He joined her on the bed. “Tell me, Rebecca. I want to know.”
She hesitated, then finally began to explain. “Mr. Rushton used to come to our house and have tea with us. It was always very strange and silent and awkward. He would look at me in a way that made me uncomfortable.”
Suddenly agitated, Devon inched closer to her. “Did he ever touch you?” he asked again, more demanding this time.
Her slender throat bobbed with a swallow. “Once.”
Devon braced himself for whatever she was about to tell him and tried, in advance, to subdue the anger he knew would come. “What happened?”
She hesitated again. “It was a year ago. I did not know he had come to visit. I was in the stables after returning from an afternoon ride. He came up behind me, grabbed hold of my skirts, and tore them as he pulled me toward him. He tried to kiss me, but I fought him and scratched his face and ran into the house. I never told Father.”
“You should have.”
“I don’t know that it would have made a difference. Father would never have confronted him, and I did not want to place that burden of guilt on him.”
Devon was surprised that his principal reaction was not anger, but his need to reassure her that she was now safe here at Pembroke Palace—that nothing like that would ever happen to her again. He touched his lips to hers.
“Neither he, nor any other, shall ever touch you that way again, Rebecca. If any man does, you must tell me, and I will not hesitate to confront him. In fact, I will hunt him down tirelessly in order to do so.”
She nibbled at his lips. “I thought you did not wish to be my protector.”
She was challenging him, meaning to prove that he was wrong to think he was not born to be her hero.
“It is my duty as your husband to protect you.”
“Just duty?” she asked, eyeing him intently. “Does it have nothing to do with passion? Jealousy? Love?”
His heart was beginning to pound in his chest. He shifted uncomfortably. “Sometimes we have no choice about the things we must do.”
“Do you regret the choices you have made?” she asked, referring, of course, to their marriage.
Growing more and more uneasy with the direction of this conversation, he rolled on top of her. “I regret nothing. But tell me, do you think Rushton will ever try to see you again?”
“Why are we talking about this tonight,” she asked, “when you have avoided the subject all week?”
“I don’t know. I am always surprised by the things I feel when I am with you.”
She wiggled her hips invitingly, beckoning him. “I doubt he will come here. This is Pembroke Palace, and you are the future duke.”
He thrust gently into her, then paused. “If I were him, I would want matters resolved once and for all—perhaps an apology from you for leaving without a word. I would also want to meet the man who stole my fiancée.”
Rebecca pulled Devon closer. “I told you before, I never agreed to be his fiancée. He knows that. He will simply have to let the matter go.”
Devon began to move, and she sighed with rapturous delight while he lost sight of life beyond this bed. Soon, passion obliterated everything else. They made love eagerly, changing positions often, exploring different sensations and responses. Afterward, they lay flat on their backs with their heads down at the footboard, struggling to catch their breath in the fading firelight.
“That was wonderful,” Rebecca said in a breathless sigh of release.
“As it has been every night,” he replied.
They lay quietly, exhausted. He was just drifting off to sleep when she spoke.
“Why did you want to know those things about Mr. Rushton? Do you still believe I am keeping something from you? Do you suspect there was something more between us?”
“A part of me still wonders,” he admitted.
“There was nothing, Devon. I promise you. Nothing. And if you ever met him for yourself, you would believe me. You would see that I could never desire a man like him.”
Devon rolled to face her. “And yet, there is something inside of me that feels rage when I imagine you reading that diary aloud to him.”
“I never did. You need to believe me about that.”
Devon rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling again. “I suppose I do. I just hope to God I never meet the man. For his sake, not mine.”
Chapter 19
Maximilian Rushton arrived in Pembroke Village by coach at half-past four on a Tuesday. He entered the Pembroke Inn, complimented the hostess on her appearance, and procured the most luxurious room in the establishment. He then ordered a bottle of their finest brandy and retired to his lodgings.
Weary but unwavering in his determination, he poured a glass before he even bothered to remove his coat. He raised it to his lips, took a drink, then set it upon the table and pondered the situation.
He had important plans to carry out, and it was crucial that he think everything through with great attention to detail. He could not dwell on his anger. He could not think of his discontent, or how sick he was of this frustrating uphill battle.
It was important that he remember the past and why he was here. He had come so very far in his lifetime, earning his fortune through a keen sense of business, improving his manners and speech, but he had met resistance in recent years. Ever since he acquired the house that bordered Creighton Manor, the obstacles had reached intolerable heights. He had hit one wall after another, which made this situation all the more exasperating, after coming so far.
He could not allow this to go on. Yesterday, at a small village inn, he had looked at the miniature of his mother, which he kept with him at all times, and was overcome by a rage so excruciating, he tore his room apart in a fit of temper. Just thinking of it now lit a hot ball of fire in his gut. All he’d ever wanted to do was avenge her death. And all he wanted now was his due—the final glory, which he deserved. His mother and father deserved it, too.
He thought of the Creighton ballroom suddenly. The present earl did not make use of that room. It stood empty all year round, the crystal chandelier covered in dust, the small number of furnishings hidden under white sheets like ghosts.
