by Olivia Drake
From the wares displayed in front of a greengrocer’s, Kent purchased a small sack of peaches. He plucked one out and handed it to Juliet. As they walked off, she caught the scrutiny of the shopkeeper and slanted an impish look at her husband.
“Everyone’s staring at you,” she whispered. “They probably find it hard to believe such a handsome lord would deign to mingle with the common folk.”
He smiled as she took an unladylike bite of peach. “More likely they’re wondering at the identity of my lovely companion. Dressed in gold, you’re a ray of sunshine on this gloomy day.”
Pleased that he could be so complimentary about her limited wardrobe, she teased back, “An odd description, considering my brown hair.”
Slowing his steps, he cocked his head at her. “It’s more red than brown... cinnamon, actually. That day you came to meet me at the Embankment, I remember having the same thought, that you reminded me of sunshine.”
“Truly?”
He nodded. “You looked radiant and warm, pure as light.”
His rare fanciful portrayal enchanted her. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she murmured. “I was already half in love with you.”
His eyes turned opaque. With a nod, he shifted his gaze to the street ahead. Sighing, she used a handkerchief to wipe the peach juice off her fingers. Would she ever mention love without her husband withdrawing?
The wrought iron sign over a dressmaker’s shop caught her attention. Inside the bow window, amid a rainbow array of fabric and notions, lay a small oblong patch of blue.
“Look, Kent,” she said, pointing, “Maud would adore having that case to hold her eyeglasses. May we go inside and see it, please?”
He frowned at the item; then his eyes softened. “As you wish.”
A bell tinkled overhead as they entered, and a matron in a white shirtwaist and gray skirt bustled out of the back. Upon seeing them, she paused, and a shrewd look came over her fleshy face, as if she were calculating the cost of their clothing and contemplating how much they might spend.
“Good morning. Might I show you some fabrics? I carry only the softest silks, the richest brocades.” Her thimbled finger indicated the bolts of material behind the counter.
“Her Grace wishes to see the blue case in the window,” Kent said.
The seamstress’s eyes perked up at the title. “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, Your Grace.” She scurried to the window. “There you are, Your Grace,” she said, handing the item to Juliet. “A fine piece you’ve selected. Did the beadwork myself.”
As Juliet studied the pretty pattern of white bugle beads, the woman said, “You must be attending the Breedloves’ weekend party.”
“No.”
Kent’s haughty reply would have frozen a more sensitive woman; Juliet hid her amusement as the shopkeeper continued, “You’re visiting Lord Wrocktonbury, then?”
“No.”
“Ah well, even if you’re only passing through, I do have a select number of readymade gowns. I’ve just finished one for Lady Wrocktonbory’s approval... Perhaps I might show it to Her Grace instead.”
Without awaiting a reply, she scurried into the back room and returned a moment later, her arms laden with a cloud of apple green faille and cream satin. She shook out the dress, and Juliet caught her breath. Gold embroidery adorned the low cut bodice, and loops of green ribbon embellished the sleeves and skirt. She fingered the sleek fabric arid imagined herself the image of ladylike elegance as she descended from the landau to meet Kent’s relations.
“It’s exquisite,” she said wistfully.
The shopkeeper’s eyes gleamed with the anticipation of a sale. “Lady Wrocktonbury is rather wider in the waist, but given an hour or two, I can have the seams taken in to suit Your Grace.”
“Could you?” Juliet flashed a smile at Kent, who stood behind her, his arms folded. “We can wait, can’t we, please?”
“If you’ll care to step into the back,” said the woman, “I’ll take your measurements—”
“I think not,” he said.
Startled by the chilly refusal, Juliet swung fully toward him. Her excitement faded into perplexity, for his features were set into strict lines and his gaze drilled into the shopkeeper.
“Wrap the blue case for Her Grace,” he instructed. “That’s all we want today.”
Disappointment pinched the seamstress’s face. Bobbing a curtsy, she plucked the case from Juliet’s hand. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
As the woman carried the gown into the back room, Kent said in a stiff undertone, “I’m sorry, but I despise buying on credit. Perhaps after the harvest...”
