In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  The brothers continued to stare heatedly at each other, until Lord Hawthorne turned to Rebecca and her aunt. “Pardon me, ladies, but if I recall, I promised you both a guided tour of the dessert table, did I not? Shall we see what delectable treats await us?”

  The tension in the air drained away with the pleasant tone of his voice, and Rebecca let out a breath.

  “That would be lovely,” Aunt Grace said, accepting the arm he offered with a flirtatious smile of her own. It appeared Aunt Grace was not immune to Lord Hawthorne’s charms, either.

  Rebecca took his other arm and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at Lord Vincent, for she could feel the heat of his scorching gaze upon their backs.

  They left the ballroom and reached the dessert table, which was adorned in lace and covered with gleaming silver platters covered in cream cakes and sugared fruit in every color of the rainbow.

  Rebecca wandered around the table, eyeing everything before she removed her gloves and tasted a raspberry bonbon, then a chocolate tart with whipped cream on top. She was licking the cream off the tip of her baby finger when she noticed Lord Hawthorne was not enjoying any of the sweets. He was merely watching her with heavy lidded eyes from the opposite side of the table.

  She felt a quivering thrill in the pit of her belly and stopped what she was doing, for she knew these moments at the dessert table were pivotal. Her instincts were telling her to do something in order to capture and hold his attention. She had to tempt him, beguile him, perhaps even seduce him, but for the life of her, she had no idea how to do it.

  He turned to converse with her aunt. A moment later, Aunt Grace left to go and speak with an acquaintance who was sipping champagne on the other side of the dessert room.

  Rebecca raised an eyebrow at Lord Hawthorne, encouraging his approach. Virile and striking in his black costume, he came around the table to stand before her.

  “So, you met my brother,” he said matter-of-factly.

  A footman appeared beside them with a tray of champagne, and they each helped themselves to a glass. Rebecca took a sip. “Yes, my lord, and he is very different from you.”

  “In what way?”

  She pondered the question, not quite sure how to articulate what she meant. “You make people feel safe. He has quite the opposite effect.”

  Lord Hawthorne’s pale blue eyes became expressionless as stone, then he bent forward slightly and spoke with a hush that sent a shiver of awareness through her. “What makes you think you are safe with me?”

  Her body trembled, and she marveled at the peculiar panic he evoked in her. Then he turned and casually strolled around the dessert table, looking at everything but sampling nothing. Rebecca followed him and tasted a lemon jelly candy, then a sweet red grape.

  When he came around again, having circled the table, he faced her, hands clasped behind his back. He couldn’t have looked more relaxed if he were basking in the sun.

  “So, tell me,” he said, “what did you and my brother speak about?”

  “He asked if I was betrothed.”

  “Did he, indeed? And what was your reply?”

  “That I am not, of course.” She paused, watching his reaction, then continued. “He also asked if I was in love.”

  Lord Hawthorne shook his head with disapproval. “Tsk, tsk, Vincent. Such bold questions. And what was your reply to that?”

  “No again. But the night is still young.”

  She wasn’t quite sure where that clever but risky response had come from. She could only credit it to her provocative reading of late.

  His smiling eyes glanced down at her body. “Did you enjoy dancing with him?”

  “He is an excellent dancer.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  She recognized a fire in his eyes—was it jealousy?—and decided not to answer the question. She simply took another sip of champagne and strolled to the end of the table.

  “Is that why you were waiting for me after I danced with him?” she asked. “And why you escorted me here to the dessert table? To protect me from your brother, the alleged scoundrel?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly it.”

  Her view of him was briefly obstructed by the tower of lemon cakes. She tilted her head to the side. “It seems you are always coming to my rescue, Lord Hawthorne. First a runaway coach, now a scoundrel of a brother. What next, I ask you?”

  The corner of his mouth curled up in a grin, and when he spoke, the whispery quality of his voice tingled across her body, as if he had stroked her with a feather. “I suspect there will have to be something, Lady Rebecca. Any chance there might be a monster under your bed tonight that I could save you from?”

  The implications of that question shocked her to her core, and she felt quite decidedly out of her depth. “Are you sure it is your brother who is the scoundrel?” she asked. “Perhaps I should be warned about the masked highwayman before me, who wants to peek under my bed.”

  He watched her turn and stroll back along the table. She reached for another grape but did not eat it right away.

  “What a night,” she said. “I have danced with two scoundrels, and now I have been scandalized by a shocking comment about a monster under my bed. Lord Hawthorne, you are a very, very bad man.” And he excited her to the depths of her soul.

  She popped the grape into her mouth, and something in his eyes changed. His searing gaze swept down her body again.

  “You must come and stay in the palace with the other out-of-town guests,” he said. “They are all staying until Friday.”

  The very air around them seemed to snap with electricity, and she began to believe that whatever she had said or done during these crucial moments around the table had worked. “But we have already unpacked at the inn,” she explained.

  “Tomorrow, then. My mother will speak to your aunt tonight before you leave.”

  Rebecca could not smother the great fire of triumph now burning inside her. “You have everything worked out, I see.”

