by Olivia Drake
The justification rang as hollow as the empty glass. Somehow, through all his vengeful plotting, he’d failed to consider the possibility of loving the woman who had grown up coddled by Emmett Carleton. How had such a treacherous schemer managed to raise a daughter as forthright as Juliet?
Her image swam into his mind, the flashing green gold eyes, the angry flush of her cheeks, the indignant sway of her hips. Heat pooled in his loins; his mouth went dry until he felt half sick with longing and remorse.
The hurtful accusation on her face corroded him, became his own pain. His ears echoed with the unmerited implication he’d flung at her: Give Henry half a chance and he’ll have you on the ground with your skirts above your waist.
Kent sank deeper into the tub. He had charged her with dishonor. He, who had woven a web of deceit so tight, it strangled him with both the need to confess and the fear of admitting the truth.
And, oh Christ, as if his other sins weren’t enough, he’d called her Emily. He wanted to drown in chagrin and self contempt. He didn’t know how that blunder could have happened, except that he’d been obsessed with the shadows of the past and determined to resist his feelings for Juliet.
Acknowledging his love made his deception a sin beyond redemption.
Kent dunked his head beneath the water and came up sputtering. Fishing around the bottom of the tub, he snatched up the slippery cake of sandalwood soap. Viciously he began to scrub his hair. From the adjacent dressing room came the quiet sounds of Ravi’s movements, the brushing of clothes, the polishing of boots, the closing of drawers.
The routine sounds scraped his raw nerves. Kent thrust his head under the water again to rinse his hair. When he broke surface, the Muslim stood silently beside the tub, a white towel draped over his arm, the candlelight dancing over his dusky face.
By that watchful stance, Kent knew Ravi had something of import to relay. “Well?” he snapped. “What is it?”
The servant placed the towel on the ledge. “Her Grace took tea with Miss Chantal.”
“What?” Kent jackknifed to his feet. Water sloshed onto the floor.
“I thought you would wish to know, sahib,” Ravi said in his unperturbed, faintly musical voice. “She stayed with Miss Chantal for more than an hour.”
“Where is the duchess now?”
“Dining with your cousin. Shall I fetch her?”
“No.” Kent brusquely waved Ravi away. “That will be all for tonight.”
“As you wish, sahib.” Bowing, he glided out the door.
Scarcely aware of his actions, Kent stepped from the tub. Droplets rolled down his body and plopped onto the veined marble floor. As he picked up the towel and rubbed himself dry, alarm and anxiety collided within him.
What had Chantal told Juliet?
Oh, Christ. Why hadn’t he had the sense to warn Chantal to guard her tongue? Maybe deep in his heart he wanted Juliet to learn the entire story. To release his conscience from its terrible burden.
A sudden wave of logic deluged him. On second thought, she must not have heard anything damning about him. If she had, she wouldn’t be downstairs, calmly dining. Claws unsheathed, she would be at her husband’s throat. He smiled with wry tenderness. He knew her well enough to be sure of that.
Or did he?
Stalking into the dressing room, he thrust his arms into a silver gray robe and yanked the sash tight. How certain could he be of his wife? Perhaps Emmett Carleton wasn’t truly at the core of his fears. What frightened him was that Juliet might leave because she was disillusioned by their hasty nuptials. And enraged that he’d called her by another woman’s name.
There’s more to marriage than physical pleasure.
His chest tightened, choking the breath from his lungs. God. As a husband, he was an utter washout. He’d failed to give Juliet happiness, just as he’d failed to banish the melancholia from Emily. Had he learned nothing from his first marriage?
Pensively he combed his fingers through his wet hair. Who would have thought he could love two women so dissimilar? Emily had been gentle and shy, shrinking from the physical realities of marriage. Juliet was vibrant and outspoken, eager to share both body and soul... so long as she remained blissfully unaware of his true purpose in wedding her.
Bypassing the dinner tray Ravi had left before the bedroom hearth, Kent sought another glass of brandy, then sat before his desk. Candlelight cast shadows over the half finished drawing for the mechanical thresher, the plan he’d been too distracted these past weeks to finish.
