Dreamspinner (24 page)

“Because you can’t stop thinking about her,” she said, forcing herself to voice the tormenting words. “You’re obsessed by her. I thought you were pretending I
was
her.”

His eyes glittered in the sunlight; his fingers bit into her shoulders. “God, no! I could never look at you and see another woman. I could never hold you in my arms and dream of anyone else.” He leaned closer, his hands gentling, stroking. “Much as you tempt me, Juliet, the north pasture is hardly the place for me to delineate all your unique qualities.”

His burning look at her bosom made her knees weak; his earthy aroma made her long for the flavor of his skin against her lips. Yet dismay diluted her desire. She felt a gnawing emptiness, a yearning for him to view her as more than a mere bed partner.

He watched her closely. “Will you forgive me?”

“I need time to think, Kent. I admit I’ve been naive, but there’s more to marriage than physical pleasure.”

Shadows veiled his eyes; he squared his shoulders to formal stiffness. “As you wish, then. We’ll speak more this evening.”

Steely hands gripped her waist and boosted her into the cart. He guided the pony around; then he lightly slapped the brown rump and the animal began trudging back up the hill.

Juliet scarcely registered the rhythmic tug of the reins in her hands. She couldn’t deny a niggling disappointment that he thought he could win her forgiveness by offering her physical satisfaction.

Perhaps her immodest behavior last night inspired his lust but repulsed his love. Yet why shouldn’t a wife arouse both ardor and affection in her husband?

As the cart crested the hill, she pivoted on the wooden seat and looked back. Fists planted on his hips, Kent stood in the lane. He raised a hand, then strode back to the hedgerow.

She admitted a deep pride in seeing him work alongside his men. Even if she could share her father’s conviction that Kent was a poor businessman, she assured herself he was certainly no pea-brained wastrel planning his next fox hunt.

Only as the pony plodded toward the distant castle did she recall Henry Hammond-Gore’s startling charges. Kent had neglected Emily in favor of farming? She’d committed suicide?

Nonsense. No woman could be despondent over bearing Kent’s baby, over possessing his love. The death had been a tragic accident. Like Lord Breeton, Henry only mouthed unfounded gossip.

As the stately gray towers of Radcliffe drew steadily nearer, Juliet let her thoughts stray again to the confrontation. Could she trust that Kent didn’t want to turn her into a replacement for his dead love? That he valued Juliet for herself? The whirlwind courtship had denied her the chance to learn his every facet.

Yet love glowed within her, mysterious and magical, fiery and fulfilling. She would fight for her husband’s affection. She held enough love inside her to embrace the life of an impoverished duchess; enough love to forsake the status of pampered daughter.

Daughter.
Pain circled her chest in a tightening band. Kent had warned her that her father would never change; Mama’s letter only confirmed Papa’s intolerance. Because of the feud, she might never again see them, might never again feel the warmth of her mother’s embrace, might never again bask in Papa’s proud regard.

The heady scent of meadowsweet drifted from the tall stalks of feathery white flowers bordering the lane. Juliet sat straighter in the cart. She didn’t have to accept Papa’s stubborn pride. She wouldn’t simply give up on bridging the rift.

From the soil of her sorrow thrust a seedling of resolution. If she unearthed everything about the feud, maybe she could reason with her father, force him to see that past hatreds needn’t poison future happiness.

Apprehension stirred in her stomach. Of course, the letter she’d posted today would hardly restore her to his good graces...

The dogcart clattered over the drawbridge and into the castle. Late afternoon sunshine bathed the dingy courtyard and gilded the brooding battlements. She made an absentminded note to pull up the ragged clumps of groundsel and dockweed around the forlornly dry fountain. Leaving the pony to the care of a stable boy, she headed for the massive oak door of the entryway.

In the great hall, she encountered Ravi; his mud hued eyes gleamed inscrutably beneath the flat gray turban. “Memsahib,” he said, bowing. “I was on my way to deliver this to your room.” From a deep pocket of his robe, he withdrew a note.

Juliet unfolded the paper to see an elaborate script flowing across the lavender stationery.
At a time convenient to Your Grace, I would be delighted to have the honor of your presence at tea. Chantal Hutton.

Excitement rolled through Juliet as she recalled the blond woman in the sketch. William Deverell’s former mistress would know the history of the feud. Raising her eyes to Ravi, she said, “I’ll join Miss Hutton today.”

