Dreamspinner (21 page)

“Kent, oh, Kent...”

Whimpering, she clutched at his shoulders and felt herself falling, felt the cool embroidered counterpane meet her back. Then he came down on her, his body hard and heavy, gloriously male, pinning her to the
bed. His hands cradled her breasts, his leg nudged open her thighs. Before she could so much as lift a hand to his cheek, the plunging pressure of his entry wrested a gasp of delight from her.

“Wife,” he muttered. “You’re my wife.”

His mouth possessed hers in another searing kiss; the desperation in him matched her own reckless need. Her fingers clutched the slick muscles of his back as he launched into the familiar, magical movements. Again and again, he surged into her, the furor ever growing, until she felt like a flower bursting open beneath the radiance of the sun. Even as she tumbled into the white light of ecstasy, she heard his raspy cry, felt him shudder with the force of his own release.

The brilliance faded, leaving her adrift in mindless contentment. Gradually her senses grew aware of the weight of his body, the lingering taste of his brandied kisses, the musky aroma of his skin at the hollow of his shoulder. The pounding of his heart had slowed and his steady breathing told her he’d started on the long slide into slumber.

She drowsed as well, until a chilly draft tickled her arm and the burden of him grew uncomfortable. She tried to turn her head, but a lock of her hair was trapped between their bodies. Feeling a twinge of discomfort, she wriggled to ease the pressure on her legs. Kent mumbled under his breath, and his hand clamped tight to the curve of her hip, pinioning her in place.

Tenderness warmed her; their lovemaking must have exhausted him, too. If he fell into deeper relaxation, she’d never rouse him. “Kent,” she whispered, “don’t go to sleep this way.”

He stirred, the fleece of chest hair abrading her breasts. “Emily?”

The groggy surprise in his voice cut into Juliet, slashing away her happiness. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t speak. Her heart felt as barren as a rose stripped of its petals.

She managed to say, “Get under the covers before you catch cold.”

He rolled clear and she yanked back the counterpane. The icy sheets must have brought him to half awareness, for his arm curled around her waist as she started to swing her legs off the bed.

“Stay,” he commanded, his tone slurred, oddly vulnerable. “You promised never to leave me, Juliet.”

She swallowed to clear the pain thickening her throat. Calling herself a spineless fool, she posed no resistance as he drew her down beside him, shaping her back to his chest, his hand to her breast.

His breathing settled into an even rhythm that stirred her hair. Gazing into the night, she blinked back hot tears. He’d slaked his lust on her, only to dream of Emily. She’d been deluding herself to think she could win his devotion from the gilded shrine of his first wife.

Wife... you’re my wife.

He hadn’t been referring to her, but to Emily. Doubtless he’d made love to her countless times in this bed, touched her and kissed her, enfolded her in the same erotic embrace.

An appalling idea sprang into Juliet’s mind. She tried to fend off the horrid thought, but it clawed at her with relentless talons. He made love to her only in the darkness. Now she knew why.

He wanted to pretend she
was
Emily.

Chapter 10

“What’s all this?” Juliet asked.

Standing in her own bedroom the next morning, she stared as Augusta deposited a jumble of gowns on the bed. Juliet had been dressing; uncomfortable at receiving a near stranger in her half naked state, she folded her arms over her corseted breasts.

Clad in serviceable brown twill, Augusta looked as stiff as the bedpost she stood beside. At her feet, Punjab watched with beady black eyes. “The duke asked me to see to a wardrobe for you,” she replied. “He said you’d left home without any baggage.”

Curiosity glinted in those hyacinth eyes, clear as the early sunlight pouring past the parted curtains. Juliet lifted her chin and said coolly, “I’m sure you’ve already surmised that my father didn’t approve of the marriage.”

“Humph. I rather imagined Emmett Carleton wouldn’t.” Lips pursed like the wrinkles of a prune, Augusta picked up a primrose pink gown. “Not the current London fashion, I’m sure, nor as fancy, but the silk’s of superior quality and the stitchery is tolerable. Took me weeks to sew all these frocks.” She waved a hand at the pastel array on the bed.

Suspicion knotted Juliet’s throat, a suspicion so abhorrent, it nearly strangled her. Swallowing, she heard herself asking, “Whose gowns
are
these?”

“Why, Emily’s, from her trousseau. Where else would we so quickly find a wardrobe to suit your status as duchess?”

