by Olivia Drake
“Never mind words,” she murmured. “They only clutter up what we both really want from each other.”
As she spoke, Juliet massaged the strong fingers that snared her wrist. His grip loosened. Brushing aside his shirt, she spread her hands over the hard wall of his chest. The black hairs tickled her palms and his brandy scent enticed her. She pressed her lips to his warm skin. Sinking slowly to her knees, she let her mouth pursue a downward path to his flat belly.
His muscles jerked and his fingers dove beneath her hair to seize her shoulders. “Stand up,” he said, his voice husky. “I want to undress you.”
She tilted her head back; the flare of dark fire in his eyes rewarded her. The desire illuminating his face ignited her own breathless excitement. Kent wanted her, needed her. She would see to it that he forgot the past, forgot all but the wife who made him wild with passion.
“In a moment,” she murmured. “I’m not yet finished.”
Placing a hand over the front of his trousers, she shaped her hand to his heat. The tight barrier of fabric maddened her, kept her from caressing him. Her fingers sought the fly of his trousers and began to work free the buttons.
“Juliet... ”
The harsh sound of her name shivered down her spine. “I’m here, Kent.” As she curled her fingers around him, the insistent pulse beat of longing quickened inside her. Kneeling before him was not an act of obeisance, but the offering of an equal. She would give him everything, entice him into loving her.
Goaded by an unthinking urge, she rubbed her cheek against his hot length, her long tresses trailing over him. From there, it took only a slight turn of her head to brush her lips across him...
He hissed out a breath. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
The shock edging his voice stirred misgivings in Juliet; her own boldness amazed her. Had she done something unnatural? She searched his expression through the dim candlelight. The fever in his eyes restored her exhilaration, encouraged her to follow the tantalizing path of instinct.
“I’m loving you,” she whispered. “Loving every part of you.” She pressed another kiss to him, this one more brazen, more encompassing.
“Christ, Juliet!”
His grip tensed on her shoulders, yet Kent made no move to forestall her. “Do you want me to stop?” she murmured.
“I’d die if you did.”
The certainty of his passion provoked her to greater daring, incited her to accept the lure of forbidden longings. His fingers quivered as they laced into her hair, caressing her, showing her without words how much she pleased him. His deep groans gratified her as she lost herself in learning his taste and scent and texture.
“Enough,” he croaked, hauling her to her feet. “You’ll have this over without granting me the chance to satisfy you.”
“There’s no injustice in that, my love.” Her smile serene yet sultry, Juliet moved her hips against him. “You’d make certain the second time belonged to me.”
His eyes blazed through the shadows; his palms cupped her cheeks. “Every time belongs to you. Whatever I take, darling, I intend to give back.”
His words thrilled her as much as the feel of his mouth closing over hers, his tongue reclaiming her warm, wet softness. She kissed him back with all the yearning in her heart, with all the passion burning in her loins. His brandy taste entranced her as her hands burrowed beneath his shirt to find the solid muscles of his back and shoulder blades.
Cool air struck her spine; she hadn’t even been aware of him unbuttoning her gown. The instant he yanked down the bodice and unhooked her corset, he focused his attention on her breasts, his fingers plying the nipple of one, his mouth suckling the other. Filaments of fire shot downward, feeding the liquid glow deep within her belly. Her head drooped back, her body wilting like an overripe rose beneath the heat of the sun. Weak and wanton, she reveled in the scorching sensations, the steadily building urgency to touch and be touched, to love and be loved.
When he started to lift his head, she twined her fingers in his hair and arched her breasts to his mouth.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice a husky cry. “Please don’t.”
“Only for a moment, darling.” His smile was endearingly crooked, remarkably affectionate. “I want you in my bed, that’s all.” He pulled her across the room, toward the shadowy bower within the hangings of rich, dark velvet.
Tipping her head onto his shoulder, Juliet pressed her lips to the sinews of his neck, her hand sliding down his abdomen to the turgid proof of his desire. “I want you inside me, Kent. I don’t care where... or how.”
