Dreamspinner (3 page)

“My father encouraged his lordship to sign my card for two waltzes and a polka,” Juliet whispered, grimacing. “I’m afraid my parents regard him as a potential son in law.”

“You could do worse.” Her fair features as dainty as a snowdrop, Maud fluttered a silk fan and confided,
“My
parents are favoring that beastly Roger Billingsgate. Imagine... I saw him spit into a vase of carnations when he thought no one was watching.”

Juliet laughed. “What did you do?”

“Affected not to notice, of course.” A gleam entered Maud’s nearsighted blue eyes. “On the other hand, he does have pots of money. Perhaps the right woman might tame the savage beast.”

Amused, Juliet shook her head. “I wouldn’t count on it. If you’re wrong, you’ll be staring at him over the breakfast table for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, fiddle,” Maud said with a dismissive wave of her fan. “I can scarcely see past my nose, anyway. Besides, we’re not schoolgirls anymore; I can manage any man—” Her words broke off as she squinted at the crowd. “Don’t look now, but I think that’s Breeton heading this way. Searching for you, no doubt.”

Juliet kept her gaze longingly trained on the French doors leading to the formal gardens. “I’m tempted to hide on the terrace until the first dance is over.”

“He’d only come after you. You’re too rich an heiress to let slip through his greedy fingers. Now,
smile.”

She assumed a civil expression just as Lord Breeton ambled out of the throng. The pompous dandy wore a stiff boiled collar and a shiny formal coat sporting a red rosebud on the lapel. Muttonchop whiskers and a thatch of curly brown hair framed his pallid face. His features were regular, except for the fact that nature had failed to provide him with a chin.

“Your ladyship,” he said, bowing first to Maud, then to Juliet. “Miss Carleton, I was beginning to despair of ever finding you. Rather like chasing down a fox at a hunt.”

The comparison irritated her. Dipping into the obligatory curtsy, she said sweetly, “Perhaps your lordship ought to have brought his pack of hounds.”

He looked momentarily puzzled; then he let loose a braying laugh. “Hounds at a ball, you say—hee haw, now, that would create quite the stir, wouldn’t it?”

Maud lifted the fan to her face and uttered a choked cough. Juliet wanted to sink into the polished parquet floor, but thankfully, his loud guffaw attracted little attention.

“Are you all right?” she asked Maud in mock solicitousness. “A pity if you fell ill and had to leave the festivities.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her eyes twinkled above the zealous wagging of her fan. “It’s this stuffy air. Settles in the throat, you know.”

“I say,” interjected Lord Breeton, “the musicians are striking the first notes. Do pardon us, your ladyship.”

Taking firm hold of Juliet’s arm, he whisked her toward the dance floor. The lively whirl of a waltz restored her sparkling gaiety; for all his faults, Lord Breeton was a superb dancer. So what if he could only converse on the horse and the hunt?

Afterward, he delivered her to her mother’s side, where a morose young nobleman awaited his turn to partner Juliet. Another hopeful, she decided, as he droned on about the disrepair of his country estate, and then belatedly added a gushing testimony to the heritage of the house and his own ancient lineage.

Never lacking for escorts, she danced away the hours. Between sets, she stood surrounded by a bevy of admirers as she drank champagne. The effervescent wine sped straight to her head. She couldn’t deny a giddy delight in being the center of attention. Flattered the number of gentlemen who requested an introduction, she had to remind herself the attention stemmed from her extravagant dowry as her father’s sole heir.

Then she saw him.

She was laughing at a long winded tale told by Viscount Hazlitt of a soda siphon battle with the Prince of Wales, when an odd prickly sensation pulled her gaze to the musicians’ alcove.

A man stood there, one broad shoulder propped negligently against a pillar. His hand rested in the pocket of his formal coat, drawing back the black fabric and emphasizing the superb fitness of his body. A light breeze wafted through the opened French doors and ruffled his black hair. Clean shaven, his features were handsome in an aggressive sort of way, with striking cheekbones and a proud set to his jaw.

Kent Deverell.

Her heart tripped over a beat. Beneath black brows, eyes dark as pitch studied her with frank absorption. His scrutiny unnerved her. Unlike the refined admiration she’d received from other gentlemen, this man radiated a dynamic intensity, a disturbing aloofness. With a twist of chagrin, Juliet realized she couldn’t tell what he thought of her.

Why had he come here?

