tugging at her husband’s sleeve, she hauled him through the crowd.
“What a marvelous night this has been.” Blue eyes sparkling, Dorothea Carleton bent nearer in a waft of violet perfume. “When the queen hears the news, your father could win his knighthood.”
“I’m glad,” Juliet said sincerely.
“And you’ve hardly had a moment alone. The dance has been quite the success, don’t you think?”
She bit her lip. She ought to report Kent Deverell’s illicit presence, but a strange reluctance held her back. He wasn’t disturbing anyone, she reasoned, so why trouble her mother?
Abruptly Mrs. Carleton frowned. Drawing herself up straight, she gazed across the ballroom. At the same moment, the din of conversation lowered and whispers swept the gathering like wind through a woodwind.
Curious, Juliet turned to follow the line of her mother’s attention. And caught her breath.
Moving with the smooth self possession of a man accustomed to command, Kent Deverell strode directly toward them.
Chapter 2
She wasn’t quite what he’d expected. As he cut a path through the murmuring crowd, Kent subjected Juliet Carleton to a dispassionate appraisal. Tall and willowy. Huge green eyes. Hair the rich red brown hue of cinnamon. In her delicate features she favored her mother; fine cheekbones and pure ivory skin lent her an air of fragility. She wore a white gown that skimmed her slender curves and left her shoulders and bosom all but bare. The steadiness of her gaze stirred a reluctant admiration in him. She held herself as erect and proud as a goddess, a goddess with the contours of a flesh and blood woman. Yet somehow she looked heartbreakingly young.