He uttered a rough exclamation. Stopping beside the bed, he jerked her fully against him, so that she could feel his maleness pressing to her thigh. His hands stroked downward over her breasts and waist to squeeze her buttocks through the flimsy lace of her underdrawers. “My God, you excite me... I’ve never known a woman like you.”
The pure radiance of emotion dazzled Juliet. “I feel this way only for you, Kent. Because I love you.”
Naked longing gentled his features; a wild upsurge of hope made her sway in his arms. Then his mouth twisted with a trace of bleak bitterness and his gaze veered from hers. Releasing her, he walked toward the nightstand.
She caught his wrist. “Let’s leave the candle burning for once. You look so handsome in the light.”
“No.” His voice was harsh, almost chilling. Secrets shaded his eyes in the moment before he pinched out the flame with his forefinger and thumb.
Night submerged the room. Disappointment wrenched her insides even as anticipation shuddered like goose bumps across her skin. How could he desire her yet not want to look upon her? Unless it was abnormal to feel this yearning to make love in the light…
Against the moon glow filtering through a slit in the window curtains, she could discern Kent’s tall, black form. She heard the rustle of fabric, the quiet slither of his clothes as they dropped to the floor. Then his hands, warm and callused, slid inside her underdrawers.
Any further protest she might have spoken withered on her lips. Instead, a low moan emerged from deep in her throat as he knelt to finish disrobing her, his hands peeling away her silk stockings, then following the flowing line of her legs back up to her bare thighs. His thumbs rubbed in provocative circles, drawing ever closer to the part of her that wept for him. He put his lips to her belly, the moist heat of his tongue loving her skin. With the darkness enclosing them, she could think of nothing save the steady descent of his mouth... and then a kiss so intimate and so arousing, she nearly swooned.
“Kent, oh, Kent...”
Whimpering, she clutched at his shoulders and felt herself falling, felt the cool embroidered counterpane meet her back. Then he came down on her, his body hard and heavy, gloriously male, pinning her to the bed. His hands cradled her breasts, his leg nudged open her thighs. Before she could so much as lift a hand to his cheek, the plunging pressure of his entry wrested a gasp of delight from her.
“Wife,” he muttered. “You’re my wife.”
His mouth possessed hers in another searing kiss; the desperation in him matched her own reckless need. Her fingers clutched the slick muscles of his back as he launched into the familiar, magical movements. Again and again, he surged into her, the furor ever growing, until she felt like a flower bursting open beneath the radiance of the sun. Even as she tumbled into the white light of ecstasy, she heard his raspy cry, felt him shudder with the force of his own release.
The brilliance faded, leaving her adrift in mindless contentment. Gradually her senses grew aware of the weight of his body, the lingering taste of his brandied kisses, the musky aroma of his skin at the hollow of his shoulder. The pounding of his heart had slowed and his steady breathing told her he’d started on the long slide into slumber.
She drowsed as well, until a chilly draft tickled her arm and the burden of him grew uncomfortable. She tried to turn her head, but a lock of her hair was trapped between their bodies.
Feeling a twinge of discomfort, she wriggled to ease the pressure on her legs. Kent mumbled under his breath, and his hand clamped tight to the curve of her hip, pinioning her in place.
Tenderness warmed her; their lovemaking must have exhausted him, too. If he fell into deeper relaxation, she’d never rouse him. “Kent,” she whispered, “don’t go to sleep this way.”
He stirred, the fleece of chest hair abrading her breasts. “Emily?”
The groggy surprise in his voice cut into Juliet, slashing away her happiness. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t speak. Her heart felt as barren as a rose stripped of its petals.
She managed to say, “Get under the covers before you catch cold.”
He rolled clear and she yanked back the counterpane. The icy sheets must have brought him to half awareness, for his arm curled around her waist as she started to swing her legs off the bed.
“Stay,” he commanded, his tone slurred, oddly vulnerable. “You promised never to leave me, Juliet.”
She swallowed to clear the pain thickening her throat. Calling herself a spineless fool, she posed no resistance as he drew her down beside him, shaping her back to his chest, his hand to her breast.
