Dreamspinner by Olivia Drake

to the border of the path, where a sapling stood, its trunk encircled by a wrought iron fence in figured arabesques. “Sometimes I feel like this elm,” she murmured, reaching up to finger a leaf. “Allowed to thrive, yet confined to a pretty cage.”
    “Except today,” he said, close beside her. “Today no one is fencing you in.”
    Was it only her wild fancies that imbued his voice with a suggestive undertone? Uncertain, she studied the sun bronzed angles of his face; he seemed so much older and more experienced. Did Kent Deverell understand the reckless needs churning inside her, the ache for adventure that drew her to him?
    “A lady isn’t supposed to have independent ideas,” she said. “What do you think of a woman pursuing an interest in botany?”
    “I think it’s no sin to be young and full of ideas. Do you see that statue over there?” He pointed to a sculpture of Prince Albert, standing in romantic elegance on a gray granite pedestal beyond the row of elms. “It was done by Elizabeth Ware, the Countess of Hawkesford. She’s managed to succeed in both pursuing her dream and being a lady, all at the same time.”
    Intrigued, Juliet stepped closer, leaning on her parasol as she examined the fine detailing on the bronze statue. A tiny swan imprint was stamped into the base. “I read about her latest gallery showing, though I don’t believe she socializes much. She was raised in America, wasn’t she?”
    Kent nodded, bending to pluck a blade of grass. “I’ve a passing acquaintance with Nicholas Ware, enough to know he encourages his wife’s desire to pursue art.”
    “I wish I could convince my parents that a woman can do more with her life than make a brilliant match.”
    “Perhaps,” he said, idly feathering the grass blade along her jaw, “my Lady Botanist should try to find a man as tolerant as Lord Hawkesford.”
    The caress made her shiver, made her blurt out the thought that had hugged her heart since she’d drifted into a fretful sleep the night before; “You could court me.”
    His fingers tensed; then methodically he began to shred the stalk of grass. “I believe I already am.”
    A wild flurry of longing drove her breath away. “Then you’ll call on me?”
    “You’re forgetting your father. After last night, I doubt Emmett Carleton will ever invite me to enter his house.”
    “You mustn’t give up so easily. Give me time to work on him, and he’ll come around, you’ll see.”
    “Will he?” Sounding cynical, he took her arm and guided her along the footpath curving toward the black iron expanse of the Charing Cross railway bridge. “I’ve no taste for dodging fist brawls.”
    Her fingers tightened around the parasol handle. “I’ll speak to him again, try to make him see the senselessness of the feud—”
    “No!” The word sliced through the misty air. Turning her to face him, Kent went on in a husky tone, “You’d only enrage him. He might send you away, and I couldn’t bear to lose you. Not now, Juliet, when I’ve only just found you.”
    His callused fingertips grazed the soft skin below her ear in a way that left her giddy and breathless. A few passersby glanced curiously, and she tried to summon outrage that he should take such liberties, as if she were a parlor maid accustomed to open caresses. But she could find only exhilaration within herself and a shocking desire to feel his body pressed to hers.
    “I don’t want to lose you, either,” she whispered.
    “Then let’s not chance telling your father. We mustn’t allow the shadow of family rivalry to taint our precious time together.”
    In her heart she knew he was right; she couldn’t be certain how Papa would react if she spoke in support of a Deverell. A thrill pulsated through her veins, the thrill of obeying her own instincts and learning all the secrets of this intriguing man.
    “All right,” she said. “I’ll keep quiet—at least for now.”
    The vow seemed to satisfy Kent. He shifted