by Olivia Drake
A sharp rapping made her pulse jump. Kent. She hastened to the door. When she saw only the innkeeper’s plain faced wife, Juliet felt her smile droop.
The woman dipped a curtsy, made awkward by the tray balanced in her hands and the admiration reflected in her eyes. “I brung supper, Your Grace.”
For an instant, the title startled Juliet; then she moved aside. “Come in, please.”
As the woman lay cutlery and dishes on a small table by the hearth, Juliet wandered to the window seat and gazed outside. The dense foliage of a walnut tree obscured the quarter moon. Through an occasional break in the woods, she could see the silver gleam of the Itchen River. The stamp of a horse’s hoof came from the nearby stables, then the lonely hoot of a barn owl. Directly below, the ground glowed with lamplight that spilled from the kitchen. A faint burst of laughter drifted from the public taproom at the front of the inn.
Was that where Kent had gone?
Then she saw him, a solitary figure in the gloom beneath the trees. He walked slowly from the direction of the river, and as he passed through a patch of moonlight, she saw that his hands were in his trouser pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly beneath his white shirt. For some unfathomable reason, she recalled the drawing of him as a little boy sitting astride a pony and anxious to please his father.
“Might I ‘elp you undress?”
The hesitant voice intruded upon the memory. Turning, she saw the innkeeper’s wife standing before the hearth, her chapped hands worrying her white apron.
“Don’t mean to seem bold, Your Grace,” the woman added hastily. “I just saw you didn’t ‘ave no lady’s maid.”
And neither luggage nor nightdress. Embarrassed, Juliet shook her head. “I can manage, thank you.”
“Then I’ll iron your gown. I’ll do a fine job, I will. Often’s the time I’ve cleaned and pressed silk.” The woman picked up the rumpled green frock.
“Thank you.”
“Anythin’ else, you just call.” She bobbed a curtsy and left.
The instant the door clicked shut, Juliet peered outside again. Shadows stirred and swayed beneath the trees, but she could no longer see Kent’s tall form. A gust of wind raised goose bumps over her skin. Rubbing her arms, she stole a glance at the bed.
I’ll do my best to make everything perfect for you.
The thought of the night ahead brought a confusing flurry of emotions. She tried to put a name to those feelings: longing and curiosity and an odd pulsing excitement deep in her belly. Savory scents emanated from the covered dishes on the table, but she felt no stirring of appetite, only a dim, indefinable ache. Would his kisses tonight let her into his heart? What happened between a man and a woman? She wished there were someone to ask, someone familiar to whom she dared pose her questions. The one time she’d asked her mother, Dorothea had blushed and turned away.
Restively Juliet wandered to the nightstand and picked up the stalk of orchids. Like her courage, they were drooping. To revive the flowers, she went to the table and poked the stem into a glass of water.
The door opened. Heart thumping, she turned to see Kent, his broad shoulders filling the entryway. The wind had tousled his hair, yet the disorder made him more rakishly handsome. His jet black eyes met hers; then he shut the door and walked toward her.
Holding out a spray of small, brilliant blue flowers, he said, “I found these. Thought you might like them.”
His manner seemed curiously hesitant. As she took the stem, her fingers brushed his; the contact flustered her. “Water forget-me-not. Myosotis ...” She searched her memory for the specific name; then she turned toward the nightstand and her botany text.
“Scorpioides,” he supplied, before she could open the book. “You’re slipping, my Lady Botanist. Perhaps I shall have to devise a quiz for you.”
His teasing invited a similar response. “Tonight?”
The gleam of humor in his eyes darkened. “No,” he murmured. “Tonight we’ll have too much else to occupy us.”
His gaze dipped to her breasts, and her legs suddenly seemed on the verge of wilting. Her fingers tightened around the fragile stalk of forget-me-nots. Just a look from him made her flush...
He glanced at the neatly laid table, then went to the washstand, where the slope of the roof forced him to bend his head. “Forgive me. I’ve kept you waiting.”
