A suffocating sensation squeezed in Rebecca’s throat. “It must have been terrifying.”
“It was the most horrific moment of my life, but it did not end there. I was knocked unconscious, and when I woke, Asher was lying beside me, bruised and broken, writhing in pain in the mud slick, and MaryAnn was face down, dead. I had to make my way back to the palace with a broken leg to face my father and brother. I was crawling by the time I reached them. I told them where she was, then I lost consciousness.”
“Did you tell Vincent why you were with her?”
“No. The fact that she and I were alone in the woods together was enough.”
“But did you tell him you tried to discourage her? That you told her to forget you and marry him?”
“After he returned from the ordeal of bringing her body back, yes, but he knew me too well. He saw the guilt in my eyes.”
“And your horse?”
“Shot and killed. Vincent did that, too, after he found and read the letter in MaryAnn’s pocket, which I had given back to her.”
Rebecca listened to all of this with a steady, persistent drumming in her ears. She understood now why Vincent was so bitter about his brother’s return, and why today he had been quiet and sullen during the wedding celebrations. She also understood why Devon had left England three years ago and stayed away so long. He had blamed himself for what happened and could not face his family.
“This is all very tragic,” she said to him. “I am so sorry it happened to you.”
“It didn’t just happen to me,” he replied. “At least I am alive to talk about it.”
“But you cannot blame yourself for MaryAnn’s death. It was an accident. It was not your fault she fell from the ladder and hurt her ankle, or that Asher slipped in the mud.”
“But it was my decision to take the shortcut when I knew it would be dangerous. All I was thinking about was my own selfish need to get her off of my horse.” He looked straight at her. “All the while, she was telling me I was her hero. She was very wrong about that.”
Rebecca shifted uneasily on the hard bench.
“I see now why you felt a need to tell me this today, and why you were angry to learn of my situation. You think that is the only reason I am here, to have you as my protector, when you do not want to be responsible for another person’s well-being.”
His voice was hard like stone. “People have expected that of me all my life, and it is a heavy weight to bear. One I did not ask for. What they don’t seem to understand is that I do not have all the answers, and I don’t want to be head of the family. I did not ask to be born first.”
“But you are head of the family, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you were born first,” she told him. “There is just something about you that inspires people’s trust and confidence.”
“Falsely.”
“No. MaryAnn was right. You are an extraordinary man. You are also only human.”
He stared at her for a moment, then spoke without tenderness, only single-minded resolve. “Your father seemed very distraught about our marriage,” he said, “which makes little sense, considering my rank. One would expect him to be pleased. So is there anything I should know about this man who believes himself to be your future husband? Does he have some hold over your father? Will he be difficult?”
“No hold that I am aware of, but he is not kind,” she replied. “He has an intimidating demeanor. I believe that is why my father has always feared him and why he could not refuse his demand to have me as his wife. It is why Father came looking for me today—to drag me home. I’ll wager he was very surprised to learn he could not.”
Devon’s gaze narrowed. “You are my wife now, Rebecca.” He rose to his feet. “And this man who has intimidated your father will not intimidate me.”
She looked up at him, so tall and masculine before her. There, you see? she wanted to say. And you wonder why people feel safe in your presence.
“I suggest you write to your father right away and ask him if he requires assistance in dealing with this difficult neighbor. If the man does have some control over your father, I would like to know about it.”
“So would I.” She rose to her feet as well. “I am sorry, Devon, that I did not tell you this before. I did not mean to spoil things. I hope you can forgive me.”
There was no warmth in his pale blue eyes. “What’s done is done. We are married now.”
“But do you forgive me?” she pressed.
He offered his arm. “I suppose I have no choice. We are bound together, till death do us part. We will soldier on.”
They were words intended to put this unpleasant conversation behind them, but she knew with despair that their marriage was no longer a union of joy and passion and love. Reality and truth had come crashing down, and it was now, for him, merely another burden and obligation.
And he was probably wishing that he had chosen Lady Letitia instead of her. At least she would not have disappointed him so completely in every way.
Chapter 16
Devon escorted Rebecca back to the reception room in silence, dreading the continuation of the wedding celebrations. He had done enough talking today, and he did not believe he could paste on a smile for the guests. He had managed it before Rebecca’s father had arrived, certainly, but did not think he could manage it now. Not after he’d dealt with the fact that Rebecca had come here because she believed he was her hero, and that she’d been engaged to another man and had kept it from him. Not to mention the fact that he had dredged up agonizing memories about MaryAnn and relived that wretched day in the woods.
He was beginning to think his father was right. Perhaps this palace was cursed. It seemed no one here was permitted to be happy. Teased with happiness, yes, but only briefly before that happiness was abruptly snatched away.
He thought suddenly of Lady Letitia’s embittered warning. 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.
He could not bear to think that she was right, or that he might have made a mistake—that he should have chosen her instead. Despite everything, he did not want to believe that.
