delicate material shimmered with subtle highlights and flowed sensuously under her hands as she lifted it from the chest. The fragrance released as the gown opened triggered a flood of memories and Juliet buried her face in the fabric, her breathing ragged. Dear God, Norfolk lavender…
The Season had just ended, and Juliet, her aunt, and her mother, newly returned to England, had gone to a house party at the estate of the Duke and Duchess of Windermere. Although marriage had not yet been mentioned, it was the sort of visit during which potential relatives appraised each other. Aunt Louise was jubilant that her unpromising protégée had attached a duke’s son, while Lady Cameron adored Ross and thought he would make a perfect son-in-law. The Windermeres were less encouraging, for even though they were kind to Juliet, they made it clear that they thought she and Ross were too young to marry.
For Ross and Juliet the visit to Norfolk had meant the opportunity to spend more time together, since the country was traditionally less formal than London. Even so, for the first three or four days there was no chance to be alone. Finally, however, the opportunity came to go riding, just the two of them.
The day had been flawless English summer, with warm sun, soft breezes, and fluffy clouds drifting across an intensely blue sky. After an hour’s ride they had dismounted in a beech wood surrounded by vast fields of Norfolk lavender. Spring had come early that year and the crop was well-advanced, the fields hazy with violet and blue, the air heavy with rich herbal fragrances.
Ross had brought a blanket to sit on and a picnic of fresh bread, local cheese, ale, and fruit tarts. Though the atmosphere between them vibrated with tension, they had behaved with perfect propriety while they talked and ate, not touching, only exchanging yearning gazes. When she finished eating, Juliet had started to brush the crumbs away, but Ross caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm reverently.
She had gone into his arms eagerly. What followed was a fevered delirium of kisses, magical and innocent as only first love can be. When Ross’s hand came to rest on her breast, Juliet had trembled with delight, wanting more, though she had only the vaguest idea of what that meant.
As their kisses intensified, they sprawled full-length on the blanket, frantic bodies intertwined. All vestiges of sense and control dissolved and Juliet had arched convulsively against Ross. In response, he had given a suffocated groan and thrust back, his hips grinding into hers. She had cried out as liquid fire, splendid and terrifying, blazed through her.
With an effort so intense that she could sense it crackling around them like heat lightning, Ross had become utterly still, his cheek pressed against hers, his arms gripping her with rib-bruising force. Eyes closed, Juliet had been vividly aware of their pounding hearts, his raw, anguished breathing, and the lingering warmth of his skin against her lips.
She had been shaken and a little frightened. Finally she understood why young girls were chaperoned, for passion was a raging beast, the most compelling power she had ever known, and to be alone with a man was to court ruination. Yet even in this strange new country, she had trusted Ross utterly.
For a long, long interval there was silence, except for the drone of bees, the fluting songs of birds, and the soft rasp of leaves rustling in the lavender-scented wind. Slowly Ross’s breathing had eased and his embrace had loosened, becoming tender rather than crushing. At length he had murmured, “Juliet?”
After she had opened her eyes, he touched her cheek with an unsteady hand. His hair clung to his forehead in damp gilt strands. “I think we should get married,” he said, his voice husky and intimate. “The sooner the better.”
“Yes, Ross,” she answered meekly.
And that had been that. There was no formal marriage proposal or acceptance, just
The Season had just ended, and Juliet, her aunt, and her mother, newly returned to England, had gone to a house party at the estate of the Duke and Duchess of Windermere. Although marriage had not yet been mentioned, it was the sort of visit during which potential relatives appraised each other. Aunt Louise was jubilant that her unpromising protégée had attached a duke’s son, while Lady Cameron adored Ross and thought he would make a perfect son-in-law. The Windermeres were less encouraging, for even though they were kind to Juliet, they made it clear that they thought she and Ross were too young to marry.
For Ross and Juliet the visit to Norfolk had meant the opportunity to spend more time together, since the country was traditionally less formal than London. Even so, for the first three or four days there was no chance to be alone. Finally, however, the opportunity came to go riding, just the two of them.
The day had been flawless English summer, with warm sun, soft breezes, and fluffy clouds drifting across an intensely blue sky. After an hour’s ride they had dismounted in a beech wood surrounded by vast fields of Norfolk lavender. Spring had come early that year and the crop was well-advanced, the fields hazy with violet and blue, the air heavy with rich herbal fragrances.
Ross had brought a blanket to sit on and a picnic of fresh bread, local cheese, ale, and fruit tarts. Though the atmosphere between them vibrated with tension, they had behaved with perfect propriety while they talked and ate, not touching, only exchanging yearning gazes. When she finished eating, Juliet had started to brush the crumbs away, but Ross caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm reverently.
She had gone into his arms eagerly. What followed was a fevered delirium of kisses, magical and innocent as only first love can be. When Ross’s hand came to rest on her breast, Juliet had trembled with delight, wanting more, though she had only the vaguest idea of what that meant.
As their kisses intensified, they sprawled full-length on the blanket, frantic bodies intertwined. All vestiges of sense and control dissolved and Juliet had arched convulsively against Ross. In response, he had given a suffocated groan and thrust back, his hips grinding into hers. She had cried out as liquid fire, splendid and terrifying, blazed through her.
With an effort so intense that she could sense it crackling around them like heat lightning, Ross had become utterly still, his cheek pressed against hers, his arms gripping her with rib-bruising force. Eyes closed, Juliet had been vividly aware of their pounding hearts, his raw, anguished breathing, and the lingering warmth of his skin against her lips.
She had been shaken and a little frightened. Finally she understood why young girls were chaperoned, for passion was a raging beast, the most compelling power she had ever known, and to be alone with a man was to court ruination. Yet even in this strange new country, she had trusted Ross utterly.
For a long, long interval there was silence, except for the drone of bees, the fluting songs of birds, and the soft rasp of leaves rustling in the lavender-scented wind. Slowly Ross’s breathing had eased and his embrace had loosened, becoming tender rather than crushing. At length he had murmured, “Juliet?”
After she had opened her eyes, he touched her cheek with an unsteady hand. His hair clung to his forehead in damp gilt strands. “I think we should get married,” he said, his voice husky and intimate. “The sooner the better.”
“Yes, Ross,” she answered meekly.
And that had been that. There was no formal marriage proposal or acceptance, just
Similar Books
