Dreamspinner (9 page)

Bending, he planted a kiss on her cheek, and even that chaste gesture nearly made her knees wilt. She loved the feel of his fingers around hers, his large, solid hands holding her tenderly.

“I’m delighted to be here.” Laughing, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, that sounds like a platitude... and it seems so inadequate to express how I feel right now.”

His dark lashes lowered a bit, making his eyes appear blacker. “And how
do
you feel?”

“Happy,” she whispered. “Happy to be with you, no matter where we are.”

For a moment his face remained soft; then a muscle in his jaw tightened and he released her hands. “Come along,” he said, pivoting. “I promised you a surprise, and I won’t have you accusing me of reneging.”

As they headed down the shadowed hall, Juliet sensed that she’d stirred deep feelings in Kent. Excitement shivered through her. Surely he’d reveal those feelings today.

“Did you have any difficulty getting here?” he asked.

“No... and no one saw me.”

“I wish you’d have let me come for you.”

“It’s better this way,” she said firmly. “We agreed not to risk someone seeing me getting into your carriage.”

He nodded, then led her through a doorway. Juliet found herself in a study lined with glass fronted bookcases. A camelback sofa sat on a Turkish carpet, both in jeweled shades of burgundy. Like the drawing room, the air held a trace of staleness, though a pair of long windows stood open, the floral drapes undulating in the summer breeze.

Intending to put down her gloves, she walked to a mahogany desk, where a pungent odor made her sniff. She tilted her head at Kent. “Tansy?”

He glanced away. “The flower you gave me last week got accidentally crushed. I had to throw it away.”

“Then I’ll be sure to give you another,” she teased. On the desk, a silver pen lay carelessly across a drawing. “Is this your work?”

“Yes.”

“May I look?”

He smiled. “If you like.”

Picking up the paper, she studied a cutaway view of a curious boxy machine. Neatly labeled were several conveyor belts, fans, and wheels. “What is it?”

“The mechanical thresher. It runs on petrol.”

“Petrol?”

“A fuel used by the horseless carriage.”

“I’ve never seen one of those, but I heard my father speak of them.” Fascinated, Juliet stared at the drawing. “Does it really work?”

He laughed at her questioning look. “I hope it will someday. Right now it’s only an experiment.”

Admiring the precise beauty of the sketch, she felt a flash of resentment that her father could disparage Kent for having the vision to dream, to create. “Have you invented anything else?”

“A few odd things here and there. But enough about me. This is what I wanted to show you.”

He walked to the fireplace, where a pair of brass peacock andirons guarded the empty hearth. Atop the marble mantelpiece stood a row of unframed watercolors. The brilliant hues of exotic flowers lured her as forsythia beckons a honeybee.

“Oh, Kent, look!”

Indulgent pleasure lit his eyes. “Do you like them?”

“They’re lovely,” she said, picking up a picture of a phalaenopsis orchid, the golden flowers marked with chestnut brown. “Where did you get them?”

“The other day I came across my father’s drawing case, tucked in a cupboard. He sketched as a hobby.”

“So that’s where you inherited your artistic talent.”

A corner of his mouth quirked. “Alas, mine extends solely to dull technical drawing.”

She surveyed the other designs. “Plumbago, bougainvillea, hibiscus... These plants are all native to India, aren’t they?”

Kent nodded. “I’m afraid they’re the only flora I could find among the sketches. For the most part, my father drew people and places, odd things he saw on his travels.”

“May I see the other pictures?”

Surprise gleamed in his eyes. “Are you really interested?”

“Yes.”

He motioned her to the sofa, where a flat leather satchel lay against a rosewood table. Sitting beside her, so close their knees nearly touched, he began to flip through the stack of vellum sheets. The majority of the scenes were of India, where, Kent explained, the Deverell family had long had an interest. Captivated, Juliet studied the contrast of images: a trio of filthy children in a poverty stricken village, a proud native perched atop an ornately saddled elephant, a beautiful blond Englishwoman reclining on a bullock-hide boat as it drifted down the Ganges.

“Is she your mother?” Juliet asked.

Kent slanted a look at her. “No. Her name is Chantal Hutton. She is, or rather was, a friend of my father’s.”

