She slapped him again, harder this time. “It appears my ladylike behavior was not to your tastes. You preferred an improper seduction.”
He sighed. “I did not seduce anyone.”
“Not you, Lord Hawthorne. Her. That woman used immoral tactics to trap you, didn’t she? I could tell by the way she looked at you. It was appalling.”
He swallowed over the ugly, sour taste of this conversation. “No one has trapped anyone, and that is the future Duchess of Pembroke you are speaking of, so I suggest you hold your tongue. I believe we are done here.”
She began to tug at her reticule, as if she wanted to rip it apart. “We are most certainly done, Lord Hawthorne. My mother and I are leaving the palace this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She turned to leave, but paused at the door and spoke over her shoulder. “Permit me to say, sir, that you chose the wrong woman to be your wife. And I will wager my grandmother’s diamond tiara that one day, you will live to regret it.”
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Vincent said to Devon as he entered the stable on a large, dappled gray horse and swung down from the saddle. Soaking wet after a morning ride through the driving rain, he handed the reins to a groom. “They say the wedding is to be held on Saturday. And to think you were worried about not having time for romance and a proper courtship.” He strode across the hay-strewn floor and removed his gloves, tapped them a few times on his thigh, then leaned against a post at the corner of the stall. “You always could sling the rubbish.”
Devon was not in the mood for this. He had come out to the stables for a few minutes to be alone with his thoughts and to see Marlow, the horse that had been a yearling when he’d left for America three years ago. Marlow had been sired by Asher.
Asher was gone now, of course. Vincent had seen to that. He had been the one to take the shotgun to the hill that day.
“I had a duty to this family,” Devon said, “and Lady Rebecca was a practical choice.” He ran a brush over the coarse hair and the firm bands of muscle on Marlow’s neck. “There was no point beating around the bush.”
“Oh, but I’d wager you did just that,” Vincent said. “You probably beat around her bush at least once, just to make sure she’d have no other options but to—”
“Stop right there.” Devon strode out of the stall and pointed a finger. “I’m warning you, Vince.”
Vincent didn’t move. “Why? Because she’s your betrothed? Your future wife?”
“Yes, damn you. She is the future Duchess of Pembroke, and I will not tolerate your slander.”
His brother’s eyes narrowed, and the hatred he saw in them was deep and unmistakable. “She won’t be your wife until Saturday, and a lot can happen in the final days leading up to a wedding. You know that better than anyone.”
Devon dropped his hand to his side. “If you lay one hand on her…”
“You’ll what? Make me regret it?”
Devon turned away and went back into the stall, then began grooming Marlow again with firm, angry strokes.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Vincent said, ripping his hat off his head and speaking with impatience and irritation. “You know I would never break up a wedding, much less harm a woman.”
Devon did know that. It was he who had harmed someone once, and supposed Vincent was relishing the opportunity to remind him of it. “What happened three years ago was an accident, Vince. You know I regret it.”
“I will accept that MaryAnn’s death was an accident, Devon, but your betrayal…That was not.”
Devon stopped what he was doing and faced him. “I apologized, and you know damn well I suffered. Why keep punishing me?”
A muscle in Vincent’s cheek twitched. “Because you are about to embark upon a new life with a charming, beautiful woman, your future duchess. Your suffering appears to be at an end, and you are going to be blissfully happy, while I will continue to suffer.”
Vincent turned around and headed for the open stable door, where the rain outside was coming down in sharp, horizontal lines. He stopped and turned to say one more thing. “I still have that letter, you know. The one she had in her pocket. The one she wrote to you. I can’t help reading it sometimes, even though it kills me to do it. I don’t know why. I wish I could burn it, but I can’t. It is all I have left of her. So I guess you’ll just have to keep living with that.”
Devon remembered the agony of that day on the hill, and the look on Vincent’s face when he learned what had happened.
Devon would indeed keep living with it. Every day for the rest of his life.
Chapter 11
Dear Diary,
Sometimes I wonder if the fates are determined to punish me for all my wicked thoughts and deeds—for today, the most wonderful thing happened, followed by the very worst.
Jess gave me a ring he made from a daisy in the clearing and told me he wanted to marry me. He said he would find a way somehow, then he cupped my head in his hand and pulled me close and kissed me deeply, sweeping his hot, delicious tongue into my mouth until I was sure I would melt into ecstasy right there in his arms. He made me promise to come to him in the clearing in the morning, and I said I would. I said I would do anything for him.
But tonight Father told me he was going to send me to live with Aunt Beatrice, for there was a man in her village who wanted a wife. Father said he was a successful merchant, and that it would be best for me. I think he knows about Jess.
I hate him, Diary. I hate my father. And I will go to the clearing tomorrow to see the man I love. I will not be forced to marry another.
Rebecca closed the book, laid it down on the bed beside her, and touched a finger to her lips. She knew exactly what Lydie’s future held, for she had read the diary so many times over the past few years, she knew it all by heart.