“No, you haven’t. The innkeeper’s wife only just brought the meal.” Juliet watched as he poured a fresh bowl of water and began to soap his hands. His precise movements held her in strange fascination, and the quiet splashing of water filled the silence. She sensed that he’d withdrawn from her, and the notion puzzled and frustrated her. Venturing closer, she studied his powerful profile, the imperious forehead and sculpted mouth, the black hair that curled slightly behind his ears.
“I saw you out walking. Did you go as far as the river?”
“Not quite. It was dark, and the ground got a bit marshy.”
“Tomorrow morning, will you show me where you found the forget-me-nots?”
“If you like.”
His distracted tone hardly encouraged conversation. Unsure of his mood, she twirled the stalk of flowers as nervousness jittered inside her. How well do you really know him? While he dried his hands on a linen towel, he looked at her and she endeavored to smile, but her face felt stiff.
A subtle gentling touched his expression. “Shall we eat?”
She nodded and sank into a chair. While he lifted the cover off a soup tureen, she occupied herself with adding the forget-me-nots to the tumbler holding the orchids.
He ladled the watercress soup into their bowls. She picked up her pewter spoon, but the tightness in her throat kept her from taking a mouthful. The atmosphere seemed suddenly, overwhelmingly intimate. The candelabrum on the wooden mantelpiece isolated the table in a soft cocoon of light. She had never before dined alone with a man, not even with her father. Footmen had always hovered in the background, waiting to whisk away an empty plate or to offer a tempting dish.
The candle glow illuminated Kent’s inscrutable features. Her husband. How strange that seemed. Had he shared such a wedding night meal with his beloved Emily? Uncertainty swamped Juliet, along with a keen awareness of her own inexperience.
He cocked his head to the side. “If the soup isn’t to your liking, I can ring for something else.”
His concern loosened the ball of tension inside her. She managed a spoonful; the chilled blend of potatoes, cream, and watercress slipped down her throat easier than she’d expected. “No, it’s fine.”
“It’s Mrs. Fitter’s specialty.”
“Who?”
“The innkeeper’s wife.”
“Oh... yes.”
Chagrined that she’d been too embroiled in her own thoughts to ask the woman’s name, Juliet took another spoonful of soup, then a sip of white wine. The act of eating began to melt the tension from her limbs. As she finished her soup, Kent lifted the covers from the other dishes. Heady aromas wafted through the air as he placed a portion of poached trout on her plate, then a slice of roast chicken in a sticky cherry sauce, and a hunk of crusty bread. As she watched him work, a sense of mischief sprouted inside her.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked.
“Because this is a luxury I never learned about in finishing school... to be served by a duke.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, only for my duchess.”
His gaze flicked to her lips. Her humor dissolved into that odd throbbing heat inside her belly. Flustered, she picked up her fork and toyed with the meal. For long moments the only sounds were the whisper of the draperies and the clink of the cutlery.
“Tell me about your childhood,” he said.
The unexpected question drew her eyes to his. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything. When did you become interested in botany?
His look of interest encouraged her. “The summer I turned eight,” she said,
“my parents went to the Continent. Whenever I wasn’t in the schoolroom, I’d play in the garden with my dolls. One day I wanted a bouquet for a mock wedding, and the gardener cut a few miniature roses for me.” Pensively she stirred her fork in the remains of her fish. “Bennett was a kind old man. I spent a lot of time with him asking questions while I watched him work. Gradually I started to help him out.”
He leaned back, studying her over the rim of his wineglass. “Did our wedding live up to your girlhood fantasies?”
The slight quirk of his black eyebrows gave Juliet the sudden, stunning impression that he, too, felt vulnerable, anxious to please. A wave of love lapped at her apprehension. “Yes,” she said firmly, “I couldn’t have dreamed of a lovelier wedding.”
“You don’t regret giving up a big society celebration?”
“All I need is the man I love.” On impulse, she leaned forward. “It’s hard to believe that a fortnight ago we didn’t even know each other.”
His fingers tensed around his glass, though his eyes were downcast, studying the play of candlelight through the pale gold wine. “Yet we knew of each other.”