She wondered at his strange expression; then he pulled out the next sketch and her heart went liquid. The smooth pen strokes depicted a boy, his chin tucked shyly, sitting astride a pony. The youthful angles of his face held a promise of strength.

“Ah, now, that’s you.”

“You’re right. I was eight years old there.”

“And the servant beside you,” she said, noting the turbaned Indian standing at stiff attention, “he looks like the man who answered the door today.”

“Yes. Back then, Ravi acted as my father’s
chaprassi,
or messenger. He was my father’s most trusted servant.”

“He didn’t seem to care much for a Carleton visiting you.”

“Don’t pay him any mind.” Kent kept his gaze fixed on the sketch he held. “Odd, how that day brings back memories. The sun was beating down, and I can still smell the suffocating heat that weighted the air. I felt ready to faint, but when my father said sit still, I sat.”

“He was strict?”

“Yes, but it was more than that. My mother had died the previous year, and I wanted to please him, to make him smile, to lift him out of his melancholy.”

The sympathetic portrayal of William Deverell intrigued Juliet. Was Papa biased? “Tell me about him, please.”

A shadow passed over Kent’s face. “What do you want to know?”

His sudden cool manner irritated her, but she kept on, determined to learn more about the man her father hated. “What sort of person was he? I had the impression he was a relentless businessman, yet these sketches are the work of a sensitive man.”

“In part, he was a dreamer.” He tucked the drawing back into the case, then propped his elbows on his knees and looked down at his clasped hands. “Yet he also held an unshakable conviction about class differences. He believed that a man born to the dukedom, a man with the noble blood of the Deverells, was superior to other men and destined to rule.”

“You must not feel superior if you’re a farmer.”

He smiled. “Father never understood why I’d want to work in a field, like a common laborer.”

“What did he want you to do with your life?”

“He thought I ought to follow in the footsteps of generations of Deverells.” He shot her an enigmatic stare. “To uphold the family honor and join him in the fight against your father.”

On impulse, she shaped her hand around his clenched fingers, her arm resting along his. “I’m glad you didn’t, Kent. I’m glad you saw the sense in forgetting the feud.”

A spark flickered in his dark eyes; then he looked down at their joined hands. Did he share her awe at seeing her lily pale skin against his sun browned flesh, at feeling her softness against his strength?

“Some called my father an arrogant fool,” he said, his gaze still lowered, “but I admired him for living what he believed. He tried to fulfill his ideals, to excel at everything he did, no matter what the consequences.”

Then why had William Deverell stolen opium? A selfish desire to maintain the treasured closeness of this moment kept Juliet from voicing the question.

“He certainly excelled in art. What are you going to do with all these drawings?”

“Take them to Castle Radcliffe when I leave tomorrow.”

Shock and dismay ripped through her contentment. Pulling her hand back, she studied his aloof expression. “You’re leaving?”

“I must. I’ve neglected my duties at home for far too long already.” His narrowed gaze flitted to her lips. “Besides, my business here is nearly concluded.”

His dispassion chilled her, yet she detected a flame of feeling beneath that frosty exterior, a flame that melted the bleak storm of pain in her heart. Did he, too, feel shattered at the prospect of parting? Was he afraid to nurture the tender bud of affection growing between them, afraid to open himself to the risk of loving another woman?

Placing her hands on his forearm, she studied the harshly handsome angles of his face, a face she suddenly saw as dearer to her than any other. “Don’t go, Kent,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to part from you.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched and she sensed violence raging inside him. From outside drifted the hollow cheep of a sparrow and the distant rattle of carriage wheels. She held her breath and prayed that whatever unknown powers in him fought to resist her, his feelings for her would prove strong enough to triumph.

Torment tightened his features. “For God’s sake, Juliet! Why must you make this so damned easy... and yet so damned hard?”

Before she could puzzle through his brusque words, he spun toward her, the lean strength of his body pressing her to the sofa. Where his first fleeting kiss had been gentle, this one plunged her into rough splendor. The shock of his tongue against her lips ignited a scandalous fire inside her, a blaze of passion that compelled her to open her mouth. His tongue delved inside, then retreated in a wildly exciting rhythm.