Emily.

Numbly Juliet watched as Augusta shook out the gown, then plucked a bit of lint from the scalloped cuff. Kent wanted his new wife to wear garments that had belonged to his dead love? Sickness churned in her belly. Dear God... did his pretense extend beyond the bedroom? Did he hope to create a duplicate of his beloved Emily?

Conquering the urge to cry, Juliet seized her own forest green gown off the bed. “I won’t wear secondhand clothing.”

“You’d waste perfectly good silk? If I might be so bold as to say so, you haven’t room for vanity, Your Grace.” Punjab at her heels, Augusta walked over to examine a mud stain at the hem of Juliet’s gown. The gold frock had fared a little better; draped over a chair, the crepe de chine was sadly crumpled after lying the night on the floor of Kent’s bedroom. “You cannot go about like a common washerwoman. Remember, you are now the Duchess of Radcliffe.”

Juliet bristled at the implication that she lacked the finesse required of her position. Yet her every instinct balked at garbing herself in apparel designed for Emily Deverell. “I’ve been raised to assume the role of a nobleman’s wife,” she said in her most chilling tone. “Yet I’ve also been raised to respect what doesn’t belong to me.”

“Poppycock,” Augusta snorted. “Emily would have been happy to share her gowns—she always did have an unselfish heart, poor girl. Come here now and I’ll do up your buttons. I can’t afford to fritter away the morning arguing.”

So Emily had been generous as well as demure. A paragon and a saint, Juliet thought uncharitably. She told herself that she shouldn’t feel threatened by a dead woman. These were only clothes, after all.

Somehow she found herself standing in rigid silence, the gown slithering over her head, guided by Augusta’s impersonal hands. The aroma of lily of the valley clung to the fabric. Layers of lace flounces formed the skirt while rosettes of pink ribbon trimmed the high-necked bodice. Her full bosom strained against the seams; the old-fashioned bustle made her feel as though she were carrying a spare rump.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she decided she looked like a hybrid tea rose on display. If only she had the funds to purchase a new wardrobe...

Her eyes as critical as Punjab’s, Augusta stood back. “Quite tolerable, if I might say so. You’re more endowed than Emily and a few inches taller, but the gown will do for today. After I make my rounds this morning, I’ll begin the alterations.”

Juliet gave an aristocratic nod. “We’ll see. Has my husband gone out yet?”

“Rode to the fields an hour ago. Rather a late start for him, I might add.”

Augusta arched a ginger eyebrow at the perfectly made bed, and unexpected humor invaded Juliet. What would such a sour tempered woman think of the strenuous lovemaking that had tired Kent out? She couldn’t imagine Gordon and Augusta doing
that
in bed.

“As the duke is engaged,” Juliet said, “I should like to accompany you today. You may show me about the district and introduce me to some of the people.”

“I told you, they’re mostly tenant farmers and such,” Augusta warned. “Hardly high society.”

“I understand perfectly. Shall we meet in the courtyard in, say, twenty minutes?”

Augusta glowered then lowered her gaze in grumpy obedience. “As you like.” Stalking to the chair, she seized Juliet’s two gowns. “I’ll give these to Mrs. Fleetwood to wash.”

“Thank you.”

The instant Augusta strode from the chamber, Punjab mincing along behind, Juliet let her shoulders droop. She marched through the connecting doorway into Kent’s bedroom, straight to the fireplace and the framed photo of Emily.

A sudden fury swept Juliet. “I hate you,” she burst out. “Can’t you leave us be?”

Those sad eyes rebuked her. Shame trickled through Juliet, along with a nagging bafflement. She didn’t resemble Emily in the least. If Kent wanted to recreate his hallowed love, why hadn’t he selected an ethereal blonde?

She swung her gaze to the velvet hung bed; the sheets lay in tangled disarray from her night with Kent. Her heart felt hollow, empty. She’d entertained such hopes of winning his love. Instead he wanted to make her a hybrid, to graft her character with that of his first wife. Didn’t he care about accepting her for the person she was?

Tears blurred her vision, but she dashed them away. She could not, would not, go on this way. She would confront him as soon as he returned home.

As Juliet entered the courtyard, sunlight dazzled her eyes. Near the stables she spied Augusta sitting erect in a dogcart. Trust that woman to wait all the way across the muddy yard, she thought. Yet not for her entire London wardrobe would she voice a word of complaint.

