Dreamspinner (27 page)

His fingers began to rub the tension from her neck. “Believe me, Juliet, I deplore seeing you cut off from your parents. But we don’t need Emmett Carleton’s ill-gotten gains.”

The aloofness in his voice shook her. For an instant, she agonized over confessing about the letter she’d posted. Yet why invite his anger when the scheme might never bear fruit? She’d lost her parents; she couldn’t chance losing Kent, too.

Wetting her lips, she regarded him warily. “My mother also said she was sending a few trunks of my clothes.”

His hand ceased its mesmeric massage. “I trust you wrote back and refused them?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” Reluctant to harm his pride, she chose her words carefully. “If I’m to make a place for myself here, I should dress as a duchess. It seems more practical to use the wardrobe designed for me, dresses I like, than to put us in debt over the purchase of cloth.”

A frown tightened Kent’s face. She had the impression of turbulent emotions in him, as if he withheld something vital. The lonely hoot of a barn owl drifted into the silence.

Then he dropped his arms to his sides. “As you wish, then,” he murmured. “I won’t object to the gowns.”

“I’m glad. Because I’d intended to accept them regardless.”

He stared; Juliet held her head high. Then his lips quirked into a wry smile, his finger catching a tendril of her hair. “You do act the duchess, don’t you?”

The esteem in his gaze drenched the last embers of anger left by their quarrel. Putting her hands to his chest, she slid her palms upward over the polished silk of his robe, over hard muscle and taut sinew, until her fingers meandered into the still damp strands of his hair.

Soft and sultry, she asked, “How else would you have me act, Your Grace? I’m yours to command.”

His eyes gleamed. “You’re managing perfectly well on your own, Duchess. Nevertheless...” Shaping his hands to her lower back, he pressed their hips together. “Ah, now that’s better.”

Through the layers of gown and petticoat, she felt him rise against her. The sensation ignited the fuse of her own passion; the familiar fire began deep in her belly and radiated outward to her thighs and breasts. Wanting more, she moved her hips with restless urgency.

His grin vanished and his eyes went unfocused, half closing as he gazed down at her. “Darling Juliet...”

She had but a moment to revel in the emotion enriching his voice; then he was kissing her with such tender violence that she swayed from the force of her feelings. Her hands caught the breadth of his shoulders; the warm circle of his arms held her steady. She loved the feel of her softness against his solidity, her slenderness against his strength. He tasted of brandy, smelled of sandalwood. His tongue plundered her mouth until she felt dazed and trembly, craving the ultimate joining yet savoring the eternity of his kiss.

His lips nuzzled her temple and trailed down her cheek to the sensitive hollow below her ear. She felt his fingers at her back, unbuttoning her gown to the waist. “Tell me how to make you happy,” he murmured. “Tell me how to make you forget the past, to start anew. I want to be everything to you.”

She felt a twist of longing, the ache to be first in his heart. Hiding the sensation, she echoed his words, “You’re managing perfectly well on your own, my lord duke.”

His arms flexed as he drew down her bodice. “Forgive me for behaving like a jealous fool,” he whispered, unhooking her corset. “I never meant to imply you’d break our marriage vows, that you’d ever deceive me about anything.”

Her heart sang at the confession that he cared enough to want her all to himself. Then, sharp as a thorn, the memory of that audacious letter pricked her joy. Dear God, she should tell him. She should—

His mouth closed around her nipple and a floodtide of desire drowned the guilty thought. Half-delirious, she arched her spine to offer more of herself. The pleasure—pain of his suckling set her afire. His hot breath bathed her breasts; rivers of excitement rushed through her veins. The room suddenly tilted as he lifted her in his arms and set her down on the bed. Gown and hairpins fell away under the swift work of his fingers.

She wrestled with the tie of his dressing gown until the garment gaped open. Tracking the ridges and valleys of his muscles, her hand stole downward along the arrow of dark hair on his belly until she found the purpose of her quest.

“Ah, God, Juliet,” he groaned, “when you touch me like that, I could die from the pleasure.”

“Then perhaps I should cease,” she teased, stilling her hand. “I shouldn’t like to be widowed so soon.”

“Minx. I’ll prove how alive I am.”

He caressed the wetness between her legs. Even as she gasped in ecstasy, her heart leapt from the memory of his words:
Whatever 1 take from you, I intend to give back.