His breathing settled into an even rhythm that stirred her hair. Gazing into the night, she blinked back hot tears. He’d slaked his lust on her, only to dream of Emily. She’d been deluding herself to think she could win his devotion from the gilded shrine of his first wife.
Wife... you’re my wife.
He hadn’t been referring to her, but to Emily. Doubtless he’d made love to her countless times in this bed, touched her and kissed her, enfolded her in the same erotic embrace.
An appalling idea sprang into Juliet’s mind. She tried to fend off the horrid thought, but it clawed at her with relentless talons. He made love to her only in the darkness. Now she knew why.
He wanted to pretend she was Emily.
Chapter 10
“What’s all this?” Juliet asked.
Standing in her own bedroom the next morning, she stared as Augusta deposited a jumble of gowns on the bed. Juliet had been dressing; uncomfortable at receiving a near stranger in her half naked state, she folded her arms over her corseted breasts.
Clad in serviceable brown twill, Augusta looked as stiff as the bedpost she stood beside. At her feet, Punjab watched with beady black eyes. “The duke asked me to see to a wardrobe for you,” she replied. “He said you’d left home without any baggage.”
Curiosity glinted in those hyacinth eyes, clear as the early sunlight pouring past the parted curtains. Juliet lifted her chin and said coolly, “I’m sure you’ve already surmised that my father didn’t approve of the marriage.”
“Humph. I rather imagined Emmett Carleton wouldn’t.” Lips pursed like the wrinkles of a prune, Augusta picked up a primrose pink gown. “Not the current London fashion, I’m sure, nor as fancy, but the silk’s of superior quality and the stitchery is tolerable. Took me weeks to sew all these frocks.” She waved a hand at the pastel array on the bed.
Suspicion knotted Juliet’s throat, a suspicion so abhorrent, it nearly strangled her. Swallowing, she heard herself asking, “Whose gowns are these?”
“Why, Emily’s, from her trousseau. Where else would we so quickly find a wardrobe to suit your status as duchess?”
Emily.
Numbly Juliet watched as Augusta shook out the gown, then plucked a bit of lint from the scalloped cuff. Kent wanted his new wife to wear garments that had belonged to his dead love? Sickness churned in her belly. Dear God... did his pretense extend beyond the bedroom? Did he hope to create a duplicate of his beloved Emily?
Conquering the urge to cry, Juliet seized her own forest green gown off the bed. “I won’t wear secondhand clothing.”
“You’d waste perfectly good silk? If I might be so bold as to say so, you haven’t room for vanity, Your Grace.” Punjab at her heels, Augusta walked over to examine a mud stain at the hem of Juliet’s gown. The gold frock had fared a little better; draped over a chair, the crepe de chine was sadly crumpled after lying the night on the floor of Kent’s bedroom. “You cannot go about like a common washerwoman. Remember, you are now the Duchess of Radcliffe.”
Juliet bristled at the implication that she lacked the finesse required of her position. Yet her every instinct balked at garbing herself in apparel designed for Emily Deverell. “I’ve been raised to assume the role of a nobleman’s wife,” she said in her most chilling tone. “Yet I’ve also been raised to respect what doesn’t belong to me.”
“Poppycock,” Augusta snorted. “Emily would have been happy to share her gowns—she always did have an unselfish heart, poor girl. Come here now and I’ll do up your buttons. I can’t afford to fritter away the morning arguing.”
So Emily had been generous as well as demure. A paragon and a saint, Juliet thought uncharitably. She told herself that she shouldn’t feel threatened by a dead woman. These were only clothes, after all.
Somehow she found herself standing in rigid silence, the gown slithering over her head, guided by Augusta’s impersonal hands. The aroma of lily of the valley clung to the fabric. Layers of lace flounces formed the skirt while rosettes of pink ribbon trimmed the high-necked bodice. Her full bosom strained against the seams; the old-fashioned bustle made her feel as though she were carrying a spare rump.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she decided she looked like a hybrid tea rose on display. If only she had the funds to purchase a new wardrobe...
