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lined by moonlight, Kent Deverell stood silent, drawing an oak leaf through his long fingers. “This is my first chance,” he said quietly. “You see, I’ve been in mourning, so I’ve not visited London in quite some time.”
    Her heart ached with compassion. Impulse urged her to lay a hand on his sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I heard what happened to your wife and child—” Unsure if he’d resent her presumption, she drew back. “Excuse me, I’m being forward.”
    “Please, don’t apologize for a gesture of friendship,” he said, dropping the leaf to fold her hands in his. “I want you to be frank with me.”
    “Then tell me, why does Papa hate you so?”
    “He hates me because he hated my father, Miss Carleton. As my father has been dead for four years, I see no reason to extend the feud to the second generation.” He lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “Let’s not spoil the evening with ancient hostilities.”
    The warm squeeze of his fingers echoed his sincerity. “My father may not agree with you,” she warned. “He’s not one to easily forget a slight. He’ll be furious if he finds you here.”
    The duke shrugged. “I’ll be glad to talk to him... later.”
    Misgiving shivered inside her; then longing blotted out the sensation. She wanted to close her mind to the dispute, to open the night to magical possibilities...
    Grasping her arm, he steered her away from the gardens and toward the southern side of the mansion. Pools of light spilled from the windows, leaving great shadowed areas that wrapped the footpath in intimacy. Expectation fluttered inside her belly. “Where are we going?” she asked.
    “To find that foxglove. Remember?”
    Enthralled, Juliet let him lead her into the gloom as the sprightly tune of a lancers set drifted from the house. She stole a glance at his strong profile as he peered ahead into the darkness. No other couples had strayed so far. She risked her reputation by going off alone with him, yet she would not turn back, not even to please her father. It was time she began making her own decisions.
    “Here we are,” he said, halting midway along the wall.
    There, nestled against the gray Portland stone of the house and half hidden by a row of clipped boxwood, three foxglove spikes reached toward the yellow light from the drawing room. Each scraggly stalk bore a line of large, tubular white blooms.
    “They’re lovely!” Heedless of her skirts, she sank to her knees and stripped off a glove to run her fingertips over one velvety flower. “What an odd place for wildflowers to spring up.”
    “The wind probably blew some seeds from another garden.”

    “Probably.” Curious, she tilted her face toward his towering figure. “How did you know they were here?”
    His smile gleamed through the shadows. “You forget, I wouldn’t have been let in through the front door, I was forced to find an alternate entrance.”
    “You came through one of the garden gates?”
    “No, straight over the fence there.”
    Following his pointing finger, Juliet glanced at the wrought iron enclosure bordering the property. Flattered and amused, she imagined His Grace, the Duke of Radcliffe, clad in formal attire, skulking through the darkness and leaping the wall.
    “You’re quite the athlete,” she teased.
    He hunkered down beside her. “I had considerable incentive. Once I saw you this afternoon, I knew I’d do anything to meet such a beautiful woman.”
    His husky words caught her off guard. “I thought you were staring at the house.”
    “You truly think I’d prefer cold gray stone to you? You’re too modest, Miss Carleton.”
    Aware of his nearness, she felt an unseemly urge to reach out and trace his sculpted cheek as she might caress a perfect orchid. Flustered, she looked down at the foxglove. “Digitalis purpurea,” she said in a breathy rush, ‘they’re usually purple blooms. I wonder if the white variety flourishes better in the city.”
    “How do you