Color burnished his cheekbones; regret darkened his eyes. Heat climbed Juliet’s throat to scorch her face. Accustomed to purchasing whatever suited her whim, she’d forgotten their lack of money.
“Kent, I shouldn’t have...” she whispered, her voice faltering. “The gown doesn’t matter, really it doesn’t.”
Eyes hooded, he stared at her. “I’ll see about having Augusta sew some things for you. It won’t be the same as the wardrobe you left behind, but then, we don’t entertain much at Radcliffe.”
His image blurred; she blinked back tears. “I don’t care about parties and fancy gowns.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You might as well know that I lack the means to spend another night at an inn. We’ll go home today.”
The reappearance of the shopkeeper cut short the conversation. Watching Kent pay for the small parcel, Juliet realized he must be squandering the last of their coin to buy the trinket. She choked back a protest. It was awful enough to carelessly sting her husband’s pride in private; she couldn’t humiliate him in front of a stranger.
A week ago she had rarely given a thought to money. Now harsh reality demanded that she count every penny. The shift in circumstance aroused a fiery determination within her. More than any amount of wealth, she wanted Kent holding her close, Kent murmuring endearments in the heat of passion, Kent stroking her hair until she fell asleep.
She studied the noble tilt of his jaw. A sense of injustice stiffened her spine. He needn’t suffer penury if she could give him her dowry...
Juliet abandoned the half formed notion. Papa would never relinquish the money; he must be furious over the elopement.
Under the force of another thought, alarm caught at her chest. What if Papa was waiting for them at Radcliffe?
Chapter 8
The medieval fortress loomed out of the mist. The gray light of late afternoon dulled the age streaked stone, yet the ancient splendor of the castle caught Juliet’s fancy. As the closed landau jolted over the rutted road, she pressed her face to the window and examined the octagonal towers and the crenellated battlements.
From which parapet had Emily fallen?
In her mind she saw the image of a woman stumbling against an embrasure and losing her balance, then plummeting to a rocky death. The joyous anticipation drained from Juliet. Shivering, she drew back and snuggled deeper into her braided jacket.
Kent placed a hand over hers. “Cold?”
Unwilling to share her morbid thought, she merely nodded. The damp chill in the air penetrated her bones; welcoming the warm security of his hand, she turned her palm to his.
“You’ll soon be standing before a fire,” he promised. “We’re home at last.
He spoke softly, almost to himself. His eyes were fixed on the castle, though a clump of cedars now hid all but the jagged tops of the turrets. His intense expression bespoke pride and devotion. Her heart squeezed; she tightened her fingers around his. How he must love this rolling countryside, the heritage of the Radcliffes for hundreds of years.
A heritage that would one day belong to their children.
“Where are the fields?” she asked.
“Beyond that rise.” He pointed to a great sweep of parkland that climbed a hill, where a few sheep grazed despite the drizzle. “Another week or two and it’ll be haying time. Let’s pray this rain stops soon.”
“Why? Your crops surely need water.”
Smiling, he tweaked her nose. “Don’t you know, my Lady Botanist? If there’s too much rain near cutting time, the hay can rot in the fields.”
“I’d love to learn more about farming. This is my home now, too.”
A new look entered his eyes, a blaze of possessiveness that heated her blood. “Yes, it is,” he murmured.
He raised her hand and his mouth caressed the back. The warmth of his breath on her skin aroused the memory of those long, dark nights of passion. His masculine scent dominated the musty interior of the carriage. She turned to him, her palms seeking his hard chest and her lips brushing his jaw.
“Oh, Kent, I’m so glad we’re married. Thank heavens you tried to end that silly feud. We might never have met otherwise.”
The radiance in her eyes hit Kent like a stone. Shame crushed his good humor; dread oppressed his heart. His muscles went rigid under the strain of ruthless deceit. He felt like a fraud, a cheat, yet he couldn’t form the words that would ease his emotional turmoil. How could he confess, anyway? The truth would only drive her back to Emmett Carleton.