“Come,” he said, turning. “I will show you the way.”

The directive needled Juliet. “I’ll freshen up first,” she countered. “You may call for me in half an hour.”

No emotion marred his lean, dusky features. “As Your Grace commands.” Bowing again, he glided silently down a dim corridor.

She found the forest green gown hanging cleaned and pressed in her dressing room. Gratefully discarding the frivolous pink frock, Juliet donned her own gown and tidied her hair. Primping before the age-spotted mirror revitalized her, imbued her with the outer trappings of confidence and the inner resolution to do battle for Kent’s heart.

As she joined Ravi in the hall and they started down the worn steps, a thought occurred to her. He must know the particulars of the quarrel, too.

“You served Kent’s father, did you not?”

“Yes, memsahib. Since I was sold to him as a boy.”

“Sold!” Appalled, Juliet stopped, a hand braced on the rough stone wall. “You mean you were his slave?”

He shrugged. “So it would seem. The old duke offered me a chance to learn to read and write, to serve as his scribe.”

As they exited the gloomy staircase, she tried to fathom his loyalty to the Deverells. “Didn’t you resent being owned by another man?”

“We are all owned in one way or another, memsahib.”

Juliet pondered the statement. Certainly she had obligations to people, had sworn marriage vows to Kent, yet he didn’t
own
her. Or did he? Did love bind her to him with silken chains? “Surely Kent has granted you your freedom.”

“Of course.”

“Then why do you not return to India?”

“Perhaps I shall someday. But England is my home for now. I am happy to serve His Grace.”

Their footsteps echoed through the great hall; then they entered a corridor Juliet had not yet explored. Rusted shields and musty tapestries adorned the walls. “How did William purchase you?” she asked. “Wasn’t slavery against the law?”

“Perhaps. Yet I begged him to become my master. He owed me that debt because I hid him in the great Mutiny, when many English were slain by my countrymen.”

Startled, she met his impassive gaze. “How did you manage to conceal him?’”

“In a well, near Cawnpore, where he was visiting friends. Then I helped him flee in disguise to Darjeeling.”

“Was Kent in India at the time?”

Ravi shook his head. “The Mutiny raged over thirty years ago, before His Grace’s birth.”

“Why did you wish to be purchased?”

“I was the eldest of eleven children. My family had little to eat, only rags to wear. That sort of life must be difficult for a lady of your birth to comprehend.”

His disdainful look reminded Juliet of his animosity toward Emmett Carleton. Her steps slowed as she asked, “Have you ever met my father?”

He cast her a stony glance. “Yes, memsahib.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He is not for me to judge.”

Frustrated, she said, “I want to understand this hatred toward my family. How did it start?”

“I am not the one to whom you should address your questions.”

Opening a door, he waved her up a flight of winding stairs. He lowered his eyes and assumed the meek demeanor of a servant who could offer no further insight.

Gritting her teeth, she took hold of her skirts and preceded him up the steps.

Around a curve in the staircase loomed a carved mahogany door. Ravi knocked; the panel swung open and Chantal Hutton stood there, limned by sunlight. Fine age lines enhanced her alabaster complexion. She wore her cornsilk hair piled atop her head, adding to her regal height. A white gown swathed her willowy figure and drew attention to her magnificent bosom.

William Deverell’s drawing hadn’t done justice to his mistress’s golden beauty, Juliet thought. Chantal Hutton, the woman who had dared flout society by bearing two bastard daughters, possessed a queenly aspect that no canvas could capture.

“So you are the new duchess,” said Chantal, her husky soft voice edged by formality. She looked keenly at Juliet. “I saw you alight from the landau yesterday— you’re even prettier close up. Please come inside so that we may get acquainted.”

“Thank you,” Juliet murmured.

A strange look passed between Chantal and Ravi; Juliet wondered briefly if he waited upon Chantal, too. The servant bowed, then retreated down the stairs.

The small sitting room had high arched windows set in stone and a dramatic decor that gave the effect of an exotic bazaar. Cloth in patterns of crimson and black cloaked the walls, while cane furniture and ivory screens abounded. Before the cold fireplace, a maidenhair fern draped a table with antelope horn legs.

Juliet wandered to a window and peered down at the courtyard. What thoughts had Chantal harbored as she’d stood here, watching the woman who had taken her daughter’s place as duchess?

