the dance floor, staring up at her partner. The distinctive contrast of blond hair and brown eyes, the knowledge of Arabic… It took only an instant for her to realize what she should have known from the beginning. “You must be Sara’s cousin Ross,” she had gasped.
He had grinned, the unexpected warmth of his eyes drawing her close rather than mocking her for her rudeness. “None other. I gather that you missed my name because of all the racket.”
“I’m afraid so. I thought you were just another fashionable popinjay,” Juliet had blurted out.
He had laughed at her unflattering frankness, so hastily she continued, “Sara told me that you have been studying oriental languages at Cambridge and that you want to travel in the Middle East and Asia.”
“Correct.” He had drawn her back into his arms so they could resume waltzing. “I have been longing to meet you, Miss Cameron, for Sara has told me of your fascinating past. Please, tell me what it was like to live in Tripoli.”
Like Sara, he had the ability to make a person feel special. As they .danced, Juliet had responded like a flower unfurling in the sun, chattering about Tripoli and Teheran and the frustrations of returning to England. They had danced three dances in a row, until Aunt Louise had hauled Juliet away and given her a lecture about forward, immodest behavior.
Juliet had not cared. For the first time in her life, she was in love—wholly, miraculously, ecstatically in love— and to her wondering amazement, Lord Ross Carlisle was also attracted to her. Her hostility toward England dissolved and she realized that her dislike had been a product of loneliness and feeling like a misfit. Now that she was happy, there was nowhere she would rather be. She had loved Ross’s confident strength, his kindness, the way he laughed at her jokes and made her feel beautiful and witty.
For the rest of the Season she and Ross had made tongues wag by spending far too much time together at social functions and taking frequent rides and drives. It was a relationship of teasing and laughter and playfulness, as natural as being with her brothers, but with the addition of sizzling physical attraction. Occasionally they found the privacy for a swift kiss, and the sweet fire of that had left Juliet trembling with confused yearning. Then had come the house party in Norfolk.
At the thought, Juliet’s fingers curled into the plaster, digging until whitewash flaked away under her nails.
A gentle touch on her elbow brought her back to the present. “Guli Sarahi, what troubles you?”
It was Saleh. With effort Juliet composed herself, then turned to face the man who had made her life at Serevan possible. “Nothing troubles me, Uncle. I was just thinking for a moment.”
The Uzbek would never have dreamed of calling her a liar, but the tilt of his grizzled brows was eloquent with disbelief. “Has the ferengi offended you?”
“No!” she said quickly. After a moment’s thought she sighed, realizing that she must tell Saleh the truth. “The ferengi, Ross Carlisle, is a great English lord. He is also, as it happens, my husband.”
“You have a husband!” Saleh sucked his breath in between his teeth as he considered her startling statement. “Has he come to steal you away from us? Though it is written that a wife should be obedient to her husband, your humble servants shall not let him take you against your will.”
“My lord has not come to take me away. It was purely the winds of chance that brought him here. He was as surprised as I, and as displeased.” Juliet gave a quick, brittle smile. “Nor would he wish to take me to his home. We have not seen each other in a dozen years. There is naught between us but a contract sworn when we were young. Too young.”
Saleh stroked his thick gray beard thoughtfully, his deep eyes penetrating. “The winds of chance are often the winds of fate, child.”
“Not this time,” she said firmly. “Come, let us go to
He had grinned, the unexpected warmth of his eyes drawing her close rather than mocking her for her rudeness. “None other. I gather that you missed my name because of all the racket.”
“I’m afraid so. I thought you were just another fashionable popinjay,” Juliet had blurted out.
He had laughed at her unflattering frankness, so hastily she continued, “Sara told me that you have been studying oriental languages at Cambridge and that you want to travel in the Middle East and Asia.”
“Correct.” He had drawn her back into his arms so they could resume waltzing. “I have been longing to meet you, Miss Cameron, for Sara has told me of your fascinating past. Please, tell me what it was like to live in Tripoli.”
Like Sara, he had the ability to make a person feel special. As they .danced, Juliet had responded like a flower unfurling in the sun, chattering about Tripoli and Teheran and the frustrations of returning to England. They had danced three dances in a row, until Aunt Louise had hauled Juliet away and given her a lecture about forward, immodest behavior.
Juliet had not cared. For the first time in her life, she was in love—wholly, miraculously, ecstatically in love— and to her wondering amazement, Lord Ross Carlisle was also attracted to her. Her hostility toward England dissolved and she realized that her dislike had been a product of loneliness and feeling like a misfit. Now that she was happy, there was nowhere she would rather be. She had loved Ross’s confident strength, his kindness, the way he laughed at her jokes and made her feel beautiful and witty.
For the rest of the Season she and Ross had made tongues wag by spending far too much time together at social functions and taking frequent rides and drives. It was a relationship of teasing and laughter and playfulness, as natural as being with her brothers, but with the addition of sizzling physical attraction. Occasionally they found the privacy for a swift kiss, and the sweet fire of that had left Juliet trembling with confused yearning. Then had come the house party in Norfolk.
At the thought, Juliet’s fingers curled into the plaster, digging until whitewash flaked away under her nails.
A gentle touch on her elbow brought her back to the present. “Guli Sarahi, what troubles you?”
It was Saleh. With effort Juliet composed herself, then turned to face the man who had made her life at Serevan possible. “Nothing troubles me, Uncle. I was just thinking for a moment.”
The Uzbek would never have dreamed of calling her a liar, but the tilt of his grizzled brows was eloquent with disbelief. “Has the ferengi offended you?”
“No!” she said quickly. After a moment’s thought she sighed, realizing that she must tell Saleh the truth. “The ferengi, Ross Carlisle, is a great English lord. He is also, as it happens, my husband.”
“You have a husband!” Saleh sucked his breath in between his teeth as he considered her startling statement. “Has he come to steal you away from us? Though it is written that a wife should be obedient to her husband, your humble servants shall not let him take you against your will.”
“My lord has not come to take me away. It was purely the winds of chance that brought him here. He was as surprised as I, and as displeased.” Juliet gave a quick, brittle smile. “Nor would he wish to take me to his home. We have not seen each other in a dozen years. There is naught between us but a contract sworn when we were young. Too young.”
Saleh stroked his thick gray beard thoughtfully, his deep eyes penetrating. “The winds of chance are often the winds of fate, child.”
“Not this time,” she said firmly. “Come, let us go to
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