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never once looked back.
    Disappointment wove an uncertain ribbon around her senses. “You can rest easy, Mama. He’s gone.”
    Dorothea cast a cautious glance from beneath her bonnet brim. “Oh, praise heavens! I was afraid he might be planning to upset your father.”
    “He must have stopped to admire our new home, that’s all.”
    “Yes, you’re right. Mr. Carleton says he’s the jealous sort, always coveting our wealth. Run along inside now, darling. I’m simply beset with duties today. I must check with Potter on the extra champagne he ordered. And make certain the parlor maid cleaned that bit of woodwork she missed in the music room.”
    Mrs. Carleton started toward the portico with its huge fluted columns. Already forgotten, Juliet felt uncomfortably like another chore that had been ticked off her mother’s list.
    As she went to collect her bucket, she found her gaze straying down the street where Kent Deverell’s carriage had vanished.
     

     
    Three hours later, considerably cheered by a leisurely bath and luxurious primping, Juliet floated down the grand staircase. The white tulle of her gown rustled as she adjusted the rosettes of satin ribbon that framed her bare shoulders. A spray of creamy gardenias adorned the coil of russet hair. As she caught a glimpse of her elegant form in one of the beveled mirrors that flanked the front door, a sudden intense longing swept over her.
    Perhaps something magical would happen tonight. She imagined herself gliding into the arms of a handsome gentleman, a man who would applaud her intelligence and appreciate her wit, a man who would share her passion for plants.
    The anonymous face resolved into the saturnine features of Kent Deverell. Reaching the base of the stairs, she paused. Nonsense. She was as likely to see a costermonger tonight as the Duke of Radcliffe.
    Near the front door, a liveried footman stood at rigid attention, awaiting the arrival of the first guests. A battalion of maids had cleaned the house until every inch of the floor gleamed and every bit of brass sparkled. The vivid scent of roses and carnations drifted from a scattering of cloisonne vases.
    Her heels scuffed softly across the marble floor as she moved toward the drawing room with its emerald silk paneled walls. Before she could enter, the butler emerged. “Ah, Miss Carleton. Mr. Carleton asked to see you in the library.”
    “Thank you, Potter.”
    As she started down the long, echoing corridor, uneasiness pricked her spirits. Now what had she done wrong? Surely Mama wouldn’t have reported such a minor transgression as weed pulling.
    Portraits of people in old fashioned garb stared down from the walls; this sprawling house had come equipped with noble ancestors, Juliet decided with a smile. The success of her father’s myriad business interests had enabled her parents to move here last year while she had been away at boarding school. Unlike the smaller town house of her youth, this place felt cold in spirit, more a museum than a home.
    The library doors stood ajar; she pushed open one carved panel. Twisted loops of gold cord fastened the crimson velvet curtains. Scattering the room were mementos of her father’s trips to India: brass pots from Benares, an elephant’s foot stool, a collection of exotic figurines from his import business. The air bore the scent of leather book bindings and the rich tobacco of her father’s cigars.
    Emmett Carleton stood by a window, his head tilted toward the dusk light filtering through the Nottingham lace panel. He cut a handsome figure in a black evening suit and white cravat. With his robust frame and his mane of thick gray streaked hair, he reminded Juliet of a lion, king of his domain.
    Lost in thought, he stared down at something cradled in his palm. With the other hand he smoothed his sweeping mustache. The unexpected sadness on his leonine face touched her heart and awakened her curiosity.
    Keeping impulsively silent, she tiptoed nearer and saw