Obeying reckless impulse, she raised her chin and shot him a haughty glare. His mouth quirked into the hint of a smile, half mocking, half mysterious. Unaccountably the breath squeezed from her lungs. He seemed disinclined to come forward and make her acquaintance, so why did she feel the overwhelming urge to defy convention and introduce herself to her father’s business rival?

“What a handsome devil,” whispered Maud. “Who
is
he?”

Juliet tore her gaze from the duke to see her friend squinting over the fan. Lord Hazlitt and the others had wandered off, leaving them alone with Lord Breeton. Before Juliet could gather the shreds of her composure, the marquis spoke.

“Radcliffe,” he said, his lip curling in cultured distaste. “I say, what do you suppose he’s doing here?”

“Radcliffe?” piped Maud, her eyes owlishly wide. “Do you mean the
Duke
of Radcliffe?”

Breeton nodded. “Kent Deverell, none other. He and I attended Harrow together.”

Juliet frowned, puzzling over his presence. Her mother hadn’t issued an invitation to the duke. Unless she’d been wrong this afternoon… unless Papa had invited Kent Deverell without informing Mama. Was it possible the feud had been settled?

Burning with curiosity, she swung sharply toward him again. But the place by the pillar stood empty; the duke had vanished.

“I say,” Breeton went on, “this must be the first time Radcliffe’s come out in society since the scandal.”

Maud perked up; her fan dipped to reveal an avid expression. “What scandal?”

Breeton rubbed his receding chin. “I’m no backstairs gossip... but I heard Deverell’s wife took her own life three years ago. Leapt from the parapet of Castle Radcliffe.”

Shock and pity struck Juliet speechless.

Maud gasped. “Egad!”

“A sad tale, indeed,” Breeton mused. “Especially since the duchess was... er...
enceinte.”

“Oh, the poor man!” Maud exclaimed. “To lose both his wife and his heir. But are you certain this is true?”

“Of course, my lady,” Breeton said, puffing out his thin chest. “My valet has a cousin in service near Radcliffe’s estate. Said the local vicar tried to refuse to bury Emily Deverell in consecrated grounds. Radcliffe went half mad and claimed the death was an accident. Actually threatened the vicar with bodily harm until he relented.”

“Perhaps it
was
a tragic accident,” Juliet said.

Lord Breeton held himself pompously erect. “You are doubtless unaware of the late duchess’s background. She was born on the wrong side of the blanket, poor thing. Talk has it, she was prone to melancholia.”

“How typical of an ill bred commoner,” she murmured dryly.

“Yes... er... no.” Breeton flushed beet red to his ears. “I say, Miss Carleton, I meant no offense—”

“Then don’t repeat rumors,” she snapped, glancing from his disconcerted expression to Maud’s guilty countenance. “Pray excuse me.”

Pivoting, she swept into the swarm of guests. Almost immediately she regretted her outburst. Breeton merely acted his usual priggish self; Maud obeyed her compulsion for gossip.

So why, Juliet wondered, had she leaped to the duke’s defense?

The image of his darkly handsome face invaded her mind. He’d lost his wife and unborn child to calamitous circumstance; no wonder he gave the impression of brooding emotions hidden within those midnight eyes.

Sympathy softened her heart. What if his wife really
had
committed suicide? What could make a woman so unhappy that she sought death as her sole escape? Juliet shivered, baffled and curious. Unless Kent Deverell
was
a devil in disguise...

Concentrating on her thoughts, she nearly bumped into her mother at the doors to the ballroom.

“Oh, darling, there you are.” Stunning in Nile green faille, Dorothea Carleton spread the pearl sticks of her fan and looked to the couple beside her. “Have you welcomed Lord and Lady Higgleston?”

Juliet greeted Maud’s parents warmly, though she scarcely knew them, for they took scant interest in their only daughter, a child of their middle age. Like a pair of matched cobs, both were stout, gray haired, and stoop shouldered. Lady Higgleston spent part of each year as lady in waiting to the queen and the other part pursuing philanthropic causes, while Lord Higgleston hibernated at his club.

Her ladyship snatched Juliet’s hand and squeezed it with evangelical fervor. “Dorothea has been telling me about the banquet Mr. Carleton is sponsoring next month for the orphans of the Rosemary Lane Hospice. Such generosity is to be commended! Don’t you agree, Arthur?”

Lord Higgleston cupped a hand to his ear. “Eh? Whatever you say, m’dear. Whatever you say.”

