Before he had a chance to reply, his sister Charlotte joined them, and Rebecca’s whole face lit up.
“Lady Charlotte,” she said with a warm smile, “I cannot tell you how moved I was by your reading this afternoon. Your voice carried so well, and you read with such confidence and emotion. Your poem was my favorite of the day.”
He studied his sister’s expression. He had not seen such a smile on her face since before he had left for America. Not even his gift of a pearl bracelet had evoked such joy in her eyes.
“Oh, Lady Rebecca, you are so thoughtful,” she replied. “I worry I might have sounded too tragic.”
“No, not at all. I mean, you did sound tragic, but that was what made it so special. There was such sincerity and integrity in your voice. It moved us all and reminded us of the beauty in the world, even when life seems grim.”
Charlotte took hold of both her hands. “Thank you, Lady Rebecca. You have made me very happy.”
Devon watched the two women, so close in age, as they discussed the other readings, and recognized an immediate connection between them as well. It pleased him to see it, for Charlotte was the only daughter among four sons in this family, and she had not often had a female friend to confide in. She had surely needed one in recent years.
He glanced across the room at Lady Letitia, who had been watching him with a frosty look on her face, but she smiled the instant their gazes met.
Lord Faulkner’s son approached and asked Charlotte to join him in the next dance, which left Devon alone with Lady Rebecca again.
“Your sister is very beautiful,” she said, as she watched Charlotte move to the center of the room with the young man. There was genuine affection in her eyes. “She has your mother’s coloring.”
She certainly did not have their father’s.
“I will tell her you said so,” Devon replied. “But before I do, will you do me the honor?” He held out a hand.
“I would be delighted.” Her green eyes held a hopeful, encouraging gleam that no other eyes could rival.
Indeed, she was making a first-rate impression on everyone, including him. Unlike Lady Letitia, she was a pleasant infusion of fresh air and warm sunshine, wholesome and unselfish and without a cartload of problems trailing along behind her. He was not only attracted to her, but felt some affection toward her as well. Practically speaking, she would be a good choice for a wife.
He glanced briefly at Lady Letitia again as he passed her by. It was highly unlikely she could ever win his esteem or fire his passions the way Rebecca did. But that fact alone gave him pause, so much so, he almost fumbled his steps.
He supposed—when one considered his jaded outlook on love and marriage—Lady Letitia would be a good choice as well, in a completely different way. With her, it would be easy to become a husband, yet change very little about the way he lived. He could remain detached.
With that in mind, he decided he would do well to keep his options open.
Chapter 8
The following evening, Rebecca dressed in a formal off-the-shoulder gown of deep blue satin with sapphire jewels and long white gloves, and sat with Aunt Grace in the music room, waiting for the classical quartette to begin playing.
Quietly, she gazed around the room—at the musicians with their instruments and music stands in front of them, at the shiny parquet floor beneath her feet, and finally up at the dazzling brass chandelier over her head. It was quiet in the room except for a few hushed murmurs of conversation toward the back.
“I must admit something, Aunt Grace,” she said. “I feel rather dishonest under these circumstances. I came here because I want Lord Hawthorne as my husband, yet I wish to escape another man I do not wish to marry. That, above all, is what has brought me here so hastily. I wish I could simply tell him the truth about my life.”
Her aunt clasped her hand. “You simply cannot ask a man to marry you in order to do you a favor. He must want to marry you, preferably because he loves you. And if he does, it will be his greatest desire to protect you from every unpleasant thing in the world, whether it is Mr. Rushton or a bumblebee flying around your bonnet. That is when you will be able to tell him everything, dearest, and he will embrace every challenge you represent.”
“Let us hope it will come to that.”
She checked over her shoulder and saw Lord Hawthorne enter the room with his sister, Lady Charlotte.
“There he is,” her aunt said, “and I must say, he is looking very handsome. Good gracious.”
Tonight he wore a fine black evening jacket with white waistcoat and tie, and his dark, wavy hair was slicked back, gleaming in the lamplight. The style accentuated the strong, rugged lines of his face.
He met Rebecca’s gaze and inclined his head at her. She smiled in return, then faced front again, struggling to overcome the uncontrollable beat of her heart when the evening had only just begun.
“Oh, Aunt Grace, who am I trying to deceive?” she said. “I want to marry him for love and a grand passion, nothing else. I want the fairy tale with my charming, handsome hero. Mr. Rushton does not even exist for me now that I am here.”
Her aunt leaned close and whispered, “I assure you, my dear, Mr. Rushton does exist, and he could be searching for you at this very moment. For that reason, it is imperative that you do what you must to secure the man you really want. A man who can protect you.”
“Do what I must…”
“Yes,” her aunt plainly replied, flicking open her fan and fluttering it in front of her face. “You saw what Lady Letitia resorted to in the conservatory yesterday.”
“Are you suggesting I should pretend to swoon? I couldn’t, Aunt Grace. I would feel like a fool.”
“That is not what I am talking about. You know what I mean, do you not?” She raised an eyebrow.
Thanks to Lydie’s most illustrative diary, Rebecca had a feeling she knew exactly what her aunt was referring to.