“Your apartment is lovely,” Juliet said. “This is one of the towers, isn’t it?”

“The north tower, sometimes known as the Mortimer Tower.” Chantal fluttered her elegant fingers. “I don’t recall how the name originated. No doubt Rose could tell you.”

“Where is your daughter today?”

“Probably ensconced in a cubbyhole somewhere, with her nose in a dusty book.” A frown creased her patrician forehead; then Chantal made a lavish gesture, her bracelets chiming. “She promised to join us, but we won’t let our tea grow cold. She has no sense of time or obligation. Please sit down, Your Grace.”

As she swept toward a silver tea service, Juliet settled into a bamboo chair and studied Chantal. The fair coloring and high cheekbones brought a haunting reminder of Emily, yet this woman was no demure violet. Chantal Hutton was an extravagant white water lily.

A fresh scent pervaded the air, a contrast to the mustiness in the rest of the castle. “Sweet woodruff,” Juliet said, breathing the distinctive aroma. “And a trace of chamomile.’

“Mixing sachets is a pastime of mine,” Chantal said, gliding over the Turkish rug to hand Juliet a cup. “Have you an interest in herbs, Your Grace?”

“In all types of plants. I’m a botanist.”

“Fancy that! Even so far from London, we’ve heard of your mother’s reputation as a hostess. I’d expected you to be conventional.”

Blue eyes narrowed, Chantal paused with one hand poised over her majestic bosom. Could the unorthodox woman disapprove of a lady scientist? A poignant understanding took root in Juliet’s mind. Of course, Emily’s mother would be shocked that Kent had chosen a wife so different from his demure first love.

She took a sip of tea to allay the dryness in her throat. “Botany is what first drew Kent and me together. We share an interest in growing plants.”

“I see.” Chantal arranged herself on a cane chair, the back as tall and curved as a throne, the dark wood like a tiara framing her blond hair. “Pardon my ill bred manners in speaking so plainly, but Kent took all of us by surprise with the suddenness of this marriage.”

The speculative look in those celestial eyes told Juliet that her presence greatly disturbed Chantal. “Then you know who my father is.”

“Rose told me.” She studied Juliet over the porcelain cup. “May I ask what else Kent has said about me?”

Frankness might encourage a like response. “That you and his father had had a romance; that you’re also the mother of his first wife.”

“I see. Is that all?”

By that probing scrutiny, Juliet had the impression the woman was hiding something. “Is there something he left out?”

Chantal lowered her gaze to her lap. “I thought perhaps you might wonder why I’m still living at the castle.”

A seed of sympathy flourished in Juliet. Chantal must fear that a Carleton would cruelly thrust out William Deverell’s former mistress. Setting down her cup, she leaned forward. “You’re here because Kent and I wish it. This feud has nothing to do with me. As far as I’m concerned, you’ll have a home at Radcliffe for as long as you like.”

That lovely mouth formed a faintly bitter line. “That’s generous of you, Your Grace.”

“Please, call me Juliet.”

“Thank you, Juliet.” She paused in contemplative silence. “Did you know I once played Shakespeare’s Juliet?”

“Played? You mean in school?”

Chantal shook her head, stirring the tendrils crowning her brow. “Many years ago, I was the toast of the London theater. I wasn’t much older than you when my acting career reached its zenith.”

Now Juliet understood the showy gestures, the sense of drama enveloping Chantal Hutton. Perhaps this was the opening to glean more information. ‘Was that when you met William Deverell?”

“Yes. But he and I didn’t become... involved until a few years later, in India.”

“What made you leave England?”

The blue eyes clouded. “I couldn’t bear to stay, so I joined a troupe of traveling players.” Rising, Chantal glided to a window. “I’d suffered a broken love affair, you see.”

Sunshine silhouetted the sadness on that proud profile. Juliet tried to imagine the pain of losing Kent before ever winning his heart. What awful emptiness she would suffer. “Was he... Emily’s father?

“Yes.”

Unwilling to pry further into a stranger’s sorrow, she said, “Is the heat in India really as oppressive as I’ve heard?”

The grief fled Chantal’s face, as if she were an actress switching roles. Arms outstretched, she laughed. “So hot I longed to peel off my skin and sit in just my bones. During the worst of the summer, most women retired to the hills. Although I, of course, stayed behind.”