He set aside his drink and picked up a pencil. His gaze wandered toward an opened window. Dusk had succumbed to the dense black silk of evening. Against the perpetual lapping of the river, crickets chirped and frogs croaked. Summer sounds, as timeless and soothing as a dream.
Dreamspinner.
Memory bathed the raw wound inside him. He had sworn to make Emmett Carleton pay for his sins. For years the vow had been the focus of Kent’s life; revenge had been a tonic for the heartbreak of grief and the guilt of having failed Emily.
Now, by a peculiar prank of fate, victory left him exposed to a vast vulnerability, to the peril of again losing the woman he loved.
He drank deeply of the brandy, then forced his eyes to the design lying atop the age-creased leather surface of the desk. Instead of the clean lines of the drawing, he saw Juliet’s tear-misted eyes. Disgusted with his inability to concentrate, he tossed down the pencil and prowled the shadowed room.
If she left him, where would she go? Because of him, she’d severed her ties with her parents. Oh, God, he couldn’t think about losing her. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she wouldn’t abandon their marriage, because she had too strong a sense of honor and commitment.
Yet she also had a powerful need for love. He didn’t know if a man so jaded by a life of fruitless hatred, so ensnared by the bitter legacy of the past, could ever satisfy that need in her.
But he wanted desperately to try.
The muffled tap of footsteps came from the adjoining bedroom. Pivoting toward her door, Kent felt his heart jerk under a tightening rope of longing and anxiety. Christ, he felt as uncertain as a youth contemplating his first kiss. He felt suffocated by the soul-shriveling fear of opening himself to the agony of loving again.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. How Juliet must despise him for the way he’d insulted her, for the way he’d denied her the true affection of a husband. God help him if she ever learned how dearly he deserved her hatred...
He didn’t know what the hell to say to bridge the abyss in their relationship. Yet he had to try.
Steeling his nerves, he started slowly toward her door.
Tossing a glare at Kent’s door, Juliet tried to get her nerves under control. She’d spent the past two hours politely listening to Augusta’s complaints about the lack of money for the new vicarage and to Gordon’s rambling discourse on evolutionary philosophy. Chantal and Rose were absent; Augusta claimed the two preferred to keep their own company. “That Chantal acts too proud,” she’d grumbled. “Thinks we ought to treat her like the dowager, instead of a vulgar tart living here on the duke’s sufferance.”
Juliet wondered bleakly why Kent hadn’t joined them, if neglect would be a habit with him. The strain of keeping a courteous facade only nourished the bud of resentment swelling inside her. Now that resentment was fast blooming into full-blown anger.
After their explosive argument, she’d expected him to at least make the effort to reconcile. Clearly he was arrogant enough to believe her so uncritical and adoring that even his vile insults couldn’t rouse her ire.
He’d find out his mistake soon enough.
Just as she stepped toward his bedroom, a low rap sounded; Kent walked inside. Their eyes locked and her heart danced an involuntary reel. The silver gray dressing gown enhanced his sun-dark skin; the fight of the candle on the nightstand caught the disarray of his damp hair. She ached to tidy the dark strands. She ached to slap his aggressively handsome face.
“I didn’t invite you in,” she said coolly.
“You’ve every right to shut me out, Juliet. Yet I’d like to have a word with you, if I may.”
The gentle contrition in his voice wormed into her heart; deliberately she kept her gaze icy and her tongue acid. “You should have come to dinner, then.”
“We didn’t finish the hedge until nearly dusk. I was grimy and sweaty... ” He paused, his posture stiff, his eyes somber. “I’m sorry about my absence. I’ll make an effort to dine with you in the future.”
“Don’t rearrange your schedule on my account. I can manage to hold a decent conversation with the family.”
“I know. Yet you’re right, I should have been there.” He came a few steps closer, hands plunged in the pockets of his dressing gown. “Speaking of family, I understand you met Chantal Hutton today. What did you think of her?”
