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 pity’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, 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 at Vincent’s jaw 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 suppose 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 had learned what 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 had 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 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 stepped onto the walk, where weeds grew in the cracks between the stones.
Maximilian Rushton, tall and slender, 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 upon the brass knocker.
“Get the earl out 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 displeased.”
“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 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 at 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 Creighton 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 offered no reply.
Rushton strode to him. He was more than a foot taller than the 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,” Creighton 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 onto a chair against the wall. He dropped his head into a trembling hand and began to weep.
Rushton felt no pity for the man. 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 Rushton’s 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 earl 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, Adelaide, 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 that I have made for myself.”
She folded her hands 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.”
Devon 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?”
Devon leaned back in his chair. “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.”
Devon paused, then spoke in a low, gentle voice. “It is your unhappiness that has always cut my heart most deeply, Mother.”
He had always known his parents’ marriage had been arranged, and later he had come to understand that his mother had once loved another. Though she would never speak of it.
Adelaide slowly stood up and turned away from Devon. “Please do not say such things. It would break my 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. 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 holds an iron fist when it comes to what he thinks is best for everyone. I have already surrendered to my duty and proposed to a suitable woman. 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 have put everyone else’s happiness above 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.
Her voice was resigned, 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 the wound she kept wrapped and hidden from everyone. He would apply salve to it if he could.
“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 to MaryAnn three years ago. I will always regret my weakness and my impulsive passions. Yet here I am, rushing into marriage with a woman I barely know.”
Adelaide knelt before him, placed her hands on his knees, and spoke with conviction. “I have a good feeling about her, Devon. You will be happy, if you will only let yourself. What happened with MaryAnn was tragic
, there is no question about that, but you never meant for it to happen. You did your best. Her death was an accident.”
“But her feelings for me were...” He paused.
“What MaryAnn felt in her heart is not your fault either. You did what you could to discourage her and remain loyal to your brother. You need to forgive yourself.”
Devon gazed into his mother’s caring eyes. She was a wise and intelligent woman, but she did not know the whole story about MaryAnn. No one did. “Vincent has not forgiven me,” he said.
“He will in time. Now that you are home.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
She sighed heavily. “Please, Devon. It is true that you have been pushed into this marriage because of your father’s demands, but you can still open your heart to the possibility of love and happiness with the woman you have chosen to be your wife. Learn from my mistakes. Do not repeat them. Run toward love, not away from it. Do not resist what you feel for her. You could bring hope and joy back into this house. Lord knows we all need it here.”
“That we do,” he replied, feeling the weight of his responsibilities looming heavier than ever. “That we do.”
That night after the theatricals in the grand saloon, the ladies said goodnight to each other, while some of the gentlemen decided to sample the brandy in the library and engage themselves in a few hands of cards.
Devon encouraged them to do so, ordered more brandy to be brought up, then discreetly slipped behind the crimson drapery in the saloon to the hidden door in the wall. He flicked the latch and entered the dark passageway, where a candle was waiting for him in a sconce.
As a boy he had explored these narrow corridors hundreds of times, and he and his brothers often escaped punishment when they had been confined to their rooms by lock and key—at least until a new nanny discovered the secret doorways hidden behind movable bookcases or built-in wardrobes.
Their favorite places to explore had always been the subterranean passageways, for they were dark and damp and built from stone by monks at the abbey—before the king had dismantled the monasteries and turned them all out.
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 13
