Dreamspinner (7 page)

“I presume that’s your carriage?”

His note of dry humor made Juliet look down the street to see Maud, her head topped by the lavishly feathered bonnet, peeking out the brougham window in unashamed interest. Self consciously Maud whipped off her gold rimmed spectacles, then screwed up her features and strained to see.

Juliet bit back a smile. “She’ll beg me to recount every word you and I exchanged. Not, of course, that I intend to indulge her.”

“She won’t tell your father, will she?”

“Not if I ask her to keep silent. Maud adores a good secret.”

“Then perhaps we should give her something more substantial to withhold.”

Before she could guess his meaning, Kent caught her hand and pulled her in front of him. He bent closer and brushed his lips over hers. Headier than sandalwood, his scent enveloped her; softer than an orchid petal, his mouth caressed hers. When he straightened, she felt shaken, her blood brimming with that exciting turmoil of danger and desire. No gentleman would kiss a lady on a public street, yet she wanted him to do so again, to take her into his arms and hold her close, to nurture the tender bond growing between them.

He stood motionless, watching her, and for an unguarded moment she read the same fierce yearning in him, a yearning that enchanted her. “Have you ever been to Highgate Wood?” he asked.

Unable to trust her voice, she shook her head.

“Tomorrow, can you get away most of the day?”

This time she managed to whisper, “Yes.”

His fingers squeezed hers. Through clenched teeth, he said roughly, “My God, Juliet. You shouldn’t be so bloody agreeable.”

The torment in his voice bewildered her. “I don’t understand, Kent. Don’t you
want
me to meet you?”

“You hardly know me. You shouldn’t trust a man so readily.”

Gentle feeling washed away her confusion; his protest stemmed from concern for her reputation. Brushing her thumb over the broad back of his hand, she murmured, “I know that a man who shows kindness to a street sweeper couldn’t possibly harm me.”

His jaw tightened and she thought he meant to deny his considerate nature. But he merely drew a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then,” he said in a subdued tone. “Meet me here at ten o’clock.”

Pivoting, the duke strode away, past the carriage where Maud gawked openmouthed. Juliet watched him, her spirits soaring dizzily, until his broad shouldered form disappeared into the throng of laborers and tradesmen.

“You’ve made plans to go
where?”
Her fine brow drawn into a frown, Dorothea Carleton laid down her pen on the gilt edged writing desk and gazed up at her daughter.

That displeased look made Juliet quake with guilt. What if her mother saw through the lie? Glancing out the window of the morning room at the dull gray sky, she thought longingly of Kent and gathered her courage.

“I promised Maud I’d go with her to Wimbledon tomorrow,” she repeated, forcing her eyes back to her mother. “Her grandmother is having another of her spells, and you know how demanding the dowager Lady Higgleston can be. Maud is afraid to go alone.”

“Lady Maud Peabody has never been afraid of anything.”

At the suspicious tone, Juliet swallowed. “What I meant was, Maud is hoping to use my presence as an excuse to return on the late train. If she goes alone, her grandmother will coerce her into staying for weeks, and then she’d miss half the Season.”

Dorothea pursed her lips. “Your father will be none too pleased about this. Lord Breeton left his card while you were gone. I was about to compose an invitation to tea tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t we invite his lordship the day after? After all, you wouldn’t want him to think we’re overeager.”

Mrs. Carleton tilted her head in resignation. “You have a point, darling. All right, then, you may go. But next time,” she added, shaking a slim finger, “do consult me before making your plans. Mr. Carleton has charged me with the task of seeing you married well.”

“Yes, Mama. Thank you so much.”

Awash with giddy relief, she bent and kissed her mother’s cheek. Only at Dorothea’s startled expression did Juliet recall she wasn’t supposed to act excited at the prospect of spending the day in the company of a querulous old lady. Lowering her lashes, she veiled her glorious anticipation of freedom and hugged her excitement inside her heart.

The outing with Kent stirred her romantic dreams and fired her botanist’s blood. Highgate Wood skirted the northern edge of the city, and sheltered a vast variety of wildflowers: honeysuckle, wood violet, yellow archangel, sorrel. Few people frequented the park on this quiet Friday; a man walked a terrier, two boys stalked a fox, an elderly couple shared a pair of opera glasses to study the birds. Even though she could glimpse the red brick houses of the village, Juliet felt as if her spirit had been set free from the restrictions of an uneventful life. The warm summer day held the thrill of a treasure hunt, a search for rare species of plants, many of which she recognized only from her textbooks.

Kent acted the consummate gentleman and the benevolent host. When she dirtied her hands, he smiled indulgently and offered her his linen handkerchief. He’d brought a picnic luncheon, which they shared beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak. As they ate a simple meal of cheese and bread, the air sang with the mellow cooing of wood pigeons and the staccato notes of a nuthatch. Afterward, he stayed close by her side, calling her attention first to a patch of stitchwort, then to a clump of wild garlic.

Too content to worry about her sapphire silk skirt, she knelt to examine a jagged toothed leaf.
“Leucanthemum vulgare.”

He chuckled. “A fancy name for the common oxeye daisy.”

She smiled back. “But still an uncommonly pretty flower.”

His relaxed mood made him all the more endearing. He crouched beside her, so close she detected the heat radiating from his body. Today no tension marred the handsome angles of his face. Even his eyes shone lighter, a mellow walnut brown beneath the slash of charcoal brows. The musky odor of humus blended with his faintly earthy scent. How happy he made her, Juliet thought in sudden melting warmth.

