In My Wildest Fantasies

by Julianne MacLean

  Devon narrowed his gaze at the earl. “Because of your…disagreement?”

  “So you do know the circumstances,” he said. “I suspected as much. It explains the hastiness of your wedding.”

  Devon made no reply. He simply sat in silence, waiting for the man to explain himself.

  “I suppose, in that case,” the earl said shakily, looking all around the room, appearing more and more distraught with every passing second, “that she was right to come here. You are her hero, destined to be her rescuer and protector.” He stood up and strode to the window. He was breathing very hard. “Perhaps I should try not to be so distressed by this. Perhaps I should be thankful, for you have succeeded where I have failed. At least she will be safe with you.”

  Safe.

  Devon listened to all of this with a throbbing ache in his gut. He was to be her hero? Her protector?

  What was going on, and what had she wanted from him, which she did not disclose?

  He felt that weight bearing down upon his shoulders—the weight of everyone’s mistaken notions that he could take care of them and solve all their problems. He had come home to a family who thought he could not only deal with his father’s madness, but could stop a family curse and prevent a flood from sweeping them all away. Now to learn that the one woman who seemed to be a respite from all of those lofty expectations had expectations of her own as well….

  She had come here to ensnare him for some reason, so that he could protect her from something. God only knew what.

  “Lord Creighton, I suggest you start at the beginning and tell me what I am protecting your daughter from, because contrary to what you think, I know nothing.”

  The earl turned instantly to face him. “I beg your pardon. Did you say you do not know?”

  “It appears your daughter is very good at keeping secrets.”

  Creighton covered his face with a hand and squeezed at his temples. “Damn my life,” he whispered irritably as he limped back to the sofa and sat down again.

  “Sir, I require an explanation,” Devon repeated.

  “Yes, it seems you do, and I will give you one. My daughter came here to escape a future she did not want—more precisely—to escape her betrothed.”

  Devon returned to the reception room and stopped just inside the door. He let his gaze pass over everyone in the room and spotted his wife conversing with Charlotte and a few other guests. They were standing by a bouquet of daffodils. Rebecca was holding a cup of tea in her hands and smiling, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  He placed a hand over the knot in his gut, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. Surely it was a mistake. It could not be true. His bride, his Rebecca, could not have used him for her own purposes, to escape a man she was engaged to marry. And who was this man? Was he the real reason she was not so very innocent? Was it because of him—his hands, his touch?—that she knew what she was doing in the bedroom? And how had a betrothal come to pass? The earl would not say. He had become agitated and felt ill, and had walked out on Devon before answering any of his questions.

  Just then, Rebecca threw her head back and laughed at something someone said, so Devon set out to get the answers he needed, steeling himself for the worst as he strode across the room to her.

  “My dear wife,” he said, “may I have a word with you in private?”

  The conversation skidded to a halt, and the smile in her eyes died away while everyone gaped at him. He supposed his tone had been terse, but there it was.

  “Of course,” she replied, laboring to sound lighthearted when it was clear—at least to him—that she was unnerved. He wondered if she had any idea that her father had been there.

  Offering his arm, he escorted her out of the reception room, through the center of the house and out the back doors onto the terrace overlooking the former Italian Gardens. The area was still a sea of muck and overturned rocks. The sky, however, was a perfect blue, and the sun was shining brightly overhead.

  “What is it, Devon?” she asked.

  He was not in the mood to dance around the subject or even broach it gently. He only wanted to know the truth, and to hear it from her.

  “Your father was here,” he said, taking note of her sharp gasp. “We had a most enlightening conversation in the library before he left the palace, exceedingly agitated and in a hurry.”

  Her lips fell open. “Just my father? No one else?”

  Devon strove to keep his breathing under control while he wrestled with the strange complexity of his emotions. He was angry, to be sure. What man wouldn’t be? His bride had been engaged to another man and she had hidden it from him, while she’d cleverly wrapped him around her delicate ring finger in less than a week.

  He felt something else, too, however, which was not anger exactly. There was a burning in his gut over the fact that there was another man somewhere in the world who had a prior claim upon her. A man who still, at this very moment, believed she belonged to him and would be his wife. He was probably out searching for her, because he was not yet aware that Devon had put a ring on her finger that very morning.

  He thought of the diary suddenly, and wondered if she had read it to this man, too. A muscle in his jaw clenched.

  “You were expecting your betrothed,” he said at last. “Why didn’t you tell me about that, Rebecca?”

  “Because there was nothing to tell,” she insisted. “And he was not my betrothed. At least not in my mind. He never proposed to me, and even if he had, I would have turned him down in no uncertain terms.”

  Her plain anger assuaged some of his, so he strove to at least listen to what she had to say before he crushed all feeling for her, which is what he wanted to do. He wanted this escape—this diversion from the tender affection he had never wanted to feel, because God help him, this was the slipping and tripping he had feared would come.

  But he would keep his footing this time, damn it. He would not fall backward and go sliding down that long, slippery slope.