When she found out, never again would Kent hold her close in bed, never again would he indulge this tug of tender affection, never again would he see love shining in her green eyes...
‘If I hadn’t come along,” he said, striving for a light tone, “you would have married someone else. Like as not, you’d have been just as happy.”
“Married whom, Lord Breeton?” she scoffed. “I’d have been bored silly with his prattle of horses and fox hunts.”
“Instead you’ll be bored with my prattle of corn and hay.”
“I’ll never tire of you, my love.”
She gently touched her mouth to his. The adoration on her face magnified his guilt, yet her honeyed taste and jasmine scent beckoned him as nectar lures a bee. He shouldn’t desire her so much; only last night they’d made love... again and again. Yet somehow his arms looped around her and he found himself kissing her with all the frenzied passion of a man who’d endured years of celibacy.
She gave a whimper of pleasure and logic fled him. Time and place vanished beneath an explosion of the senses, the swift thrum of her heartbeat, the yielding of her breasts against his chest. Her need fired his own lust. He could lift her skirts, plunge inside the hot silken depths of her body...
And take his wife in a carriage, like a common whore? His vow to avenge Emily s death must have robbed him of all conscience and decency.
Tearing himself free, he rolled his head back against die leather cushion and gulped in air. He was hot for her because she was Emmett’s daughter. Yet somehow the thought didn’t ring true. Christ, would he never get enough of Juliet Carleton?
Deverell, he corrected himself. Juliet Deverell.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m a Deverell now.”
Only then did Kent realize he’d spoken aloud. Straightening, he absorbed the youthful luster of her face, a luster that made him feel old and jaded, a luster that made him fight the urge to avoid her eyes. Guilt and fear pressed into him again, the mix of dark emotions converging into the resolve to bind her to him.
She’d find out soon enough.
“You’ll stay a Deverell,” he said. “Forever.”
His steadfast words elated Juliet. He hadn’t confessed to undying love, but she sensed a need in his heart, a need that might someday overcome his fear of loving again.
The clopping of hooves took on a hollow sound. Glancing out the window, she saw the landau pass over a drawbridge and under the vaulted stone gate of an opened portcullis. Hands shaking with anticipation, she smoothed her hair and skirt. Would, his relations accept Emmett Carleton’s daughter in their midst?
A moment later, the carriage creaked to a halt and Ravi helped her down. He stared at her before walking away to help Hatchett unload the baggage. Unwilling to let the servant spoil her eagerness, Juliet turned to inspect her new home.
Immense and deserted, the courtyard bore the fresh scent of the country. Weeds formed clumps of rain washed green, and a few geese pecked the muddy ground. In one corner stood an old fountain, the nymph statue gone jade with rust, her tilted urn empty. Juliet craned her neck to view the fortress. Ancient buildings adjoined the outer walls; tall arched windows were carved into the crumbling gray stone. Instead of the square medieval keep she’d expected, the structure looked more like a rambling manor house. As the cool mist struck her cheeks, she could see the crenellated battlements and towers that pierced the clouded sky. Without the smoke curling from one of the chimneys, she might have thought the place abandoned.
A distant scream rent the air. Heart pounding, she swung around.
“Peacock,” Kent said, stepping closer. “In the garden outside the south wall. My father imported a pair from India.”
She shuddered. “It sounded almost human.”
“You’re not the first to think so,” he said dryly. “Shall we go inside?”
A sudden thought made Juliet lift a hand to her throat. “Kent, what if my father is here?”
“I’ll deal with him. We’re married now, and there isn’t anything he can do to change that.”
Kent was right, yet apprehension churned in her stomach as he guided her around the puddles in the yard. Just as they reached the vaulted entryway, a massive oak door opened and a woman stepped out.