Her palms embraced the hard heat of his chest as she slid them upward over his shirt, her unsteady fingers discovering first the taut cords of his neck, then the coarse silk of his hair. His mouth carried the heady taste of man, tinged with an arousing trace of musk. Her heart thumped madly, the blood beating in her ears. She felt submerged in a sea of sensation, drowning in a floodtide of feelings.

“So proper,” he murmured, his breath warm on her lips, “and so very tempting.” Removing her hat, he tossed it aside, then plucked out the tortoiseshell pins that secured her upswept hair. The heavy mass cascaded down her back, and the admiration darkening his eyes made her toes curl with pleasure.

“You’re beautiful, Juliet... so temptingly beautiful.”

As he feathered kisses along her temple and cheek, one of his hands cradled the nape of her neck; the other trekked downward, following the shape of her shoulder. Whether by accident or design, the base of his palm brushed the curve of her breast, and despite the barrier of her corset, the contact stunned her. Heat clenched her belly, and a startling liquid tightness throbbed between her legs. She didn’t understand how or why he aroused such a tumult inside her, but she longed for more.

Kissing his smooth shaven cheek, she felt the words rise from deep within herself: “I love you, Kent. I love you so much.”

His hand froze on her arm. For an instant his heart beat a frantic tattoo against her breast. Then he jerked away.

She opened her eyes to see him sitting back against the sofa, his chest rising and falling. His gaze glittered with black fury.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he snapped.

His abrupt mood shift bewildered her. “Yes, I do. I know my own mind, my own feelings—”

“Do you? You’ve known me for barely a fortnight, and already you claim to love me?” He laughed, a harsh sound that held no humor. “You can’t begin to comprehend what I’m really like, Juliet. You’re caught up in girlish dreams.”

Passion ebbed, leaving her drenched in cold reality. Was she responding with indecent haste? Imagining a need in him because she herself was lonely? She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I may not know everything about you, Kent, but I do love you.”

“Enough to risk your own reputation? Enough to go upstairs with me right now, to my bedroom?”

Staring at his icy countenance, Juliet bit her lip. She recalled her vague perceptions of the private act of love, something permitted to married couples, but forbidden to her.

Something no gentleman would ask of a lady he respected.

Yet the bone deep bitterness she sensed in him and the need within herself reached past her pain and her scruples. If she truly did love him, she must trust him as well.

“Yes.”

Chapter 5

The single, soft word hit him like a blow to his midsection.

Kent couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He could only stare at Juliet. Her eyes warm and certain, her lips reddened and vulnerable, she met his gaze with unflinching pride. Her hair formed a glorious cinnamon waterfall around her shoulders. She looked like a goddess sculpted in alabaster, the image of heartbreaking beauty and untrammeled innocence.

Desire surged in him, a desire so acute, his limbs trembled. He had seen that expression in only one other woman’s eyes, that utter adoration, that shining devotion, that absolute trust.

Emily. Oh, God, Emily.

His throat closed, suffocating him.

He shot to his feet. Striding to a window, he braced one palm against the frame and sucked in a searing breath.
I love you.
He’d never thought to hear those words again from any woman. Never.

Especially not from Juliet Carleton.

Tilting back his head, he struggled to regain an emotional equilibrium. The breeze fluttered the curtains and fanned his overheated body. God! What the hell was wrong with him? He should be gloating over her compliance. Like a ripe plum, she had fallen straight into his hands. So why couldn’t he follow through with the perfect finale to his plan?

Because she would bear the punishment for her father’s crimes and the pain of Kent’s revenge.

Shame weighted his soul. What had grief done to him? He’d been so caught up in hatred that he’d failed to consider her future. He wanted Emmett to suffer, not Juliet. With the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth, Kent acknowledged the truth. He couldn’t dishonor her and turn her into a social pariah, not even to avenge himself on Emmett Carleton.

“Kent?”

At the uncertain quaver of her voice, he swung his head around. Juliet stood behind him, the curling strands of her hair drawing his eyes to her bosom, where the apricot silk bodice clung to her breasts. Her fingers were laced in front of her, graceful fingers that had glided over his chest and threaded into his hair. The memory of her passionate response made his groin ache anew.