  “Your father sees it differently,” he said. “He told me that this gentleman understood you were to be his wife. Who is he? What’s his name?”

  “What does it matter?” she asked.

  “His name, Rebecca.”

  Her eyes clouded over with indignation as she ground out the words. “Rushton. Maximillian Rushton. And my father made those arrangements without ever consulting me. But I was not about to be shepherded into my future like a meek little lamb. I have a mind and a will of my own, you know.”

  “That’s quite obvious,” he said. “So you took matters into your own hands, disobeyed your father, and came here instead. Under your terms.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So this is what I have to look forward to,” he said. “A headstrong, willful wife who will do whatever she pleases? A woman who will use any tactic necessary to get what she wants?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The diary, Rebecca. You used it to lure me into your bed, didn’t you? To trap me.”

  She gave a choked cry of protest. “No, that is not true.”

  He turned away and strode to the balustrade, where he stood for a long moment looking at the statue of Venus while he fought to contain his temper.

  “I cannot deny,” he said with a note of bitter sarcasm, “that I must at least admire your spirit. That is what drew me to you in the first place, I suppose—that fire in your eyes. Which is probably what drew him to you as well.” He turned to face her. “What bothers me is the fact that you came here to secretly use me for protection from another man’s intentions, without ever telling me. I do not appreciate being used and manipulated.”

  “I did not manipulate you.”

  “No?” Antagonism lit in his veins. “What would you call it then? You came to the ball looking irresistible, flirting up a storm, and on the third day of your visit, began quoting from an erotic diary. It was enough to make any man lose control of his senses and cross the line. All the while, you had an ulteri
or motive which you did not disclose to me.”

  “May I remind you,” she said heatedly, “that you had an ulterior motive as well. Your father was pressuring you to find a wife.”

  “But there is the difference, you see. I told you. That moment in particular would have been the perfect opportunity for you to confess your true motivation to me. I would have liked to know I might have to defend my actions to a man who will no doubt believe I acted dishonorably and stole something from him.”

  He realized suddenly it was the second time in his life he had stolen another man’s fiancée, and neither time had it been his conscious intention to do so. On both occasions, he had been the object of a spirited woman’s desires, and his passions had overwhelmed his intellect.

  At least this time, he had not known there was another man. He had not known he was doing anything dishonorable.

  But what was worse—dishonor or stupidity?

  She blanched—her anger fading somewhat to reveal a hint of anxiety. Over what? he wondered. That he would turn her out? He could hardly do that now, could he, after speaking vows before God a short time ago. Not to mention the fact that she could already be carrying his child in her womb.

  “I wanted to tell you,” she implored. “Truly I did. I thought about it many times, but I was afraid you would withdraw your offer if you knew. And when the marriage was within my grasp, I just couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. I didn’t want to lose you.”

  He scoffed. “To lose your safe haven, you mean. Your protection from him.”

  “It wasn’t just that,” she said. “Everything I said to you over the past week has been true. I wanted you, Devon, with every breath in my body and soul. I’ve been dreaming about you since the night we met in the woods four years ago. I fell in love with you then.”

  He almost wanted to laugh. “You fell in love with a fantasy, and you’ve been living in one ever since, sheltered in your father’s house, reading another woman’s diary. You don’t know anything about me if you think I am your hero. I was not looking to be anyone’s protector. I do not need another burden of responsibility, especially when it involves a woman’s safekeeping. I simply needed a future duchess.”

  “But you are a hero,” she said, sounding almost perplexed to hear otherwise. “You are the future Duke of Pembroke. You are powerful and honorable. That’s more clear to me than anything.”

  “You think I am honorable, do you? You don’t even know me.”

  She bristled. “I know enough.”

  “No, you do not. All you know is one night four years ago when I led a few horses out of a bog, and more recently a week of good sex. Trust me, neither one of those things was terribly difficult, especially with you waving that diary in front of my face. What you do not know is that in reality I am a man who would betray his own brother, but more importantly, a man who could lead a woman to believe he could keep her safe, then cause her death. Maybe you would have been better off with this Rushton fellow.”

  She stiffened and said nothing for a long moment. “Who are you talking about? What woman?”

  He almost enjoyed the surprised look on her face. The realization that she might not be so right about him after all, that she had in fact married a stranger. Because that’s what they were. Strangers. She was certainly a stranger to him.

  “There, you see?” he said. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, and I suppose since we are now man and wife, and secrets and lies are being revealed, it’s time you heard the whole story.”

  Chapter 15

  Rebecca fought the sickening jolt of regret in her stomach. She had wrecked it. She had wrecked everything. He was disenchanted with her now, and it was all her fault. She should have told him sooner. She should not have come here planning and conniving to hook him into marrying her, like some sort of devious fugitive. She should never have encouraged him to make love to her before any promises were made. In that regard, she had indeed forced his hand.

