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dirt. “I’ve no plans to wed his lordship, not that it’s any of your concern.”
    “Pardon, I was merely speculating that your father would want his only daughter to wed a titled man.”
    “He’ll allow me to make my own choice.”
    “Will he?” Kent gave a short laugh. “I wonder.”
    That satirical note returned to his voice, making Juliet feel as uncertain as a foxglove battered by a storm. “If you truly wish to forget the past,” she said, tilting her head at him, “then why do I have the feeling you still despise Papa?”
    Only the barest faltering of his gait betrayed any emotion. His expression remained congenial, polite as any gentleman escorting a lady on her walk. “I didn’t mean to give that impression,” he said. “Please try to understand, I learned to dislike Carletons at my father’s knee. It’s hard to shake a belief so deeply ingrained, but I’d like to try.”
    She bit her lip. “How do I know you’re sincere?”
    “You’ll have to trust me.”
    Candor etched that austerely handsome face, a candor that softened her heart. Perhaps it was naive, but something about him inspired faith. She gave Kent a tentative smile, then watched with pleasure as his stern mouth eased into an answering grin.
    As they rounded the corner of the house, her skirts swished to the lilt of another waltz. Through the bright lit windows of the ballroom, she glimpsed the dancers, the ladies’ gowns forming a jeweled bouquet that contrasted with the formal black attire of the men. Couples still wandered the garden, their figures silhouetted by strings of lanterns.
    Why did she feel surprised that everything around her appeared so normal? she wondered whimsically. Had she expected a hue and cry to be raised over her brief disappearance?
    As they reached the terrace steps, Kent caught her wrist. “Let’s not go in, Juliet. Not yet.”
    He spoke her name like music, and those devilish eyes radiated an invitation that beckoned to her. Despite the barrier of her glove, the caress of his thumb against her inner wrist sparked shivers over her skin. Somehow the night seemed charged with magic, and a scandalous longing flamed inside her, a longing that quickened her blood. She wanted to press her cheek to his silk shirt, to feel his arms holding her close, to smooth away the harsh lines etching his face...
    A movement near the house caught her attention. Emmett Carleton had emerged from an opened French door at the far end of the terrace. As he paused to peer toward the gardens, dismay drove the joy from her. As much as she wanted he and Kent to settle their differences, she felt a half guilty desire to avoid a confrontation.
    “There’s Papa now,” she said.
    Even as she spoke, Emmett started straight toward them, and his vigorous stride bespoke displeasure.
    Kent tightened his fingers around her wrist. “Meet me tomorrow at the Embankment,” he murmured. “Eleven o’clock by Cleopatra’s Needle. Can you manage that?”
    Torn between prudence and passion, she shook her head. “I don’t know...”
    “Promise me, please. I must see you again, Juliet. I want the chance to know you better.”
    His eyes glowed dark and fathomless as the midnight sky. A drowning sensation swept over her, and she yearned to succumb to the whirlpool, to give herself in to his keeping, to let him spin her away wherever he willed...
    “Yes,” she heard herself whispering. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
    The approach of footsteps shattered the spell as Em-mett descended the marble steps. Fury tightened his leonine features, a fury thinly concealed beneath a rigid mask of civility. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, as if he contemplated violence and held himself back through force or willpower.
    “Take your bloody hand off my daughter,” he bit out in a brutal undertone.
    Kent aimed a lordly look at her father; then he let his arm drop to his side. “Hello, Emmett.”
    “You aren’t welcome here. Get