  Her aunt appeared at her side, and Hawthorne turned his eyes to her. “You have returned, Lady Saxby. Rest assured, your charge was in good hands. I have rescued her from the chocolate kisses. She did not have a single one.”

  “Gracious, my lord,” Aunt Grace said, “I do owe you my deepest gratitude, because we all know that one kiss is never enough, and they are, oh, so dangerously sweet. A lady must watch herself.”

  He smiled with amusement at Aunt Grace, then bowed to both of them. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Her aunt watched him leave. “My, what an incredible man, Rebecca. No wonder you never forgot him.”

  “And you are terrible, Aunt Grace! What you said about the chocolate kisses! I could brain you!”

  Her aunt ignored her admonishment. “I suspect he never really forgot you either, dear, and I predict you will be seeing him again.”

  Rebecca leaned close. “Sooner rather than later, it appears, because he has invited us to stay at the palace for the week.”

  Grace shot her a quick look. “You don’t say. In that case, I suppose I don’t need to be giving you any more advice, do I, child? You obviously have a natural talent.” She lovingly patted her hand. “Well done, Rebecca. We have crossed the first threshold. I believe we are one step closer to your future happiness.”

  But after all the deprivations in her life so far, it had almost been too easy, Rebecca thought, with a strange and unexpected niggling of doubt. She thought of the old adage “too good to be true” and hoped it would not apply to her fairy-tale dreams of this man—and of the grand, passionate, perfect love she desired.

  That night, after all the guests and family members were asleep in the palace, the duke, wearing only his nightshirt and cap, slid quietly out of bed and lit the lantern. Carefully picking it up by the squeaky handle, he padded across the dark chamber to his sl
ippers by the door, then slid his bare feet into them and gazed anxiously about the room. He raised the lamp and peered through the dim golden light at the wood-paneled walls. His brows pulled together in a frown, and his mouth fell open. His breath came faster in the chill of the night air.

  He hastened to the door and ventured out into the dark corridor, looking both ways before he stepped softly to the right, quickening his pace while he checked over his shoulder. Carrying the lamp to the end of the hall, he stopped there and held it high before the massive gilt-framed portrait of the second Duke of Pembroke.

  His Grace stared at it for a moment, then quickly shook his head before starting off toward the south wing. He passed a number of the guest chambers, glancing briefly down at the brass knobs on the doors as he passed.

  “Yes, it is a very good time,” he said.

  He continued on, reaching the main staircase and hurrying down to the ground floor, his thin nightshirt flapping about his legs as he went.

  He raised the lamp again and looked around the great hall. “No, Brother Salvador, not that way. This way.” The duke slowed his pace at last and shuffled into the gallery. “Now let me tell you about young Rupert,” he said. “He was a very good boy, but no one seems to remember him. No one except for me.”

  The duke walked the long length of the gallery, and the glow from his lamp seemed to bring the portraits back to life in the dark.

  Chapter 7

  “At least we have until winter,” Blake said to Vincent over the breakfast table the next morning, before any of the guests joined them in the room.

  Vincent chuckled bitterly. “Leave it to you to find the silver lining in hell.”

  Devon walked into the room and met Vincent’s dark gaze. His brother, seated at the white-clothed table with a plate of eggs and sausage before him, paused with his fork in midair, then lowered it with a noisy clink upon the fine china. “I believe I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Exhausted—for he had been up all night, his thoughts bouncing back and forth between his father’s insane demands and the stimulating allure of Lady Rebecca—Devon went immediately to the sideboard for coffee. “Don’t miss out on a hot breakfast on my account, Vin. You know I’m not worth it.”

  He felt his brother’s gaze at his back while he poured himself a cup, then he took a seat at the table across from him. They glared at each other. Vincent picked up his fork again and resumed eating.

  “We were just discussing Father’s intentions to see all four of us married by Christmas,” Blake said.

  Devon curled his hand around his hot coffee cup. “I have news about that. Early this morning, just before dawn, Father came to my room and informed me that he would offer a reward to each of us if we marry before the end of the Season. Five thousand pounds in a lump sum on the wedding day.”

  Blake whistled. “That’s a hefty sum. He is losing his mind, isn’t he?”

  “Five thousand pounds you say.” Vincent sat back in his chair.

  “Garrett must be informed of the situation as soon as possible,” Devon said.

  “The last time we heard from him,” Blake replied, “he was somewhere in the Greek Islands enjoying the Mediterranean wine. He won’t be pleased to hear this.”

  “I doubt he’ll even care,” Vincent said. “He’s already declared he wants nothing from Father. He’d be just as happy to stay in Greece and let us all drown in the bloody flood.”

  Devon shook his head waved a hand through the air. “There is no flood.”

  “You don’t say,” Vincent replied with sarcastic bite. “Look, it’s your fault the old man went so nutty in the first place. You weren’t here to witness his wrath after you left. He probably burst something in his brain from all the ranting he did.”