  She walked to the bench and sat down, clasped her hands together on her lap. She supposed he was right in one other respect. They did not know each other very well. Maybe she had been in love with a fantasy hero—because in all her romantic dreams of him, there had never been any other women in his life. There had only been the two of them, as if the outside world did not exist.

  It truly had not existed for her while she’d lived secluded in her father’s house, safe from danger, wrapped up cozily in her daydreams. The only time there had been any threat to her dreams was when she learned she was to marry Mr. Rushton.

  And since she’d arrived here, she’d always felt like the only woman in Devon’s life. He had made her feel that way with his attentive behavior and constant flirtations. They had never once discussed his personal life before her arrival here, or what he had been doing in America for three years. It was as if they were living in a bubble. For all she knew, he, too, could have been engaged or even married. Perhaps he was still in love with this woman he had just mentioned, who was now dead. Perhaps she had been the great love of his life and he would always love her.

  She felt slightly nauseated at the thought.

  Devon sat down beside her on the bench, then spoke with a strange show of pleasure, as if he enjoyed proving how wrong she had been about him.

  “The woman I am referring to,” he said, “was Vincent’s fiancée.”

  Vincent’s fiancée. The nauseous feeling in her stomach swelled. “And she died,” Rebecca said.

  He nodded.

  “Is that why you and he do not get on well?”

  “That is an understatement. My brother despises me, and for good reason, which is why I cannot hate him in return, despite his many attempts to make it so.”

  “What reason does he have to despise you? What happened?”

  He looked directly at her and spoke without emotion. “His fiancée, MaryAnn, was in love with me.”

  She swallowed uncomfortably and squeezed her hands together so tightly, she could feel her nails digging into the skin. “Did this happen before they were engaged, or after?”

  He considered the question for a moment. “I only became aware of it after the engagement. I suppose it’s a rather complicated story because there was a history between the three of us. MaryAnn’s father was a lifelong friend of our father’s, and we had known her since childhood, playing games on the estate. Vincent had always fancied her, and I knew it. I also knew she liked to pester me constantly, but I never thought anything of it until much later.”

  He stopped talking and gazed off in the other direction, as if he were recalling specific moments in time, those moments from childhood that gain clarity from years of reflection.

  “How did she die?” Rebecca asked, wanting to steer him back to the point of all this.

  “It was a week before their wedding,” he said, “and she sent me a letter.”

  “Declaring her feelings?”

  “She told me she could not marry Vincent when I was the one she truly loved and always had. She intended to call off the wedding and asked me to meet her at the treehouse beyond the lake, where we used to play hide-and-seek as children. I rode out there to convince her that she was making a mistake—that she would be better off with Vincent because he loved her and I did not. But it was a lie. I did have feelings for her, terrible passions that consumed me, and I didn’t know what would happen when I got to the treehouse and was alone with her.”

  “What did happen?”

  He sighed deeply. “I gave the letter back to her and told her it could never be. She cried and pleaded with me to return her feelings, and I was weak. I took her in my arms.”

  He bowed his head, and Rebecca sensed it was much worse than that. “Did you make love to her?”

  He did not answer for a long time. “Certain things happened that I am not proud of. But when I realized what we were doing, I put a stop to it. She was very distraught and confused, so I attempted to bring her home to my brother.”

  R
ebecca frowned. “Attempted?”

  He stood up and walked away from her, but she did not rise. She waited patiently for him to return.

  A moment later, he came back and sat down. “She was climbing down the treehouse ladder when she caught her skirts, fell to the ground, and injured her ankle.”

  “But that was not your fault,” Rebecca told him, for she was anticipating the gist of all this.

  “I realize that,” he said. “I did what I could. I helped her up and carried her down the path and lifted her onto my horse, then we started back to the palace. She was in a great deal of pain and was urging me to hurry while she clung to my neck and cried and told me that she loved me, that I was the most extraordinary man she’d ever known, and that she knew I could take care of her better than anyone, including Vincent.” He paused. “They were words that will haunt me until the day I die.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that was the moment I wanted to be free of her. All I wanted was to get her back to the palace and deliver her to my brother, then turn around and disappear. I wanted her to forget me and realize that Vincent was the better man. He loved her and was devoted to her and wanted nothing more than to make her happy every day for the rest of his life, while I never really wanted to marry her. It killed me to think she preferred me, and that I had encouraged her affections. So I took a shortcut. I steered my horse off the path to travel through the woods and over a ridge. I should have known better.”

  “Why?”

  “The hill was slick with mud because of the spring rains, which was not unusual. I knew I was taking a risk, yet I forged ahead, and even when Asher resisted and bucked against my commands, I ordered him on. All I knew was my impatience, my guilt, and my desire to get MaryAnn back to Vincent where she belonged. But Asher lost his footing and neither he nor I could gain control after that. The three of us started sliding backward down the hill, through the muck and slime, while Asher scrambled to stay on his feet. Then we all went down. My foot was tangled in a stirrup, MaryAnn was clutching onto me, and I watched as Asher rolled over her, crushing her body before he rolled over my leg and broke it.”