Gritting her teeth, she stepped around the puddles and climbed in beside the surly woman. Augusta started the horse on a brisk trot over the drawbridge. Juliet spied a row of lime trees near the corner of the castle. The strange, contorted branches reached upward like a column of supplicants. “Is that the south garden?” she asked, pointing.

“Yes.”

She spied a flash of movement on the parapet. Twisting on the seat, she stared. “Is that Ravi up there?”

Augusta glanced around. “Hmph. Does his praying there.”

“Praying?”

“He’s a Muslim. They have some sort of rule about facing Mecca five times a day.”

Ravi’s devotion intrigued Juliet; it revealed a hidden facet of Kent’s mysterious servant. Augusta sank into sour silence, but the countryside was so rich with color that Juliet soon forgot her annoyance. Parkland stretched from the castle, a few gray sheep grazing the sweep of grass. White clouds scudded across an azure sky; swallows swooped past the brown trunks of cedar and larch.

Her city bred senses drank in the lush, rain washed air. As the road dipped to parallel the river, she saw patches of yellow flag iris blooming among the reeds, and green lily pads carpeting the silverblue water along the shore. A duck quacked over the rattle of wheels. Her London garden seemed insubstantial compared to the wild splendor of Radcliffe.

The narrow dirt lane swung away from the river, winding up and down slopes, past laurel hedges and thickets of oak, past a patchwork of grassy meadows and cultivated fields. Clinging to the open, jolting cart, Juliet shaded her eyes with one hand to search for a tall, dark haired man on horseback.

Her chest ached from more than the snug fit of her gown. Was he thinking about her today, as she thought about him? Did he miss her, long for night, when darkness would draw them together?

Or did he contemplate still more insidious ways to transform her into Emily?

“The duke’s gone to the north end of the estate,” Augusta said, her voice gruff over the clop of hooves. “Neighbor’s cows wandered through a hedgerow yesterday and got into our wheat.”

Embarrassed to be caught with her emotions exposed, Juliet blushed. “I see.”

“So do I.” Those bland blue eyes held a speculative gleam. “You wed His Grace for love, did you not?”

The blunt question startled Juliet and made her hackles rise. “Of course. Why else would I have left my family, my home?”

“To acquire an ancient title, perhaps. Or perhaps to rebel against your father.”

Quelling the painful memory of his slap, she said, “Papa isn’t always the tyrant that people around here seem to think.”

Shrugging, Augusta returned her attention to the lane. “If you say so.”

“What do you know of the feud?”

“That’s a question you should put to your husband.”

Annoyed, Juliet went on, “Have you ever met my father?’’

“In India.”

“India? Papa hasn’t been there in years.”

Augusta clenched the reins. “Gordon and I went there as newlyweds,” she said flatly. “William asked him to manage a tea garden in Assam. The plantation lost a great deal of money.”

Did she blame Papa for bringing about her husband’s defeat?

Juliet had but a moment to wonder when they rounded a bend and came upon a sleepy hamlet tucked into a sheltered fold of hills. Quaint cottages and half-timbered buildings huddled around a village green. Beyond the picturesque appearance, she noticed a few roofs in need of rethatching, a shutter hanging askew, a crumbling wall. Before a cobbler’s shop, a wizened old man sat smoking a pipe while a trio of laughing children darted past, scattering the hens scratching at the bare earth.

“Welcome to Wyecote,” Augusta said.

She drew the dogcart to a halt before a small cottage ringed by a stone fence. Beyond the house, laundry flapped on a line strung between two spindly yews. Juliet stepped to the dirt lane as Augusta retrieved a covered basket from behind the seat. She marched to the gate, the hinges creaking under a push of her hand.

The fragrance wafted to Juliet even before she walked within the walled yard. She found herself inside a rose garden as lush as the cottage was shabby. A riot of roses climbed and cascaded, tumbled and rambled, in a charming proliferation of yellow and salmon, white and crimson. Delighted, she twirled, arms outspread.

A woman emerged from the doorway, her green eyes vivid against lily pale skin and a drab black gown. She couldn’t have been more than five years older than Juliet, yet weariness haunted that lovely face. At the woman’s side, a tiny, fair haired girl leaning on a single wooden crutch tottered forward, a rag doll dangling from her hand. Her big blue eyes fastened on Augusta.