Dreamspinner (2 page)

“He’s a fine man with an impeccable lineage.”

Wiping the grime from her fingers, she glanced idly toward the black bulk of the landau in the shade. Her heart gave a leap; the dark stranger sat watching with that peculiar bold interest. “What about love?” she asked idly.

“Admiration and respect are far more important. You must find a man who can offer you a fitting place in society and a title to pass on to your children.”

She studied her mother’s aristocratic features. “You married beneath your station. Grandfather was a baronet, and Papa hasn’t a title.”

Her back a graceful bow, Dorothea pretended to inspect a yellow hybrid tea rose. “Your father’s status will be rectified when the queen honors the work he’s done on behalf of charity.”

“And all the money he’s contributed.”

“Juliet! Don’t be crass.”

Shame stirred inside her. Though her mother’s view was narrow, she did mean well. “I’m sorry, Mama. But even you must admit that Lord Breeton’s true interest is the size of my marriage portion.”

“It’s indelicate to speak of such matters.” Dorothea wagged a gloved finger at her daughter. “And you do know how to behave, if only you’ll set your mind to the task. You managed superbly at the Queen’s Drawing Room.”

Juliet recalled the interminable wait in the antechamber at Buckingham Palace and the long walk up the white marble staircase to the State Apartments. One of a stream of debutantes dressed in elaborate court gowns and tiaras, she had executed a deep curtsy, then kissed Victoria’s age mottled hand. That brief action had officially propelled her into the ranks of adulthood.

She giggled. “You ought to have seen Maud. She nearly tripped on her train when we had to walk out backwards.”

Dorothea affectionately tucked a strand of russet hair behind Juliet’s ear. “Maud may be the Earl of Higgleston’s daughter, but
you
possess a natural noble grace. Soon you’ll have a title to match.”

As her mother rambled on, Juliet let her gaze drift to the stranger. Was he observing her or the house? Beneath the stiff brim of his top hat, his eyes watched with uncanny directness. Despite the warmth of the sun, a chill tickled her skin.

“You’re gawking like a shopgirl,” Dorothea chided. Affecting a genteel interest in a gold tea rose, she swept her gaze along the street and gasped. Straightening, she lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear me.”

Surprised to see her mother so flustered, Juliet frowned. “What is it, Mama?”

“It’s
him.
Oh, dear heavens. What shall I do?”

“It’s who?”

Dorothea whirled, presenting her back to the road and wringing her gloved hands. “The man in that landau over there,” she murmured. “It’s Kent Deverell, the Duke of Radcliffe.”

Deverell. The name grabbed Juliet by the throat. Memory came flashing back, of a time when she was nine years old and a playmate had taunted that the powerful Deverells hated the lowly Carletons. Hurt, she’d run to Papa for reassurance; instead he’d exploded with anger and slapped her cheek, the only time he’d ever displayed physical violence toward her.

She looked sharply at the man inside the carriage. A devil, Papa had said. But this lean, dark stranger bore no horns or forked tail. Beyond his air of aggressive interest, he appeared no more dangerous than an ordinary gentleman.

“He’s Papa’s rival,” she mused. “You warned me a long time ago never to speak the Deverell name in front of Papa.”

“Yes. Oh, dear me,” Dorothea fretted to the rosebushes. “Whatever can he be doing across from our home?”

“Perhaps he has a business meeting with Papa.”

“Never! If Mr. Carleton spies the duke here, he’ll be furious. It’ll ruin our ball.”

Surely her mother exaggerated. Yet why not find out for herself? “I’ll go speak to him. I’ll ask him to leave.”

“Darling, I don’t think that’s wise—”

Even as Juliet took a step toward the gate, he leaned forward and spoke to the driver. The coachman flicked the reins and the carriage started briskly down the crowded street. As the vehicle disappeared into the throng, the duke never once looked back.

Disappointment wove an uncertain ribbon around her senses. “You can rest easy, Mama. He’s gone.”

Dorothea cast a cautious glance from beneath her bonnet brim. “Oh, praise heavens! I was afraid he might be planning to upset your father.”

“He must have stopped to admire our new home, that’s all.”

“Yes, you’re right. Mr. Carleton says he’s the jealous sort, always coveting our wealth. Run along inside now, darling. I’m simply beset with duties today. I must check with Potter on the extra champagne he ordered. And make certain the parlor maid cleaned that bit of woodwork she missed in the music room.”

Mrs. Carleton started toward the portico with its huge fluted columns. Already forgotten, Juliet felt uncomfortably like another chore that had been ticked off her mother’s list.

As she went to collect her bucket, she found her gaze straying down the street where Kent Deverell’s carriage had vanished.

Three hours later, considerably cheered by a leisurely bath and luxurious primping, Juliet floated down the grand staircase. The white tulle of her gown rustled as she adjusted the rosettes of satin ribbon that framed her bare shoulders. A spray of creamy gardenias adorned the coil of russet hair. As she caught a glimpse of her elegant form in one of the beveled mirrors that flanked the front door, a sudden intense longing swept over her.

Perhaps something magical would happen tonight. She imagined herself gliding into the arms of a handsome gentleman, a man who would applaud her intelligence and appreciate her wit, a man who would share her passion for plants.

The anonymous face resolved into the saturnine features of Kent Deverell. Reaching the base of the stairs, she paused. Nonsense. She was as likely to see a costermonger tonight as the Duke of Radcliffe.