They soon arrived back at the reception room. Devon was immediately approached by his father, who came marching across the room with Mr. Beasley, the portly village banker. They were hooting with laughter, jolly as a couple of Christmas fiddlers. Before they reached him, however, the duchess approached also, asking if she could borrow Rebecca for a few minutes to take her and the other ladies to the conservatory to see the orchids.
Naturally Devon agreed, then turned to his father and Mr. Beasley, who was staggering to and fro, clearly in his cups, despite the fact that it was barely past noon.
“My son!” his father said. “A married man at last. Come with us, we have something for you.”
With mischievous, mumbling laughter, the two of them led Devon out of the room and across the great hall, through the south corridor and up the stairs to his father’s study. They were chortling the entire way, congratulating Devon on his choice of a bride, his rosy future, nudging him in the ribs, and reminding him of his proper husbandly duty that very night. He did his best to be patient and humor them, and not to reveal his grim mood.
They entered the study and closed the door, and Mr. Beasley staggered like a wide, sloshing water barrel across the room to the bookcase behind the desk.
“I brought something for you,” he said, lifting down a small box. “It’s a wedding gift.”
Devon glanced briefly at his father, who watched the box with eager eyes.
Beasley set it down on the desk and lifted the lid. He withdrew a clay plaque with an image impressed upon it. Devon looked more closely to discover a lewd depiction of the sexual act—a man poised behind a woman on her hands and knees, his tremendous erection largely out of scale, the size of a tree trunk. Sharp beams of sunlight rained down upon them.
“It’s a fertility stone,” B
easley explained, swaying drunkenly. “If you put it under your pillow tonight, it will bring you luck and put a child in your bride’s womb the very night her maidenhead is broken.”
It was a little late for that, Devon thought.
Beasley chuckled and nudged Devon in the ribs again. “You’re an efficient lad, aren’t you? I thought you might appreciate the gesture.”
Devon raised his eyebrows and picked up the flat stone, turning it over in his hands.
Beasley, who was enjoying himself tremendously, wagged a confident finger. “It’s a powerful thing, my boy.”
Devon glanced again at his father, who reached for the stone and held it like a treasured family heirloom.
“Beasley, you are a good man to bring this here,” he said. “The palace will benefit.”
Beasley exploded with laughter. “I think the lad here will be the one to reap the benefits,” he said. “It being his wedding night and all that.”
Devon took a deep breath, willing himself to ignore the man’s playful teasing, for he knew he meant no harm.
“Thank you, Beasley,” he said. “I appreciate the thought.” He turned to his father and spoke meaningfully. “Though I have never been a superstitious man.”
The duke glared at Devon, his brows pulling together with frustration.
Mr. Beasley, in his drunken state, was oblivious to the tension between them. “Neither have I, when it comes right down to it. It’s just a bit of fun, my boy. Promise me you’ll at least give it a try, and maybe your bride will find it amusing. Show this to her and she’ll at least know what to expect.” He took hold of the stone and examined the fornicating couple, pointing specifically at the man’s monstrous instrument of pleasure. “On the other hand, it might send her screaming from the room.”
He slapped Devon on the back and laughed again. “Shall we head back to the reception room? I believe I left my brandy on a windowsill.”
“You go on ahead of us,” Devon replied. “I require a few minutes alone with my father.”
“Ah, yes, father and son must have their moment to look to the future and all that. I’ll leave you two to share a drink.” He started off toward the door. “Congratulations again, my boy. You’ve made your family proud.”
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Devon set the stone back into the box and lowered the lid.
“I’ll have that sent up to your bedchamber,” his father said. “And you must use it tonight. I will have your word.”
“I will promise no such thing, Father. This is nothing but superstitious nonsense. It has no magic power and I will ask you again to let go of your silly belief in a family curse.”
The duke pressed his shoulders back. “I thought you believed.”
Devon shook his head. “No. I have been very clear about my opinions on the matter.”
“But you did what I asked and chose a bride.” He waved a hand toward the window. “Look. The sun is shining today. Surely that is enough to convince you.”
“It is a coincidence, nothing more. The sun was bound to shine sooner or later. It could not continue to rain forever.”
“But it could,” his father argued, “and it would have, if you had not heeded my warnings. But you did, thank God. You did well, marrying that gel today. The sunshine is our reward. You have made me very happy.”
“Happy enough to change your will back to the way it was?” Devon asked pointedly.
His father frowned at him. “No.”
“But if it is a grandchild you want, I will give you that. I have already proven my willingness to remain here and fulfill my duty to this family by taking a wife. There is no need to force the others into marriages they do not want. At least give them time.”
“I told you before, there is no time. The flood will come.”
Devon fought to keep his frustration in check. “The only thing that will come will be misery for all your children, if you force them to abide by your ridiculous demands.”
He knew the truth of that all too well.
The duke slapped his open palm upon the desk. “They are not ridiculous! And I will not alter my will!”
Devon cupped his forehead in a hand. God help him, talking to his father about this curse was like talking to a brick wall.
He drew in a deep breath and counted to ten, then tried to appeal to his father’s compassionate side, if he had one. He certainly hadn’t shown any compassion to Devon three years ago when the surgeon was setting his leg.