“You must touch his arm once with your closed fan when you are speaking to him,” Aunt Grace whispered.
Touch his arm with her fan. “That is all?”
“What do you mean, that is all? It is a very bold maneuver.”
If that was what most women considered bold, Rebecca was definitely out of touch with what went on in society. Clearly, she had been reading too much lately about sin and debauchery and the pleasures of the flesh. It was a very wicked pastime. She should stop, she really should.
She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Hawthorne, and felt that familiar stirring of desire, warm and intoxicating, heady and erotic…
Clicking open her fan, she sighed, because she knew the minute she returned to her room, she would be dashing to her bed and reaching very quickly for that wonderfully wicked diary, for more instructions on how to proceed. And if there was to be any swooning in her immediate future, it would be completely legitimate.
Devon entered the music room with his sister, Charlotte, and immediately spotted Lady Rebecca already seated with her aunt in the front row. She turned around and clicked open her fan, met his gaze over the top of it and smiled at him with her eyes while she fluttered it.
God help him, that russet hair and green eyes set his impulses fluttering as well, and he became instantly uncomfortable with the fact that despite his desire to remain detached and practical-minded, he was becoming more and more inclined to charge forth blindly and impulsively in order to ensure she would be his. He wasn’t in danger of falling in love, was he?
No, it could not be that. He simply had a duty to fulfill and promises to keep, and he was trying to make the best of it by focusing on his physical attraction to a woman who might one day be his duchess and provide the dukedom with an heir.
He certainly had no reservations about succumbing to that part of his duty.
Taking seats near the front on the opposite side of the room, he and Charlotte conversed about the quartette and the evening ahead. His sister leaned forward slightly in her chair.
“I see L
ady Rebecca is here. Oh, she is lovely, I must say—so pleasant and sincere and agreeable. And what I wouldn’t give for hair like that. She is so different from every other woman in the room, and so very becoming. Don’t you think?”
Devon leaned forward as well and admired the loose sweep of Rebecca’s hair over the back of her slender neck, and the graceful line of her soft, creamy shoulders. “Your own hair is exquisite, Charlotte. You take after Mother, who has always been regarded as a great beauty.”
They both looked toward the back of the room where their mother was greeting the guests. Their father, the duke, entered and pumped the hands of all the gentlemen standing at the back, then went and spoke to Lady Letitia and her mother.
“Well, I certainly don’t take after him,” Charlotte said with more than a little resignation.
“Neither you nor Garrett do,” he said. “But look on the bright side. At least you haven’t inherited his propensity to believe in curses. I, on the other hand, might one day believe the palace is being overtaken by leprechauns.”
He was not surprised when Lady Letitia and the Duchess of Swinburne approached and claimed the seats beside him. The young lady began to immediately go on about the quartette, and how she had heard them play once before. As soon as the music began, she prattled on with a dozen insignificant little criticisms, implying of course that she could do better.
“It is a shame this quartette does not have a soloist to sing for your guests,” she said far too loudly, between pieces, while the players turned the pages of their music sheets and pretended not to hear her. “Wouldn’t you like to hear someone sing, Lord Hawthorne? Surely you enjoy an accomplished vocalist, do you not?”
“The music of an accomplished vocalist is always a great pleasure,” he replied. “Perhaps you will consider singing for us later this evening, Lady Letitia?”
Her eyes beamed with satisfaction. “I would be delighted, Lord Hawthorne.” She gave him that look again, as if they were secret paramours.
After the concert, the guests moved to the red drawing room where champagne and hors d’oeuvres were being served. Devon mentioned to his mother that Lady Letitia would be showing off her vocal talents later, then he conversed his way through the crowd to where Rebecca and her aunt stood tasting pastries.
“Good evening, ladies.” He bowed to each of them. “I trust you enjoyed the music this evening.”
Lady Saxby quickly swallowed. “Yes, very much, Lord Hawthorne. And may I personally thank you for inviting us to stay at the palace under such short notice?”
“It was my pleasure.” He turned to her niece. “And you have everything you require, Lady Rebecca?”
“Yes, thank you. Your family has been most welcoming. And the palace itself…” She looked around the room. “Well, there is no possible way to describe its beauty, Lord Hawthorne. It absolutely takes my breath away.”
All at once, he found himself a little short of breath as well, and spoke before he considered any outcomes or ramifications. “In that case, may I be so bold as to escort you to the gallery, where I might show you my family’s collection?”
Bold, to be sure. He might as well have declared himself right there. Strangely, however, he didn’t care if he was charging past the point of no return. He just wanted to be alone with her.
“I would be delighted, Lord Hawthorne.” Her voice was soft and velvety, and sank into his masculine impulses like fine wine.
He escorted her out of the drawing room and down the long, vaulted corridor under the keystone arch to the gallery, where his ancestral history could be revealed in less than fifteen minutes.
“Let us begin,” he said, “with this portrait of the first Duke of Pembroke.”
They looked up at the life-size painting. The duke stood with feet apart, hands on hips.
“The pose is very similar to the famous portrait of King Henry VIII,” she said.