“I didn’t. I mean, I’d heard of the Deverells, but not you in particular.” She paused, intensely curious. “What did you know about me?”
“Just what I told you the night we met... that I’d heard Emmett Carleton had a beautiful daughter. I wanted to see for myself.”
His sudden bold stare made her shiver. “Yet you already had,” she said in a breathy whisper. “The afternoon of the ball, your carriage was across from my house.”
“What I saw then intrigued me all the more.”
Again his gaze swept downward, to her bosom. In an abrupt impatient gesture, he whisked the linen napkin from the last dish, this one piled with plump strawberries in cream.
“Would you care for some?” he asked.
The beauty of the fruit enticed her. “Yes, please.”
Kent regarded the disarray of cutlery and china. “No clean dishes. Will you share with me?”
He picked up a ripe berry, but made no move to push the bowl into the center of the table; instead he reclined in his chair, the fruit a vivid red against his tanned fingers.
“Come here, Juliet.”
Uncertain, she met his stare. A faint breeze fluttered the candles and sent shadows dancing across his features. She pushed back her chair, the scrape of the legs jarring the silence. Slowly she walked to him. No sooner did she reach for the strawberry than he caught her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap.
Her shoulder met the solid wall of his chest. His masculine scent made her pulse surge; his face loomed so close, she could see the dark stubble shadowing his cheek. The room grew hot, though a cool wind glided through the opened window.
One arm looped around her waist, he leaned forward to dip the strawberry in cream, then raised it to her lips. Too shy to look at him, she took a bite. The blend of rich cream and sweet berry melted on her tongue, and the juice trickled down, cool against her chin. She reached for a napkin, but his low growl of protest stopped her.
“Allow me.”
His hands cupped her cheeks as he bent to touch his lips to her chin, and the lick of his tongue sent a flutter of longing through her. The heat of his body warmed the sleek linen of his shirt. Her head felt light, as if she’d drunk too much wine, yet her belly felt weighted, heavy with fever.
“More?” he murmured.
Unable to speak, she nodded. He selected another strawberry, but this time he took a bite first before offering the rest to her. His fingers brushed her lips as he helped her eat the morsel, and the fleeting caress prickled over her skin. Closing her eyes, Juliet fancied she could taste his unique male flavor along with the fruit.
She curled against him, her cheek settling into the crook of his neck. He uttered a sound deep in his chest, a sound that sent a shiver tickling down her spine.
“So you liked that, did you?”
She only half registered the satisfaction in his tone; then he tipped up her chin. “Yes,” she breathed in the moment before his mouth found hers. His tongue slipped inside and lingered, savoring the richness of strawberries and cream and wine. His hard thighs pressed into her bottom; an intense awareness of him swept her. Against her breasts she detected the heavy thumping of his heart and the butterfly beat of her own blood. He smelled clean and faintly musky, as stirring an aroma as the outdoors.
“Touch me,” he whispered against her lips.
Hesitantly she sought the strong column of his neck, then the powerful muscles of his shoulders. His hands slid to her nape and freed the button there from its mooring. He continued to kiss her as his fingers moved steadily downward, until the back of her gown lay open to the waist. Somehow he must have untied her petticoat tapes as well, for his hand slid down her corset to cup her hip, where only thin lace underdrawers shielded her nakedness.
A scandalous pleasure burned between her thighs. The alien sensation brought a stirring of alarm that overwhelmed the languor in her limbs. Never had she imagined him touching her with such blazing intimacy.
Pulling back against his arm, she gulped in air. “What are you doing?”
With a quizzical frown, he regarded her; then a speculative glint entered his eyes. “You really don’t know, do you?”
A flush crept up her throat. “Know what?”
“What happens in the marriage bed. Didn’t your mother ever tell you—?”
At her waist his hand remained still, though his warmth penetrated her underdrawers and nourished the strange disturbance inside her. She pulled in another shaky breath. “I thought ... it must be rather like pollinating a flower... isn’t it?”