The words surged from deep within her: “I love you, Kent. I love you so much.”

The declaration slid over Kent like the finest silk. He wanted to drown in those words, to let them heal the self-loathing that eroded his heart. Oh, God, he didn’t deserve the trust shining in her eyes...

He rolled away and stretched an arm toward the candle. Juliet leaned over to catch his wrist in her fingers.

“Please, don’t,” she begged. “Not tonight, Kent. I want to look at you while we make love.”

Her hair draping him in a cinnamon waterfall, she kissed his chest. The gesture made his belly constrict with the need to kindle a hundred candles, to take her with his soul opened in honesty and their bodies bathed in brilliance.

Yet how could he gaze into her radiant eyes and hide his guilt? How could he risk revealing the secret that would splinter her soul and extinguish the light she’d brought into his life?

Sick with fear, he reached for the candle again.

“Kent?” she said in a small voice. “Does my boldness disgust you?”

He sat back. Her chest rose and fell, her breasts gilded by candle glow. Her eyes were shadowed by a pain that perplexed him.

“Disgust me?” he said blankly.

She shifted her gaze to a point past his shoulder. “You must think me unladylike. Last night—”

“Last night you excited me beyond comprehension. I thought I made my feelings on that perfectly clear.”

She sighed; her expression was tentative, as if she didn’t dare believe him. “Then why do you never leave the candle burning? Don’t married couples ever make love in the light?”

A cold sweat broke out on his palms; his lips felt suddenly parched. With great effort Kent kept from averting his face from hers. “Of course,” he said, casting about for an explanation, “but I prefer the darkness... when the senses come alive. It’s a quirk of mine, that’s all.”

He held himself still under her solemn regard. Like dawn stealing over a garden, a soft glow entered her eyes. She leaned past him and blew out the candle.

Night whispered through the room. His heart faltered; his breath abandoned him. Juliet had believed another of his lies. The knowledge that she would so sweetly indulge him left Kent too staggered for speech. He’d married her for all the wrong reasons. So why did it feel so right to love her?

He heard a rustle as she shifted position, felt the silken slide of her thigh against his. “Kent?” she whispered. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Through the darkness, his unsteady hands found the precious shape of her waist. Clasping her close, he put his lips to the fragrance of her hair. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that if you weren’t already my wife, I’d ask you to marry me.”

Chapter 13

“Pleasin’ to look on, you are,” said the cobbler, the last rays of sunset illuminating his wizened face. “Radcliffe’ll finally get himself an heir.”

Juliet bit back a startled laugh. “We’re hoping to be so blessed, Mr. Peek.”

“Bite your tongue, Alf.” Round as a cowberry, Mrs. Peek unfolded her dewlapped arms to swat at a fly. “Beer’s gone to his head, Your Grace. We ain’t had a haying supper here at the castle since the other duchess’s passing, God rest her poor soul.”

Peek winked at Juliet. “But you’ve put the smile back on the duke’s face, you have.”

Contentment and love swelled inside her. The Peeks were right. Since their reconciliation nearly a month earlier, Kent had seemed lighter of heart, more affectionate. Her stomach tightened at the thought of their long nights of loving, of lying in velvet darkness...

Seeking his tall form, she looked over the gathering of tenants and their families. The south garden bordered the outer wall of the castle, the ancient turrets outlined against the amethyst sky of dusk. But Kent was nowhere in sight.

“Come along, Alf,” said Mrs. Peek. “I hear Dickie tuning his fiddle, and you promised me a reel.”

“Hold your bloomers on, Cora.” The cobbler raised his pewter beer mug. “First, a toast to our new duchess. May she bloom at Radcliffe like a rose in springtime.”

A few people standing nearby raised their cups as cheers echoed through the overgrown rose garden. Touched by the salute, Juliet accepted the toasts with a gracious smile. She held herself proudly as more than one admiring glance took in her ivory silk gown trimmed with gold ribbons. They expected their duchess to look and act the noblewoman; she was eager to fill that role.

Suddenly a pair of strong hands came from behind to circle her waist. His breath warm in her ear, Kent murmured, “You’ve scored quite the triumph, Duchess.”

Smiling, she turned to look at him. “Everyone seems to have accepted me.”

“Radcliffe is your home now,” he said staunchly, “as it always shall be.”

