Dreamspinner by Olivia Drake Page A

the conversation to the plantings of shrubs and flowers in the Embankment gardens, then to speculation on the people they passed.
    “That one’s definitely a schoolmaster,” said Juliet, as a man scurried by, pince-nez glasses perched on his beak nose.
    “Then why isn’t he in the classroom? I say he’s a detective from Scotland Yard.” Kent cocked a dark eyebrow. “In disguise.”
    She laughed. “It’s just as likely he’s a musician going to rehearsal at the Savoy Theatre. His shoulders are stooped from bending over the piano.”
    “He’s heading in the wrong direction, then. The Savoy’s behind us.” His expression sobered. “Excuse me a moment.”
    Letting go of her arm, Kent veered toward a street sweeper. The white bearded man wore a turban and tattered robe as he wielded a broom, slowly and steadily cleaning the pathway beside the granite wall overlooking the river. Kent said something in a foreign tongue and pressed a coin into the sweeper’s palm. The man’s wizened brown face lit up. Chattering gratefully, he bowed.
    The duke’s humane gesture struck Juliet with a mixture of admiration and chagrin. She’d walked right past the laborer without even noticing him.
    The moment Kent returned, she said, “That was kind of you. What did you say to him?”
    “Just a greeting in his native tongue.”
    “What language is that?”
    “Hindustani.”
    “Where did you learn to speak it? In India?”
    “Yes. I visited there as a boy.”
    Juliet recalled what her father had said about the ruin of the Deverell business interests. “Have you ever been back?”
    “No, never.”
    As Kent gazed toward the fog veiled spires of Westminster, his face looked somber, his features drawn tight into an expression that verged on sadness. She had the impression his thoughts had drifted to somewhere far beyond this chilly gray morning, and she ached to share his musings and ease his troubles.
    “Do you spend most of your time at Castle Radcliffe?”
    As if he’d forgotten her presence, he stared at her. “Yes. I farm my lands there.”
    “Do you live alone?”
    “My cousin and his wife make their home with me.” In a distracted voice, he added, “The Embankment will be growing crowded soon, Miss Carleton. We mustn’t risk word getting back to your father, so I’ll return you to your carriage now.”
    His sudden formality left Juliet hurt and disappointed. She sensed that any effort to probe into his confidential affairs would prove futile. If he wanted to court her, why did he shut her out the moment she asked questions about his life? Perhaps she was too impatient. Perhaps he only worried that this was too public a place for private conversations.
    He held her arm as they walked through the gardens and toward the roadway. Was the brush of his leg against her skirt by accident or design? Her heart trembled, fragile as a new blooming violet. Kent Deverell was a riddle; she wanted to probe the depths of a man who had loved and lost, a proud man who had suffered such tragic misfortune...
    “I presume that’s your carriage?”
    His note of dry humor made Juliet look down the street to see Maud, her head topped by the lavishly feathered bonnet, peeking out the brougham window in unashamed interest. Self consciously Maud whipped off her gold rimmed spectacles, then screwed up her features and strained to see.
    Juliet bit back a smile. “She’ll beg me to recount every word you and I exchanged. Not, of course, that I intend to indulge her.”
    “She won’t tell your father, will she?”
    “Not if I ask her to keep silent. Maud adores a good secret.”
    “Then perhaps we should give her something more substantial to withhold.”
    Before she could guess his meaning, Kent caught her hand and pulled her in front of him. He bent closer and brushed his lips over hers. Headier than sandalwood, his scent enveloped her; softer than an orchid petal, his mouth caressed hers. When he straightened, she felt shaken, her