“Yes, but this was painted by a different artist.”
He watched her profile in the dim light from the wall sconces as she looked up at the portrait with a charming sense of wonder. “There is great courage in the artistry,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “I am beguiled by the variety of brush strokes. It almost seems like a revolt against the classical balance of High Renaissance art. It’s willful and anxious.”
Devon continued to watch her, feeling rather beguiled himself.
“Am I correct,” she asked, “in my knowledge of your family’s history—that the title of duke was a gift to this man from King Henry himself?”
“Indeed, you are. My ancestor chose this site as the palace location for personal reasons, which at the time were deemed quite scandalous.”
“You have inspired my curiosity, Lord Hawthorne. What was the scandal?”
They began to stroll to the next portrait. “It is quite an intriguing story,” he explained, “because the palace itself, to this day, sits upon the ruins of an ancient abbey. The east courtyard is the old cloister.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied. “I strolled there this afternoon.”
“Well,” he went on, “in 1522, the prior was murdered by two of his own canons, who had discovered his secret love affair with a local woman.” He leaned a little closer. “In case you are wondering, that is the scandalous part.”
“Obviously.”
“After the prior’s death, the woman had his son, then years later, the abbey was dismantled during King Henry’s Dissolution of the Monasteries, and all the monks were sent away. The boy grew up and surprisingly went on to become one of the king’s trustworthy allies, and was later awarded the title of duke.”
“Which means your ancestor was the murdered prior’s son,” she said with some fascination. “You are correct, Lord Hawthorne, it is a most intriguing story. Though it does pain me to know that there is tragedy in your family’s past.”
“Rest assured, the wounds are healed,” he replied. “It was many generations ago.” He stopped and pointed at the small, oval portrait before them. “This is all we have of the first duke’s mother, who died when he was still a boy.”
“She was lovely.”
“Yes. It is unfortunate that she never knew what her son would accomplish. Shall we move on?”
“Please.”
They continued up the long gallery, looking at the other family portraits and discussing the estate’s collection of French and Italian works.
“I am impressed with your knowledge of art,” he said when they started back toward the drawing room. “You have a very sophisticated eye.”
“But I confess, Lord Hawthorne, that most of my knowledge comes from books, as I have rarely been away from my father’s estate.” She gazed up at him again with those stunning green eyes, and he felt almost weak in the knees, awaiting her next confession.
“So I am yearning,” she continued, “to experience real life for myself. I wish to know all its many pleasures—pleasures I have never known. Sometimes I fear I am going to collapse from the pressure of all my pent-up desires.”
He studied her face, trying to decide whether she was a supremely accomplished flirt with no inhibitions—which he doubted—or if she was so incredibly innocent, she had no idea of what she was implying with such silky words and sensual looks. How did she know to say things like this?
He supposed it did not matter. The effect was the same. He found her irresistible in the most basic carnal way. He was even tempted to pull her into his arms right here in the gallery and taste the flavor of her lips and satisfy those pent up desires she had just mentioned. The urge almost knocked him over. He had never met a woman so sexually alluring, yet so remarkably innocent at the same time. What a contradiction she was, and how very convenient that he had found such a woman when he was obliged to take that long dreaded walk down the aisle.
She was an innocent, he wanted to bed her, and maybe, just maybe he could.
He stopped on the soft carpet and held both her gloved hands in front of him. “I
am pleased you decided to join us for the week, Lady Rebecca.”
Her eyes lit up like the morning sun, and she spoke with fiery passion. “I am pleased, too. More than you could ever know. You see, I have never forgotten that night in the forest four years ago, and I have thought of you so many times since then. And when you left for America, all I did was yearn for you to return.”
His head drew back in surprise. Only then did he realize his smile had reversed itself.
Not that he was angry or unhappy with her. Quite the opposite in fact. He felt rather swept away by a very romantic twisting of fate that had brought them together a second time—at a very convenient time—after that intense first meeting. Here he was, listening to her bold declarations of yearning, suddenly giving in to romantic notions when he was the least romantic man in the world.
“What exactly did you yearn for?” he asked in a low voice, feeling a shameful compulsion to lure her out of her innocence, when he had not yet officially declared himself.
She wet her lips. “I longed to see you again,” she told him.
“So now that you’ve seen me,” he said, taking a step even closer to her—so close, it was beyond propriety—“is there anything else you want?”
Her eyes glistened with anticipation. “Yes. A great many things.”
He was experienced enough to recognize the heated tone of her voice, and for that reason, she did not need to elaborate. It was enough that he could feel the pull of her desires flanking his own.
He looked over the top of her head, down the length of the gallery. Ascertaining that they were alone, he took her hand and led her to the edge of the room. He spun her, as if taking a step in a dance, and the next thing he knew, he had her up against the wall with his hands braced on either side of her. She was looking up at him with eager eyes and parted lips, and he could smell the flowery fragrance of her perfume.
“Is this what you were longing for?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He looked down at her moist and tempting lips. “Have you ever been kissed, Lady Rebecca?”
In My Wildest Fantasies Page 9