Her eyes as critical as Punjab’s, Augusta stood back. “Quite tolerable, if I might say so. You’re more endowed than Emily and a few inches taller, but the gown will do for today. After I make my rounds this morning, I’ll begin the alterations.”
Juliet gave an aristocratic nod. “We’ll see. Has my husband gone out yet?”
“Rode to the fields an hour ago. Rather a late start for him, I might add.”
Augusta arched a ginger eyebrow at the perfectly made bed, and unexpected humor invaded Juliet. What would such a sour tempered woman think of the strenuous lovemaking that had tired Kent out? She couldn’t imagine Gordon and Augusta doing that in bed.
“As the duke is engaged,” Juliet said, “I should like to accompany you today. You may show me about the district and introduce me to some of the people.”
“I told you, they’re mostly tenant farmers and such,” Augusta warned. “Hardly high society.”
“I understand perfectly. Shall we meet in the courtyard in, say, twenty minutes?”
Augusta glowered then lowered her gaze in grumpy obedience. “As you like.” Stalking to the chair, she seized Juliet’s two gowns. “I’ll give these to Mrs. Fleetwood to wash.”
“Thank you.”
The instant Augusta strode from the chamber, Punjab mincing along behind, Juliet let her shoulders droop. She marched through the connecting doorway into Kent’s bedroom, straight to the fireplace and the framed photo of Emily.
A sudden fury swept Juliet. “I hate you,” she burst out. “Can’t you leave us be?”
Those sad eyes rebuked her. Shame trickled through Juliet, along with a nagging bafflement. She didn’t resemble Emily in the least. If Kent wanted to recreate his hallowed love, why hadn’t he selected an ethereal blonde?
She swung her gaze to the velvet hung bed; the sheets lay in tangled disarray from her night with Kent. Her heart felt hollow, empty. She’d entertained such hopes of winning his love. Instead he wanted to make her a hybrid, to graft her character with that of his first wife. Didn’t he care about accepting her for the person she was?
Tears blurred her vision, but she dashed them away. She could not, would not, go on this way. She would confront him as soon as he returned home.
As Juliet entered the courtyard, sunlight dazzled her eyes. Near the stables she spied Augusta sitting erect in a dogcart. Trust that woman to wait all the way across the muddy yard, she thought. Yet not for her entire London wardrobe would she voice a word of
complaint.
Gritting her teeth, she stepped around the puddles and climbed in beside the surly woman. Augusta started the horse on a brisk trot over the drawbridge. Juliet spied a row of lime trees near the corner of the castle. The strange, contorted branches reached upward like a column of supplicants. “Is that the south garden?” she asked, pointing.
“Yes.”
She spied a flash of movement on the parapet. Twisting on the seat, she stared. “Is that Ravi up there?”
Augusta glanced around. “Hmph. Does his praying there.”
“Praying?”
“He’s a Muslim. They have some sort of rule about facing Mecca five times a day.”
Ravi’s devotion intrigued Juliet; it revealed a hidden facet of Kent’s mysterious servant. Augusta sank into sour silence, but the countryside was so rich with color that Juliet soon forgot her annoyance. Parkland stretched from the castle, a few gray sheep grazing the sweep of grass. White clouds scudded across an azure sky; swallows swooped past the brown trunks of cedar and larch.
Her city bred senses drank in the lush, rain washed air. As the road dipped to parallel the river, she saw patches of yellow flag iris blooming among the reeds, and green lily pads carpeting the silverblue water along the shore. A duck quacked over the rattle of wheels. Her London garden seemed insubstantial compared to the wild splendor of Radcliffe.
The narrow dirt lane swung away from the river, winding up and down slopes, past laurel hedges and thickets of oak, past a patchwork of grassy meadows and cultivated fields. Clinging to the open, jolting cart, Juliet shaded her eyes with one hand to search for a tall, dark haired man on horseback.
Her chest ached from more than the snug fit of her gown. Was he thinking about her today, as she thought about him? Did he miss her, long for night, when darkness would draw them together?
Or did he contemplate still more insidious ways to transform her into Emily?