Impulsively she said, “Do you remember the first plant you grew from seed? Watching those tiny leaves push out of the soil and unfurl must be like seeing your child for the first time.”

A shadow passed over his face. Only belatedly did she recall that his unborn baby had died, that Kent had been denied that unique joy. With a blush of dismay, she stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you... ”

His strong hand closed around hers. “Don’t apologize for opening yourself to me, Juliet. You’re right... there
is
a certain magic to life. A magic I’ve let myself forget.”

“Because you’re afraid of being hurt again,” she ventured.

His eyes devoured her, and she feared she’d touched a nerve. He looked down, studying the clasp of their hands, her skin a delicate ivory against his tanned fingers. “Yes,” he admitted quietly. “I suppose I am.”

“What was she like... your wife?”

“Why don’t you tell me first what you’ve heard about Emily?”

“I know only that she fell from the parapet of the castle.”

“Who told you so?”

His grip tightened and she wondered at the interest burning in his eyes. “Lord Breeton, when he saw you at the ball.”

“Breeton,” Kent said in disgust, releasing her hand. “When that popinjay’s not talking about hounds, he’s spreading more gossip than a flap jawed servant.”

Determined not to be distracted, Juliet moistened her dry lips. “Your wife... was she at all like me?”

He cast her an oblique look before glancing down to toy with a daisy. “Actually not. Emily lacked your frankness, your zest for life. She was shy and frail, the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

He made her sound like a paragon of womanly virtue, the sort of woman Juliet could never tolerate being. Then why did she feel so suddenly wretched? “You must have loved her very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You married her, despite the circumstances of her birth.”

“Are you referring to Emily’s bastardy?”

His tone of chilly detachment sparked heat in her cheeks. She fought to hold her gaze steady. “Yes. I... I wondered if people ever shunned her.”

“I never brought her into London society. She preferred a quiet country life.” He stood, a towering figure lined by the filtered rays of sunlight. “It’s getting late. Shall we go?”

The finality of the gesture closed the discussion. Somehow, without her noticing, the afternoon shadows had lengthened. Regretfully she accepted his hand as he helped her into the cabriolet. He sat down beside her, and the gray gelding started toward the city. Kent stared straight ahead, brooding and silent. Despite the pleasant breeze and the mesmeric sway of the carriage, Juliet felt troubled, longing for a return of their easy companionship.

“Why did you come to London?” At his sharp glance, she added hastily, “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that I’ve never asked you before... I presume you’ve business here.”

He returned his gaze to the road. “I needed to see a banker.”

“Did it have to do with the threshing machine you’re developing?”

He cast her another biting look. “Where did you hear about that?”

She bit her lip. “Somewhere. I don’t recall.”

“From Emmett, no doubt.”

His frosty tone made her happiness wilt like the nosegay of wildflowers in her lap. Resentment suddenly stiffened her spine. “I wonder why you bother with me, then,” she snapped. “I’m a Carleton, too.”

His hand descended over hers on the leather cushion. “Forgive me, Juliet. I had a lot of unhappy memories weighing on my mind. Can you spare me a little patience, please?”

The contrition in his voice drew her gaze to his face, where concern gentled those sternly handsome angles. Her frustration eased, yet she couldn’t let go of her anger, not just yet.

“I only want to make sure you’ve really set aside the feud.”

“I have. It just takes some getting used to, that’s all.”

Could she trust his word? She stole another glance and found him watching her. She could drown in the dark sea of his eyes. When he looked at her like that, she wanted to surrender herself into his keeping, to let him do with her whatever he willed.

“All right,” she whispered, turning her hand so that her palm nestled within his. “I just wish... ”

“Wish what?”

How could she express the newborn needs and hopes and dreams trembling inside her heart? “I wish that everything could stay as perfect as it was earlier.”

“I know.”

A shared sensitivity shone on his face, and for one breathless moment she thought he meant to kiss her. Then he swung his pensive gaze back to the smartly trotting horse.

“Unfortunately,” he said in a voice so low she had to strain to hear, “life is rarely perfect.”

“Perfect... absolutely perfect,” Dorothea Carleton proclaimed. “Turn around now and let me see the back.”

Juliet dutifully twirled before the cheval mirror in her
bedroom. The jade hued gown sported a sash of black watered silk that cinched her tiny waist, and the low, square bodice of shirred gauze dramatized the fullness of her breasts. A modest cluster of green ribbons adorned one side of her chignon, and russet curls fringed her face. If only she were dressing to meet Kent...

Rebellion stirred in her. “I wonder if Lord Breeton will judge me to be as superior as the horseflesh in his stable.”

“Oh, darling,” Dorothea chided, “don’t be contrary. Someday you’ll realize the value of this extraordinary opportunity. Come now, we must hurry if we’re to be downstairs when he and his mother arrive.”

Some thirty minutes later, Juliet selected a slice of saffron cake from a silver tray offered by a footman. Absently she listened to her father and Lord Breeton debate the merits of various horses entered in the upcoming Ascot races. Across from her, seated in matching chairs of emerald damask, Mrs. Carleton and Lady Breeton sipped tea and compared milliners.

Her enormous bosom swathed in gray silk, the marchioness leaned forward, looking like a well fed pouter pigeon. “You must take care,” she cooed, “to check your account very closely. Why, just last week, I was charged for an ostrich plume when the bonnet I’d ordered only had a cock’s feather.”