An oddly tentative quality skirted his words... because he spoke of Emily’s mother? Though her heart thumped at his nearness, pain thrust into Juliet. “She was gracious and kind. I can see why your father loved such a woman.”
Kent glanced away, his expression moody, as if he was looking into the past. “He was obsessed with her.”
“Yet he never married her. Perhaps you Deverell men care little for a woman’s happiness.”
His sharp gaze sliced into her. “That’s nonsense. Chantal has always been happy here. Your happiness is important to me—”
“Is it? Do you intend to neglect me as Henry says you neglected Emily?”
A scowl compressed his face; Juliet knew the bleak satisfaction of striking a nerve. “Hammond-Gore is a meddlesome ass,” Kent snapped. “He was in no position to judge whether or not Emily felt neglected. He was no more than a passing acquaintance.”
Goaded by anger, she added recklessly, “He thinks she took her own life.”
His eyes flashed with darkness, yet when he spoke his voice held no clue to his thoughts. “He’s only repeating gossip.”
“Then why don’t you tell me about her?’” she said in frustration. “She needn’t be a secret from me.”
Juliet had the impression of Kent drawing back, though he remained perfectly still. “What do you wish to know?”
“I don’t resemble her in the slightest, and I’ve already guessed I possess none of her virtues. So why would you mistake me for her?”
He brushed past her to gaze into the moonless night, his palms braced on the window casement. “I told you,” he murmured, “I don’t know how that happened, except I was half-asleep. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Oh, certainly, Your Grace.” Juliet swallowed hard and spoke to his back. “And what of the next time?”
He swung around, his expression as readable as a closed book. “There’ll be no next time.”
“How can I believe that?”
“You have my word on the matter.”
The quiet strength of his tone shook the firm ground of her anger. “I won’t have you pining for the past,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. When he started to protest, she put up a hand. “I can live with crumbling walls,” she went on. “I can admire your devotion to farming because I know how much you love Radcliffe. I can even face the fact that our marriage isn’t going to be as I’d envisioned. But there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, Kent Deverell. That’s being judged against the standard set by another woman.”
Her frankness left Kent at a loss for words. The candle glow illuminated her lovely face, though her skin shone paler than normal. She kept her chin tilted at the determined angle so rare in a woman, yet so appealing in Juliet. Her proud character gleamed like a ray of sunshine in the dark secrets of his life.
Thank God, she hadn’t announced her intent to leave him. Yet.
Relief left him weak kneed. He wanted to take her into his arms, but fearing his reception, he walked slowly to her and touched only her smooth cheek.
“You’re wrong to think I find you lacking,” he murmured. “In you, I have everything a man could want in a wife.”
Her shoulders squared beneath the green silk of her gown. “Everything? What exactly does that mean?”
“You’re forthright... strong... loving.”
She watched him closely. “Yet from what you’ve said, Emily was very different from me. And you loved her.”
My love for you is greater. The realization screamed inside his head. Never had he reacted with such violent jealousy to seeing Emily with Hammond-Gore. Shaken by the unexpected power of his feelings, he fumbled for words.
“You’re each unique. Each of you owns a piece of my soul.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “How can I compare the sun and the moon?”
Yearning gentled her face. “Oh, Kent, I want to believe you.”
“Then do.” Though he feared to declare his love, he could show her how precious she was in the best way he knew how.
He started to gather her into his arms; she stiffened and drew away. Her green gold eyes regarded him with a resolution that made his heart stumble over a beat.
“That isn’t all I have to say, Kent. I want some answers, too.”
“Answers?”
“About the feud.”
The night breeze that fluttered the draperies felt like a blast of bitter air. “What do you want to know?” he said warily.
“How did the quarrel begin? What happened to make Deverells and Carletons hate so deeply?”
Christ. What could he say to that?
Pushing his fingers through his hair, Kent walked to the bed and perched on the edge. He had to compose a credible reply; he was fast learning that when his wife had that unflinching look in her eyes, she wouldn’t be easily put off.