Near the front door, a liveried footman stood at rigid attention, awaiting the arrival of the first guests. A battalion of maids had cleaned the house until every inch of the floor gleamed and every bit of brass sparkled. The vivid scent of roses and carnations drifted from a scattering of cloisonne vases.

Her heels scuffed softly across the marble floor as she moved toward the drawing room with its emerald silk paneled walls. Before she could enter, the butler emerged. “Ah, Miss Carleton. Mr. Carleton asked to see you in the library.”

“Thank you, Potter.”

As she started down the long, echoing corridor, uneasiness pricked her spirits. Now what had she done wrong? Surely Mama wouldn’t have reported such a minor transgression as weed pulling.

Portraits of people in old fashioned garb stared down from the walls; this sprawling house had come equipped with noble ancestors, Juliet decided with a smile. The success of her father’s myriad business interests had enabled her parents to move here last year while she had been away at boarding school. Unlike the smaller town house of her youth, this place felt cold in spirit, more a museum than a home.

The library doors stood ajar; she pushed open one carved panel. Twisted loops of gold cord fastened the crimson velvet curtains. Scattering the room were mementos of her father’s trips to India: brass pots from Benares, an elephant’s foot stool, a collection of exotic figurines from his import business. The air bore the scent of leather book bindings and the rich tobacco of her father’s cigars.

Emmett Carleton stood by a window, his head tilted toward the dusk light filtering through the Nottingham lace panel. He cut a handsome figure in a black evening suit and white cravat. With his robust frame and his mane of thick gray streaked hair, he reminded Juliet of a lion, king of his domain.

Lost in thought, he stared down at something cradled in his palm. With the other hand he smoothed his sweeping mustache. The unexpected sadness on his leonine face touched her heart and awakened her curiosity.

Keeping impulsively silent, she tiptoed nearer and saw that he held a filigreed gold locket. Tucked into either side was a tiny photograph; both images appeared to be of women, though Juliet could not discern their features. Then her petticoats rustled and Emmett pivoted toward her.

In the same swift motion, he snapped the locket shut and tucked it into a pocket of his waistcoat. She had the oddest impression that he looked guilty before his face settled into a familiar jovial expression.

“Ah, Princess,” he said, his green eyes crinkling. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Whose locket is that, Papa?”

His smile seemed a trifle forced. “It belongs to a business associate. He left it by mistake in my office and I thought to return it to him tonight.”

“He’s one of our guests? Who?”

“No one important. Now, allow me to say, you look radiant tonight.”

The matter of the locket was closed, Juliet knew by the firmness of his voice. And when Emmett Carleton made a decision, no amount of persistence could turn him onto another course.

She reluctantly stifled her questions and twirled, her snowy skirts swaying. “Do I pass muster, then?”

“The noble swells will be smitten,” he declared, fists planted at his waist. “No doubt your mother and I shall soon be entertaining an endless stream of titled suitors.”

She laughed. “Poor Papa. If the prospect disturbs you, perhaps we should cancel the ball and avoid the headache of launching me into society.” Sobering, she added, “I could always study botany at Trinity College.”

“No daughter of mine is going to turn herself into a bluestocking. I prefer blue blooded grandsons to carry on the family tradition.”

The reference to their long standing debate stung.

With a cool stare, she said, “And what of what
I
want?”

His bushy gray brows lowered. But he merely said, “No arguments, Princess... not tonight.” Reaching into a pocket of his frock coat, he withdrew a strand of pearls. “Your mother asked me to present you with this. Your grandmother—the Lady Beckburgh—wore these pearls on the occasion of her debut.” Stepping behind her, he fastened the cool silver clasp at her nape.

Her annoyance sank beneath a rush of warm emotion. The sentimental gift meant more than a maharaja’s treasure trove. She brushed her fingertips over the glossy pearls. “Oh, Papa, I never expected—”

Bursting with affection, she swung around to embrace him, pressing her cheek to the fine fabric of his lapel. His scent of cigars enveloped her, bringing back fond memories of childhood, when her favorite time of day had been the brief moments each evening in which she visited her parents to bid them good night.

For an instant, he held her tight; then he drew stiffly back. Clearing his throat, Emmett Carleton adjusted his impeccable cravat. “A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice. One never knows when a servant might walk in.”

Vaguely disappointed, she nodded. Couldn’t he for once forget the rigid rules of propriety? “Of course, Papa.”

“Shall we proceed to the foyer? I can’t wait to show you off, Princess... the jewel in my crown of achievements.”

Her vision of the future failed to match that of her parents, Juliet reflected uneasily. She suddenly recalled Kent Deverell, but decided against mentioning his strange appearance. No need to ignite the short fuse of her father’s temper, especially not now, and spoil his pleasure in the ball.

As she took his arm, she felt a fluttery mix of excitement and disquiet. Half of her looked forward to the magic of the evening. The other half felt like a choice plum being placed on display at the greengrocer’s.

“Who has your first waltz?” Lady Maud Peabody squinted at the dance programme Juliet held in her white gloved hands. “Egad, the inimitable Lord Breeton. Or shall I say, Lord Brayton?”

Juliet grinned, then glanced around the crowded ballroom to see if anyone had overheard the impudent pun. No one paid attention to the two debutantes, who stood in a nook half hidden by the feathery foliage of an aspidistra. The gas jets cast a blaze of smoky golden light over the assembly of ladies and gentlemen. Glittering like a fairyland, the ballroom had huge, gilt framed mirrors and an arched ceiling from which hung several crystal chandeliers. The buzz of voices mingled with the tuning of instruments from the musicians’ alcove.