Knowing the outcome of Lydie’s life gave her some reassurance that she had done the right thing by fleeing her father’s home and coming without delay to Pembroke Palace. She was also thankful that Devon had returned to England when he did. Now there was hope for her future happiness.
She could not help but wonder, however, if she should have told him about her situation and her father’s plan for her to marry Mr. Rushton. Lydie had certainly told Jess. He had known all about it and done everything he could to keep her at his side. But they had already been deeply in love.
If she had told Devon right away, would he have chosen her over Lady Letitia, or gone so far as to propose? Perhaps he would not have, for he might not have wished to become involved in a complicated family matter, at least until it was all settled and he was sure she did not belong to another man.
Which she did not. She had never, ever belonged to Mr. Rushton, no matter what her father had said to him. Her heart had always belonged to Devon, and it always would.
She would tell him about Mr. Rushton when the time was right. She promised herself she would, and she hoped with all her heart that he would understand.
That same night, a shiny black coach approached Creighton Manor. The ominous clouds overhead began to shift and roll, and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. The wind picked up, hissing and blowing through the trees and hedges.
The coach rolled to a stop, the door swung open, and two heavy black boots pounded down upon the walk, where weeds grew in the cracks between the stones.
Maximilian Rushton, standing tall and slender as he stepped out of the coach, looked down at the weeds with disdain and spit into the overgrown garden of wildflowers. He lifted his head to look up at the front of the medieval house cloaked in ivy, and felt a distasteful mixture of frustration and loathing.
He had expected a celebration of victory today and had been anticipating his vengeance with great delight. Instead, he was here at Creighton Manor with nothing but a note of apology in his pocket, his purpose hindered, his anger inflamed.
He strode to the front door and rapped hard on the brass knocker.
“Get the earl o
ut of bed,” he said to the young maid who answered. He shoved the door open and pushed past her into the main hall. “And tell him I am not happy.”
“Yes, Mr. Rushton.” She curtsied and scurried up the stairs, while he watched the tempting curve of her plump backside until she was out of sight.
He removed his gloves and strode slowly across the stone floor toward the central hearth, eyeing the stained-glass window at one end of the vast hall and looking up at the timber ceiling, reaching to a high peak overhead.
This old feasting room looked too much like a church, he thought, glancing toward the three arches that led to the pantry and buttery, and turning his nose up at the plain medieval furnishings.
He stood in front of the hearth, where a few embers still smoldered in the grate, though mostly, it was just ash. He hated this house. At least, he would hate it until he was master here. Then it would be his greatest achievement.
He walked to the window where he could look outside to the south wing where the ballroom was located. Possession of that, he supposed, was his foremost ambition.
A few minutes later he heard the sound of the earl’s cane tapping down the stone staircase, then he appeared, breathing heavily and clutching a woolen shawl around his narrow, hunched shoulders.
“How dare you keep me waiting,” Rushton said.
Creighton made his way across the hall. His face was pale and gaunt. “May I offer you a drink?”
“No.”
The earl approached him warily. “I assume you read my note?”
Rushton reached into his breast pocket and withdrew it. He held it up between two long fingers, wiggled it in the air, then tossed it onto the ashes in the grate. “How is it possible that you do not know the whereabouts of your own daughter?”
“She sneaked away four nights ago. I thought perhaps she might return by now.”
“You promised to deliver her to me today. Instead I get this written apology. You should have informed me sooner.”
The earl had no reply.
Rushton strode to him. He was more than a foot taller than the old earl, and found himself looking at the top of the man’s balding head, for his cowardly gaze was fixed on the floor as usual.
“Did you make the mistake of telling her she would become my wife?”
The earl nodded. Still he did not look up.
Rushton spoke in a low controlled voice, though it boiled with his wrath. “Why? You should have just stuck her in the carriage and brought her to me.”
“I had to tell her,” he replied. “She knew something was wrong.”
“Well, now something is wrong,” Rushton said. “My bride has run off and you are in danger of being exposed. If you want to prevent it, get your daughter back.”
“I don’t know where she went.”
“You had best figure it out, Creighton, or you know what will happen. You have one week.”
Never once lifting his gaze, the earl backed away and sank into a chair against the wall. He dropped his head into a trembling hand and began to weep.
Rushton felt no pity for the man. He could not. Creighton had brought this on himself, doing what he did to Serena that day at the rotunda. He deserved to go to hell for it.
Besides that, there were too many years of his own misery locked away in this house. It was why he had brought Serena here to tempt and lure the earl into his trap in the first place. If the man had not lost his head at the rotunda, Rebecca would not now be forced to be a part of this. Serena would have accomplished the task for her. She would have borne a male heir for Creighton, then Rushton would have moved in to take over from there.
But it hadn’t worked out that way, had it? So now he needed Rebecca. His lip twitched with repugnance as he turned around and walked out.
Chapter 12
Devon glanced up from the paperwork on his desk when a knock sounded at his door and his mother entered his study. She wore a form-fitting gown of lavender silk, and looked as lovely as ever, though he could see from her expression that something was troubling her.