“We all have a duty to succor the less fortunate,” said Mrs. Carleton.

Lady Higgleston gave a vigorous nod, setting the ostrich feather in her coiffure to bouncing. “Indeed so. I shall make certain the queen hears of your benevolence when she returns from Balmoral. Her Majesty is a champion of the downtrodden, you know. Did you hear what she did for Lady Frith?”

Bemused, Juliet shook her head and extracted her hand. “No.”

“Her ladyship’s father was a commoner who made his fortune in the sausage trade. He disapproved of her eloping with that penniless Earl of Frith and tried to cut her off, but the queen interceded and made him pay the dowry. Isn’t that so, Arthur?”

“Eh?” He blinked. “Yes, m’dear. Whatever you say.”

“Pray excuse us,” said Lady Higgleston. “I see Reverend Wilder by the punch bowl. I must question him on his interpretation of last Sunday’s scripture.” Tugging at her husband’s sleeve, she hauled him through the crowd.

“What a marvelous night this has been.” Blue eyes sparkling, Dorothea Carleton bent nearer in a waft of violet perfume. “When the queen hears the news, your father could win his knighthood.”

“I’m glad,” Juliet said sincerely.

“And you’ve hardly had a moment alone. The dance has been quite the success, don’t you think?”

She bit her lip. She ought to report Kent Deverell’s illicit presence, but a strange reluctance held her back. He wasn’t disturbing anyone, she reasoned, so why trouble her mother?

Abruptly Mrs. Carleton frowned. Drawing herself up straight, she gazed across the ballroom. At the same moment, the din of conversation lowered and whispers swept the gathering like wind through a woodwind.

Curious, Juliet turned to follow the line of her mother’s attention. And caught her breath.

Moving with the smooth self possession of a man accustomed to command, Kent Deverell strode directly toward them.

Chapter 2

She wasn’t quite what he’d expected. As he cut a path through the murmuring crowd, Kent subjected Juliet Carleton to a dispassionate appraisal. Tall and willowy. Huge green eyes. Hair the rich red brown hue of cinnamon. In her delicate features she favored her mother; fine cheekbones and pure ivory skin lent her an air of fragility. She wore a white gown that skimmed her slender curves and left her shoulders and bosom all but bare. The steadiness of her gaze stirred a reluctant admiration in him. She held herself as erect and proud as a goddess, a goddess with the contours of a flesh and blood woman. Yet somehow she looked heartbreakingly young.

His throat ached suddenly. She must be the same tender age Emily had been at the time of his marriage to her. Almost the same age Emily had been at her death.

The dull pain of loss welled from deep within him. Then resentment choked Kent, resentment that Juliet Carleton could inspire a comparison to Emily. The two women looked vastly different, and doubtless the disparity was more pronounced in temperament. His wife had been all gentleness and virtue; a woman raised in the shadow of Emmett Carleton could only be corrupt. What the hell
had
he expected, anyway? A snake haired Medusa? A sloe eyed temptress? A female replica of Emmett Carleton?

Like frost over a barren field, resolve chilled Kent’s soul. He must focus on his purpose and disregard sentiment; he must concentrate on capturing her trust. He must avenge Emily’s death.

As he drew closer, he noted a faint blush on Juliet Carleton’s cheeks; she must be wondering why he’d stopped outside her house today, why he’d come here tonight. Grim anticipation gripped him, for the chase was about to begin.

Relaxing his mouth into a well bred smile, he turned to her mother. Dorothea Carleton retained her girlish figure, though her fair features bore a tracery of wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. They had met years ago, at a charity reception to which the hostess had inadvertently invited both him and the Carletons. To Kent’s dark satisfaction, Emmett had seethed all evening.

“Mrs. Carleton,” he said. “How pleasant to see you again.”

Dorothea hesitated. One elegant gloved hand lifted to touch the brilliant diamond pendant at her throat, a pendant that must be worth far more than he spent annually on seed and labor. Kent reflected cynically on her dilemma: should she order him to leave and risk a scene, or yield to his superior rank?

She curtsied. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice composed. “This is most unexpected.”

“I hope my presence won’t cause you any inconvenience.”

She gazed at him uncertainly. “Is it wise for you to stay? If Mr. Carleton should come out of the drawing room...”

“But I’m here to hold out the olive branch, nothing more. It’s time we put old enmities aside, don’t you agree?”