  Devon gazed out the window at the rain pelting the devastated garden terrace and creating deep puddles. The wind howled through the trees. Yes, perhaps part of their father’s madness was his fault, for he had disappointed him more than ever that final day, walking out after what he’d done and leaving the country without a word. He had abandoned them all.

  You are no longer my son.

  Devon was not proud of his prolonged absence from England, but he’d always known his exodus was necessary. He’d needed to go off alone and suffer for a while, to wallow in his shame before he could finally distance himself from certain events. He’d had to do that before he could return home and fulfill his duty to the family.

  He looked at his brother—the brother he had betrayed. “You are correct in that regard,” he said. “I am to blame for the sorry state of affairs here at Pembroke.”

  Vincent set down his fork again and leaned back in his chair. “Well, then.”

  “No, Devon,” Blake said, interrupting. “Our father’s madness is not your fault.”

  Devon shook his head. “I suppose we’ll never know, will we? But in the end, that is not the point.”

  “And what is the point, exactly?” Vincent asked.

  Devon tapped a finger on the table, thinking for a minute. “Whether Father is sane or mad, he has taken legal action to change his will, and it appears we are all in a bit of a bind.”

  “Brilliant deduction,” Vincent said.

  Devon met his brother’s burning gaze across the table. “I’ve been awake all night thinking about this and what must be done. I have been absent for the past three years and I have avoided my responsibilities.” He paused a moment, looking up at his mother’s portrait over the fireplace, which had been painted just before her wedding day. “But I am home now, and I will do what I must. I will remain at Pembroke to marry and produce an heir.” They both stared at him with surprise in their eyes. “What the two of you decide to do is your own choice. I will not force a future upon you because of our father’s preposterous belief in a family curse.” He took another sip of coffee, then spoke quietly and pensively. “Perhaps in time the promise of a grandchild from me will be enough to pacify him, and I will be able to talk him out of this nonsense about a curse, and convince him to change his will back to the way it was. Perhaps we can get him proper treatment for his malady. That is what he needs above all.”

  Blake stood up. “Do not let father do this to you, Devon. Do not let him put guilt on your shoulders and use it to steer you where he wants you to go.”

  Vincent gestured toward Devon with a wave of his hand. “That’s not what’s happening here.”

  “And what do you think is happening?” Blake asked, while Devon merely waited in silence for Vincent to state his opinion.

  “What’s happening is that he is manipulating things to make everyone forget what he did three years ago. Instead we will all grovel with gratitude because he came back to save us all from utter ruin.” Vincent glared at Devon. “Maybe we should all drop to our knees right now and thank you. What a martyr you are—the good son who sacrificed so much for his younger brothers. Someone get me a bucket so I can retch.”

  “Vincent,” Blake said. “For God’s sake, is this really necessary right now?”

  “It’s fine,” Devon said, holding up a hand. “Let him speak his mind.”

  Vincent pointed a finger at the table. “Our father said it plainly. We are all named in the amendment to his will, and I have no intention of losing my inheritance, so I, too, shall marry.”

  “You never fail to surprise me,” Devon said.

  There was no warmth in Vincent’s eyes. “I suppose, if we’re going to be dragged by our ears to the altar, we should at least make it interesting. What do you say? I, for one, will fare better if I can call it a race.”

  Blake pinched the bridge of his nose. “God help us all.”

  “I will not play that game,” Devon informed him.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I will not compete with you, Vincent, just to feed your hunger to knock me about. Besides, such a challenge hardl
y leaves room for romance, does it?”

  “Then a swift seduction it will have to be,” Vincent replied, “with the first decent-looking female who crosses my path. Speaking of which...” He stood up and strolled to the window. “Didn’t I see Helen of Troy driving up with a coachload of bags this morning? How convenient.”

  Without so much as a mere second to think about the finer implications in all this, Devon heard himself say, “Stay away from that one, Vincent. She is mine.”

  Vincent eyed him shrewdly. “Is that a fact? I didn’t think you paid any heed to boundaries where women were concerned.”

  Devon’s gut turned to ice at the sudden memory of that letter he had carried in his pocket three years ago.

  “Do you already have an arrangement with Lady Rebecca?” Vincent asked.

  “No,” Devon replied. He had lied to his brother once before and paid the price. He would not do so again.

  Vincent laughed at that. “Well, I don’t see why you get to have first choice.”

  “I have not yet made my choice.”

  “It sounds like you have. You just said she was yours.”

  Devon stopped for a minute to consider his intentions. Did he actually mean to choose Lady Rebecca as a bride without even considering Lady Letitia, or without taking a look around at the other young ladies who were sure to be in London for the first ball of the Season? He barely knew the girl. And that’s what she was—a girl. She had been out in Society for what…a day?

  And what of Lady Letitia? he wondered. She would certainly appease their father.

  “I have known Lady Rebecca for quite some time,” he explained nevertheless, “and I have met her father. For that reason, there is some connection between us.”

  Heaven help him, even now, some deep, guilt-ridden part of him wanted to step aside and let Vincent have first choice—because he owed him that. Didn’t he? He certainly owed him something.

  But could Devon step aside?

  He thought about it and found himself growing very tense.