“Good morning, Devon. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.” He invited her to sit across from him by the window. “You haven’t come to tell me I’m making the worst mistake of my life, have you?”
“No, nothing like that,” she said with a smile. “To the contrary, I am thrilled for you, as I think very highly of Lady Rebecca. Charlotte and I have been fortunate enough to become acquainted with her over the past few days, and we both admire her very much. She is lovely. I could not have chosen a better bride for you myself.”
“Not even Lady Letitia?”
His mother gave him a knowing look. “She was your father’s choice, not mine.”
“In that case, I am pleased you approve of the choice I have made.”
She folded her hands together on her lap. “You might be surprised to hear it, but regardless of Lady Letitia’s departure, your father could not be happier. He hasn’t said anything to me, of course, but I know he is proud of you, and pleased that you have taken up your rightful position here at the palace again, so soon after your return.”
He had not spoken to his father privately about his engagement. He had chosen to announce it publicly at dinner the night before. Everyone had applauded, and his father, who was seated at the head of the table, had risen and raised a glass and delivered an elegant and jovial toast. No one in a hundred years would have guessed the man was off his rocker.
Devon was simply relieved that he had not thrown a fit over Letitia.
“But I confess,” his mother continued, “that I sense you are not completely comfortable with your decision. Are you having doubts?”
He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. “Do not worry, Mother. I am a man no different from any other, and as such have earned the right to have cold feet before my wedding day. Which is being planned with incredible haste, I might add. What man wouldn’t be uneasy?”
“But you are not just any man,” she replied. “And I know you too well. It’s more than cold feet.”
He gave up trying to appease her with jokes and lighthearted assurances. “You have always known it would be this way for me, Mother. You know how I feel about marriage and love.”
“I know how you feel about your role in Vincent’s tragic attempt at marriage.”
He paused, then spoke in a low, gentle voice. “Your unhappiness has always cut my heart deeply, Mother.”
He had always known his parents’ marriage had been arranged, and later he had come to understand that she had once loved another. Though she would never speak of it.
She slowly stood up and turned away from him. “Please do not say such things. It would break my own heart to think that I was the cause of your unwillingness to find joy in your marriage.” She faced him again. “Do not use Vincent or me as examples, Devon. We are poor ones. Especially me.”
“Because you married for duty to your family? Isn’t that what we all must do?”
“Not necessarily.”
He gazed long and hard at her. “You know I am in an impossible situation, Mother. Father has already altered his will and he has an iron fist when it comes to what he thinks is best for everyone. I have already surrendered to my duty and proposed. There can be no turning back.”
“I don’t want you to turn back, nor do I want you to simply ‘surrender to duty.’ I want you to have more than that. I do not want you to feel as if you put everyone else’s happiness before your own. I don’t want you to feel as if you have made a mistake.”
“Are you saying you made a mistake in marrying Father?”
He wanted to hear her say it.
She was speechless for a moment, but remained always the proper duchess and wife. “No, I will never regret the decisions I have made. I was meant to marry your father, so that I could have you and Vincent and Blake.”
“And the twins,” he added for her. “Charlotte and Garrett.”
She lowered her gaze. “I was
meant to have them, too, of course.”
But they were the evidence of what she believed was her greatest transgression—her one brief flirtation with happiness, her children by another man. She carried the shame with her like a wedding ring.
No one ever spoke of it. It was one of those family secrets buried in the gardens of the past, where flowers grew from roots no one would ever see.
She sat back on her heels. Her voice was resigned and heavy with guilt. “Don’t, Devon. I came here to discuss your future, not my past.”
He leaned forward and took her hands in his, determined just this once to expose that wound she kept wrapped and hidden from everyone, and gently apply salve to it if he could. He spoke softly.
“Do not punish yourself, Mother. You are a saint. You seized one moment of happiness, which you deserved. You deserved it because you sacrificed your entire life to give your sisters and family a better future. You never thought of yourself. You still do not, and we all respect and adore you for that. You have set the finest example for all of us, so do not tell me to do something different from what you have done.”
She gave him a warning look. “I am not a saint. I was unfaithful to my husband.”
There—the words were out, the scandalous admission of her sin. It pained Devon to hear the disgrace in her voice, maybe because he understood it too well. Better than anyone.
She rose from her chair. “But as I said before, I did not come here to discuss my life. I came to discuss yours. You have your own regrets, too, Devon, and the guilt to go along with it. It is why I knocked on your door.”
He sat back.
“You don’t believe you deserve happiness either,” she said, “and you are going to try to deny yourself, even when it is within your grasp.”
“But is it truly within my grasp?” he asked, feeling angry all of a sudden. “I will never be able to forget what happened that day three years ago. Never. I will always regret my weakness and my impulsive passions. Yet here I am, rushing into marriage with a woman I barely know.”
In My Wildest Fantasies Page 13