Tall and thin, she wore a gown of green serge that brought to mind a scrawny stalk of nettle. Her ginger hair had been scraped back into a bun, accentuating the craggy contours of her face. A mole marred her cheek, yet like a lovely bloom on a weed, the hyacinth hue of her eyes saved her from utter homeliness.
She dipped a surprisingly graceful curtsy for a woman who appeared so ungainly. “Welcome home, Your Grace. May I say, you’ve been greatly missed.”
With a faint smile, he acknowledged the greeting. “Augusta. I trust you received my telegram yesterday.”
“Of course.” Pivoting toward Juliet, Augusta curtsied again. “Felicitations on your marriage, Your Grace. Welcome to Castle Radcliffe.”
So Augusta already knew Kent had wed the daughter of the Deverells’ enemy. Her eyes were a blank blue mirror and her mouth retained a civil smile. No animosity there, Juliet thought, yet no warmth, either.
“Juliet,” Kent said, “I’d like you to meet my cousin-in-law, Mrs. Augusta Deverell. Augusta, my wife, Juliet.”
Augusta stood in deferential silence. Water plopped from the roof in a slow but steady rhythm. Juliet felt as if she were being cataloged, from the top of her fashionably styled hair to the hem of her gold gown. If only she could have worn that exquisite apple green frock...
Quelling the thought, she reminded herself that deeds, not dress, would gain her acceptance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Deverell.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace.”
Unable to bear the suspense, Juliet searched for a discreet way to find out if her father was present. “Have you received any messages for me?”
Augusta arched her ginger eyebrows. “Not a one. Were you expecting to hear from someone?”
Relief along with an undeniably bitter disappointment coursed through Juliet. So Papa hadn’t cared enough to come after her. “I thought... no, I suppose not.”
“I’ve a fire in the Laguerre drawing room,” Augusta said to Kent. “Will you join me for tea?”
“Thank you. My wife is quite chilled after our long, rainy ride.”
Nodding, Augusta marched inside.
Following with Kent, Juliet entered a great chamber, chilly and unlit. A musty scent pervaded the air. The walls were barren save for a few deer trophies and an ancient tapestry depicting a hunt scene. From the timbered ceiling, gargoyles stared down in stony silence. The vastness of the hall fascinated her; it would swallow more than twice the space of the Carleton foyer.
They tramped along what seemed like miles of murky corridors. Spine erect, Augusta led the way, her long s
trides keeping her a short distance ahead. Juliet wondered if resentment or a natural stiffness of posture squared the woman’s shoulders. Their footfalls on the stone flags formed a chorus of echoes, the clump of Augusta’s shoes, the ring of Kent’s boots, the tap of Juliet’s slippers.
Looking at her husband, she whispered, “How do you find your way around?”
His smile gleamed through the gloom. “I was born here. We played tag and hide-and-seek in these halls.”
“We? Who did you play with?”
As if frozen by the drafty air, his smile withered. “Friends... and my cousin Gordon came to visit sometimes.”
Augusta halted before a doorway. “I’ll fetch the tea myself,” she said. “Can’t depend on Fleetwood these days.”
She started to turn away when a blur of movement erupted from the doorway. The whirl resolved into a small, short legged dog with a shaggy brown coat. The Pekingese planted himself before Augusta, cocked his squat face at Juliet, and uttered a menacing growl.
“Hush, Punjab,” Augusta said mildly. “Come along now.”
She walked off, the dog trotting at her heels.
Amused, Juliet said, “He certainly means to protect her.”
“Don’t take Punjab to heart. He reacts that way to all strangers.” Kent waved to the doorway. “After you.”
She entered an octagonal drawing room. Like the rest of the castle, the chamber smelled of damp. Mullioned windows spilled watery light through glass set in thick stone casements. From the graceful Queen Anne chairs to the fruitwood tables, the aura brought to mind the elegance of the eighteenth century, now gone shabby. Pillars studded the cedar-paneled walls, the gilt on the capitals chipped. Spread across the high ceiling was a fresco depicting an age dulled assembly of gods frolicking against a backdrop of clouds.