As he took her arm and guided her through the crowd, they exchanged greetings with tenants and their families, and renewed old acquaintances. The scents of honeysuckle and roses perfumed the air. Giggling children darted over the newly trimmed stone nags. Near the greenhouses, long tables of food had been set up, laden with everything from meat pies to gooseberry tarts, from Stilton cheeses to pickled ham. On an open stretch of grass, couples, young and old, danced to the polka played by a makeshift orchestra, a fat man sawing at a fiddle, a gangly youth rattling a tambourine, a skinny pensioner plying a mouth organ.

Juliet spied a peacock strutting at the fringe of the garden, its regal head bobbing, iridescent tail feathers dragging. A tiny, fair-haired girl on a crutch hobbled after the colorful bird.

Kent grinned. “Hannah Forster has been trying to catch that peacock for the past hour.”

For the hundredth time, Juliet thought of the letter she’d written, the secret she’d kept from Kent. Frustration twisted inside her. Now that nearly a month had passed, she’d resigned herself to the probability of failure.

“Oh, Kent, I wish we could help her.”

He pressed his hand to hers. “The harvest promises to be bountiful. Maybe we’ll have the money to find a cure for Hannah.”

“I pray we will. Did I tell you I’ve become friends with Mary Forster? Twice now she’s come for rose cuttings.”

His midnight eyes softened. “It must be difficult for you, without your London friends. Especially when your husband works such long hours.”

Juliet smiled. “When would I find time for boredom? Between Rose showing me around the castle and Augusta taking me on visits, I tend the vegetables in the greenhouse.”

“My dear Lady Botanist.” Bending, he snapped a crimson moss rose off a rambling bush; then he brushed her cheek with the satiny petals. “Do you know what I’d like to do right now?

The rough velvet of his voice left no mistake about his meaning. Breathless, she said, “Shall we take a stroll down to the river? You’ve never shown me your favorite fishing spot... We could lie on the bank.”

His eyes gleamed. “You tempt a man with absurdly small effort. However—” he glanced over his shoulder at the party “—duty calls.”

As the dusk grew thicker, Fleetwood shuffled down the pathways and lit tall rush torches. Beyond the yellow glow, two people walked in the gloom beneath the row of lime trees. She nodded toward the couple. “Isn’t that Ravi and Chantal?”

“It would appear so.”

“I wonder what they’re talking about.”

Slowing his steps, Kent smiled. “He’s been giving her lessons in Hindustani. Perhaps he’s making her practice.”

“How intriguing. I wonder why she’d wish to learn a foreign tongue.”

“It’s all the rage, I understand. The queen herself is learning Hindi from her
munshi.”

The mention of Victoria seized Juliet with guilty apprehension. Quickly she said,
“Munshi?
What’s that?”

“Teacher. The queen has an Indian servant whom she greatly favors.”

“I see.” Juliet looked back at the shadowed figures, each of equal height. Against the darkness Chantal’s blond hair gleamed as pale as Ravi’s turban. “Odd, how they both seem disinclined to mingle with anyone else.”

“They’re both different from the people here. Perhaps they find comfort in each other.”

She stopped. “Kent, do you suppose they’re lovers?”

Chuckling, he tweaked her nose. “Duchess, your mind is in the bedroom.”

“But I wonder if they’re lonely—”

“Obviously not anymore. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a few moments, I shall go rescue the curate from Gordon’s long winded discourse. Just remember, the last dance is mine.”

Juliet watched him skirt the edge of the throng, pausing several times to speak to tenants before joining his cousin. Passion and tenderness glowed in her heart,
both feelings so tightly entwined, she wanted to burst with joy. She could scarcely wait until she and Kent could retire for the night...

She turned back to the lime grove, but Ravi and Chantal had vanished. Restless, Juliet wandered toward the trio of greenhouses. The cracked panes glistened on the one she’d commandeered for her planting.

She spied Rose near a cask of wine. Resplendent in an old-fashioned gown of mauve silk, the girl hurried toward Augusta, who directed Mrs. Fleetwood and several other servants.

Juliet reached them in time to hear Rose say, “The ale is nearly gone. I’ve sent Hatchett to fetch another barrel from the cellar.”

“Poppycock,” Augusta snapped, her mole quivering. “There’s plenty of plain cider left to drink. With a harvest party next month, we can scarce afford to host this having supper. If you ask me—”