“All right, then,” he said, his mind concocting a version of the truth. “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
He patted a spot beside him, but Juliet knew better than to seat herself on the bed. The suspicion that Kent wore nothing beneath that robe provided far too much temptation, especially when she still reeled from the implication that he cared so deeply for her. How can I compare the sun and the moon?
Boneless with longing, she sank into a wing chair near the hearth. “I’m listening.”
He leaned forward and stared at his clasped hands. “The story began more than forty years ago, when my father and yours attended Harrow together. Emmett resented being a commoner, present only by grace of scholarship, while most of his classmates were nobly born. Apparently my father made a pointed remark about Emmett’s heritage, and a fist brawl ensued. From then on, the two were rivals.”
“There must be more to it than a boyhood squabble.”
Kent shrugged. “Of course. Emmett coveted all the privileges my father had inherited. His envy goaded him into trying to prove he was the better man, whether it be in the classroom or on the cricket field.”
Juliet bristled. “I admit that Papa is ambitious, but don’t blame the feud entirely on him. William played a part, too.”
“Of course,” he said easily. “My father was guilty of believing himself superior because of his birth.”
“How did the feud grow into a business rivalry?”
“For generations, the Deverells had interests in India—spices, tea, indigo. Apparently Emmett vowed to outdo my father, and struggled to build his own enterprises from nothing. He resented the fact that my father had the leisure to live like a gentleman.” Eyes stony, Kent regarded her. “He tricked my father into buying a tea estate just days before the market crashed. My father lost a huge sum of money on the transaction.”
“Papa told me about that. He said it was a fair bargain, that he couldn’t control the market.”
“A shrewd businessman can predict trends. Unfortunately my own father wasn’t so shrewd. He didn’t realize he was dealing with Emmett until it was too late. You see, Emmett had hired an agent to act as the owner. He knew it was the only way to lure my father into the purchase.”
She gripped the chair arms. “Papa wouldn’t
do such a thing.” Yet even as she spoke, the memory of that slap rang in her ears. Her father had proven he was not the man she had grown up to revere. He had a dark, unforgiving side.
“That isn’t all,” Kent said. “My father was caught bringing stolen opium into England. He suffered great distress when an anti-opium society made him the focus of their campaign against the drug.”
“Surely you can’t blame that on Papa.”
“My father didn’t hide the opium there. Nor did anyone else in my family. The leader of the fanatics admitted that Emmett Carleton had urged them to use my father as their scapegoat.”
Her mind closed against the terrible accusation. Yet the words taunted Juliet, threatened to further corrode the tarnished image of her father. He hated the Deverells enough to renounce his only daughter. Was he also capable of the unprincipled act of framing a rival?
Wracked by uncertainty, she paced to a window. Kent sat with his hands clasped. Candlelight threw shivering shadows over his lean features. She scanned his face for a clue to his thoughts, but his dark eyes betrayed nothing.
Desperate for reassurance, she said, “And you? What do you believe?”
His gaze faltered, but only for an instant. Rising, he came close and planted gentle hands on her shoulders. “I believe the feud isn’t ours. I believe we should forget the past and concentrate on the future. Our future.”
Sincerity rang in his deep voice. Yet his sidestepping of the question told Juliet the truth: he thought Emmett Carleton guilty. “You still mistrust my father,” she said. “Yet you wanted to end the feud. Why?”
“I’ve told you, I saw no reason to perpetuate my father’s quarrel.” His smile heartbreaking, he combed back a stand of hair from her brow. “Once I’d met you, I knew I’d made the right decision.”
“Oh, Kent, I never believed Papa capable of such awful things. How could I have grown up so blind to his faults?”
“Tell me how you saw him.”
Wistful memory washed through her. “He worked long hours, yet he always found time for me each evening. He told me tales of his stay in India, riding elephants through tiger-infested jungles, meeting maharajas in their jeweled palaces.” She swallowed. “He called me his princess... and sometimes his little dreamspinner.’