“This family has seen difficult times, Father. Vincent and Charlotte especially. They deserve happiness.”
“Charlotte’s cooperation is not required. She can marry tomorrow or never. It makes no difference to me.”
Because she is not of your bloodline.
“Then perhaps you do not require Garrett’s cooperation either,” Devon pointed out, speaking openly for the first time to his father about the twins’ true parentage.
His father’s face flushed red with shock, but Devon was indifferent to it. The time for sweeping secrets under the palace carpets was over. If there was a chance he could free just one brother, he would take it.
“No,” his father said flatly. “That boy needs to learn some responsibility. He is an embarrassment to me, living the way he does, mixing with those people.”
“They’re poets, Father. They are free thinkers.”
“I can’t stand the defiance. Especially from him, after I have given him so much.”
“You gave him your name and a roof over his head. That is all.”
“Well, my name is worth a hell of a lot!” he shouted. “As yours will be when you are duke.”
Not yet willing to give up just yet, Devon strode closer to his father and placed a hand on his arm. “I am begging you, Father. Please. Change your will. Don’t force your sons into hasty marriages. I will give you the grandchild you want. A whole nursery full of them. You could even consider it a wedding gift to me.”
The duke slapped Devon’s hand away. “No, no, no, no, no! And I already gave you your gift.”
“A silver tea service.”
“Brand new. And did you notice the pattern of engravings? They are tiny little oak trees. Hundreds of them on the teapot and creamer and sugar bowl.”
His eyes brightened and his voice rang with fascination. Devon’s heart sank, for he knew his father’s mind was skipping around and toppling off the track. Their discussion about the will was over.
“I’ve never seen a tea service quite like it,” his father said. “Have you? Not that a gentleman takes notice of such things,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s the woman’s domain, to be sure. But I do love a good strong cup of tea.” He looked around the room as if he were suddenly confused. “What time is it? Is it teatime?”
Devon worked hard to let go of his frustration. “No, Father. We just had breakfast. The wedding breakfast. Remember?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Your bride is lovely, I dare say.” He ran a finger under his nose and his eyes darted about for a moment. “But who is pruning my rosebush? I don’t want it pruned.”
Devon realized he was becoming accustomed to the challenge of keeping up with his father’s thought processes. “No one is pruning it, Father.”
“But it’s getting smaller.”
Devon watched his father stare with concern at the sunny window.
He spoke in a gentle, reassuring voice. “Your rosebush is doing fine. It just looks smaller because you moved it to a larger space.”
“I moved it?”
“Yes. A week ago. The day I returned home. Remember?”
The duke’s expression became strained, revealing the intensity of his concentration, then at last he raised his chin. “Oh, yes.”
A quiet wave of sadness and regret moved through Devon, distracting him from his irritability over what had happened with Rebecca. He moved to take his father’s arm.
“Let us go now,” he said. “It’s time to return to the reception, and when we get th
ere, we’ll get you a cup of tea. A nice strong one, just the way you like it.”
They walked out of the study together. “You are a good son, Devon. I don’t know what any of us would do without you. We’d never manage.”
“You would manage just fine,” he assured him, wondering for the first time if they really would.
Rebecca strolled around the conservatory with the duchess and the other ladies, working hard to hide her troubles from them, while they examined the rare orchids and the many indigenous plants and flowers. It was a well-known fact that the duke had a passion for horticulture, and his commitment was more than evident in this enormous, lush, green, sweet-smelling conservatory.
“But what of the Italian Gardens?” Aunt Grace asked, as they wandered leisurely around the bubbling stone fountain.
“Yes, what does he intend to do with the garden?” Mrs. Quinlan asked. “It must be something marvelous. A complete transformation I expect.”
The duchess strolled ahead of them. “It’s his well-guarded secret, I’m afraid. But I believe he means to…” She paused, as if taking the time to choose her words with great care. “I believe he means to take England by storm.”
The ladies expressed their fascination with bright smiles and flattering comments.
“If anyone can accomplish that,” Mrs. Quinlan said, “it is your husband, the duke. He is a true genius when it comes to the beauty of flowers and all things that come from the ground.”
“His mind is indeed a mystery to me,” Her Grace replied.
While the ladies moved on, Rebecca took her time bringing up the rear, strolling at her own pace to look at the plants and flowers, for she needed time to think about what had happened that morning.
Not only was she devastated that her husband was displeased with her and she had lost his trust, but she could not stop thinking about her father. He had not wished to see her that morning. Was he so very angry with her for her defiance? Were they now permanently estranged?
She stopped and touched the leaves of a red ginger plant. With a painful rush of grief, she recalled the many dark nights as a child when she had been frightened by the wind outside rattling her windowpanes. She would call out to her father, and he would always come. He would tuck her back into bed and sit in the chair by the window until she fell asleep again. Sometimes she would wake up in the morning, and he would still be there, curled up and snoring.
In My Wildest Fantasies Page 17
