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 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. 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 an absolute conviction on both their parts that they belonged together.
A storm had broken over their heads when they announced their intention to marry, but Ross was about to turn twenty-one and did not need his parents' permission. He would also come into a legacy on his twenty-first birthday and could support a wife in modest comfort even if his father cut off his allowance.
Since Juliet's father was dead, only Lady Cameron's permission was needed, and she had given it without hesitation, though the duke had tried to persuade her to withhold it. Resigning themselves to the inevitable, Ross's parents had surrendered and accepted the marriage with good grace.
And ever since, no matter what her circumstances, the fragrance of lavender would instantly transport Juliet back to her first discovery of passion and a time when she had known perfect certainty.
Disoriented, she raised her face from the silk gown and returned to the present. She was not basking in an English summer but shivering in the sunset chill of a Persian spring. And in a few minutes she must face the only man she had ever loved, a man who had every reason to despise her.
Wearily she rose to her feet and shook out the blue silk gown, which was surprisingly unwrinkled. Though the fabric was luxurious and the color rich, the style itself was simple and unprovocative. The chest also contained a chemise and petticoat, so she pulled them out and dressed hastily, for she had wasted too much time on her memories. Then she pulled her hair softly back over her ears and pinned it at the crown, letting the rest fall in waves down her back.
Juliet removed the simple gold chain and pendant which she could not wear tonight, then studied her image doubtfully. After years of wearing only loose, high-necked robes, the form-fitting gown made her feel badly overexposed, particularly since it was rather tight across the bust. That was one area in which she had grown, though the rest of her seemed much the same as when she was seventeen. Because of the close cut, a neckline that was modest by English standards seemed quite daring, which was not the effect that she wanted.