He rolled back his head and laughed, the sound emerging from deep within his chest. Stung by embarrassment, Juliet tried to get up, but his hands tightened, pinning her in his lap. She sat stiffly upright, conscious of his devastating nearness and aware or his superior knowledge.
“I’m so glad you find me amusing,” she snapped.
The mirth slid from his face, though a certain softness lingered around his eyes. His palm cupped her cheek as if it were a rare orchid. “On the contrary, darling, I find you adorable.”
The endearment dissolved the starch from her spine, though wariness remained. “I’m surprised a man of your experience could desire a woman so naive.”
His eyes blazed with black fire. “I do, Juliet. I intend to show you just how much.” Reaching to the water glass, he plucked out the orchid stem and studied it. His finger probed the mouth of one delicate flower, and for some obscure reason, heat suffused her. With a subtlety that made her quake, he feathered the velvet petals along her jaw. “Unlike flowers,” he murmured, “people have been blessed with the ability to reap great pleasure from the act of procreation.”
He lay the orchid stalk on the table, then his hand resumed that leisurely, alluring caress over her hip. She was aware of the inviting heat of his body, the hard circle of his arm, the sensual promise of his mouth. Hot and vibrant yearning for him bloomed inside her.
“What do we do next?” she asked breathlessly.
“First we take our time about undressing. We have all night.”
Slowly Kent pulled the pins from her hair, letting the heavy mass cascade down her back. Tangling his hand in her tresses, he held her still and caught her lips, his tongue gaining entry to the warmth of her mouth. The magic of his kiss spun her away into an exquisite realm of pleasure. Hypnotized by the need to bind herself to him, she wriggled closer, a growing restlessness making her shift in his lap, her hips twisting against his.
His growl of appreciation vibrated against her lips. With rough tenderness, his thumb probed the corner of her mouth. “Nectar,” he murmured. “That’s where you’re akin to a flower... you offer me sweet nectar.”
For long, lovely moments he sipped at her mouth; then he dropped small, stinging kisses over her face. He peeled the gown off her shoulders and down her arms, the crepe de chin
e slithering to her waist like a bud shedding its golden sheath. Cool air struck her skin; she had scarcely time to draw a breath before he pressed his lips to the wild pulse beat in her throat.
Instinctively her hands lifted to shield her breasts. He drew her fingers away. “Don’t cover yourself,” he said. “You’re too beautiful.”
His mouth moved downward, caressing the soft swells above the lace edged corset. The feel of his tongue against her flesh stoked the fire inside her; she tilted her head back and twined her fingers in his hair. His palm embraced her breast, and his heat burned through the stiff undergarment.
Seeing his dark head bowed over her bosom stirred a flurry of feelings inside her, feelings she could no longer repress, feelings that transcended the fear that he felt no more than physical desire for her. “I love you, Kent. I love you so.”
The quiet words flowed past his passion and into his heart. Kent found himself forsaking the scented warmth of her breasts and lifting his gaze to hers. The adoration in her green eyes hurled him into a vortex of turbulent emotion.
He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t move. She regarded him with such trust, such tenderness, that his throat choked with guilt. Could he ever say those words back to her? The temptation to give her what she wanted almost overpowered him.
He swallowed hard. He couldn’t lie to her. At least not about love.
What if she saw through his deception? Suddenly he could bear her rapt gaze no longer. He stood, his arms steadying her as her feet met the floor. She looked winsome yet sultry, her clothing in disarray, her cinnamon hair tumbling around her bare shoulders.
Bewilderment shadowed her face. “Kent?”
“Shh.” His finger came down over her lips, the supple flesh still moist from his kisses. “Just a moment.”
Releasing her, he stepped to the mantel and blew out the candles; darkness swirled through the room. In the faint moonlight, Juliet stood as silent as a silver shadow.
Yet she lured him like the brightest beacon.
With unerring ease, his hands found her slender waist. The gown and petticoats had fallen away, and her undergarments shone pale as her ivory skin. He pulled her to him, matching his hardness to her softness. His woman. His wife.