The previous earl had used it, of course—that despicable, foul rotter. He was the one who had built the ballroom with funds from the sale of the Rushton home and family business. That man, with the world at his fingertips, had won all that in a card game, and the very next day, he had come to collect his winnings. He had tossed the family out onto the dirty streets of West London without a backward glance or a single care as to how they would survive. He did not care that the house had been in the family for four generations, or that Maximilian’s mother was expecting a child.
Maximilian ground his teeth together with loathing. His mother had died three weeks later, giving birth to the child who would have been his brother. That same day, the Earl of Creighton had sold their house. He had used the funds to build the ballroom.
Maximilian had decided long ago that he would own that room. He would open it up and hang a portrait of his father and mother on the center wall. He had planned to do so when he became lord of the manor and had come very close to that end only a few short weeks ago.
But of course, as always, there had been another setback. There had been further frustration because Creighton—that spineless old lord—had not been man enough to keep his daughter under control.
Maximilian looked down at the brandy glass again. Deciding that he would not be denied his due a second time, he raised the glass to his lips and downed the whole drink. He picked up the brandy bottle to pour another, watched the amber liquid gush forth, and carried the glass to the bed.
Yes, he had let Rebecca slip away because he had been too patient and easy on the earl, and he had not expected any resistance. Not from the old man, at any rate, considering the hi
story they had together. Rushton had assumed the earl’s daughter would simply arrive on his own doorstep, dutiful as always, dressed for her wedding.
Evidently, he had underestimated her, which he now knew had been a mistake. He should have expected something like this, especially after the incident with the dogs. He had been overconfident, convinced that he could snap her spirit like a dry twig once she was living under his roof. As it turned out, she possessed far more spirit and gumption than he had bargained for.
Not an unattractive quality in a wife, he decided, as he lay down on the bed, for at least he could be sure their son—the future heir to the Creighton title—would not be a weak-willed jellyfish like the present earl. Maximilian’s son would be taught with a firm hand never to whimper, and he would grow up to be a powerful man, hold a seat in the House of Lords, and Maximilian would enjoy a new position in society.
Yes, after all he had been through, it was time he reaped his due. If there was any justice in the world—and he could not accept that there was not—the Creighton earldom would repay its debts, both financial and otherwise.
Maximilian didn’t care that Rebecca had married a marquess, for he still had the power and means to take her away. She would discover that very soon.
A fine, cold mist put a chill in the air the day Rebecca and Charlotte ventured out to visit the milliner. Their coach pulled up in front of the shop and slowed to a halt, and a footman hopped down from the page board to lower the step. He assisted them both out of the coach, and Charlotte led the way inside.
They were greeted by the milliner herself—an older woman with dimpled cheeks and spectacles. She wore a gown of dark green foulard with Russian pleating and appeared with a smile from behind an elegant display of hats.
“Lady Charlotte,” she said, “how wonderful to see you. Have you come to view the new selection? I have a number of fashionable designs this week. Or if you would like to see the fabrics...”
Charlotte beamed. “Yes, Mrs. Sisk, I want to see everything. But first I must present you to my new sister-in-law, Lady Hawthorne. Rebecca, this is Mrs. Sisk, the most gifted milliner in England.”
The woman placed a hand over her heart, then curtsied. “I am honored, your ladyship. I hope I can be of service to you in the future.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sisk,” Rebecca replied. “I can see by looking around at your beautiful inventory that I will be visiting your shop often. This is spectacular.” She gestured toward a stylish cap of embroidered batiste, edged with Mechlin lace and trimmed with lilac ribbon.
Mrs. Sisk turned to the hat in question. “You have exquisite taste, Lady Hawthorne. You may try it on if you wish, and if it does not fit perfectly, I can make you another exactly like it.”
So followed an hour of delightful millinery pursuits, with both Charlotte and Rebecca experimenting with different colors and styles, while Mrs. Sisk spared nothing in tending to all their needs, whether it was in the presentation of hats and bonnets, or the arrangement of cookies on a tray, and tea with milk and sugar.
They were sitting on the sofa later in the afternoon, enjoying their cookies and cakes, when Charlotte glanced toward the window.
“Look at that man out there on the street, Rebecca. He has been pacing back and forth for quite some time. You don’t suppose he is up to some kind of mischief, do you?”
Rebecca set her teacup on the table and turned. Her heart immediately began to pound.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked. “Do you know him?”
Rising slowly, Rebecca walked to the glass and spoke slowly, with disbelief. “It is the man my father wanted me to marry.”
Charlotte set down her teacup as well and joined Rebecca at the window. “Mr. Rushton?” They continued to watch him as he looked in the shop windows across the street. “What was so terrible about him?” she asked. “You never really put it into words.”
Rebecca swallowed uncomfortably. “He is cruel. He beats his dogs and horses, and he is ruthless in his ambitions. He preys on those who are weaker than he—those he believes will permit him to be superior.”
Charlotte wrapped her arm around Rebecca’s. “In that case, I am very glad you came to us when you did.”
Just then he turned and looked their way. “Goodness,” Charlotte said. “He has seen us. We should not have been staring.”
Rebecca strove to remain calm while her former neighbor started off across the street toward them. “I believe he saw us long before we started staring. My guess is that he has been watching us for the past hour.”
“That is a rather disturbing notion,” Charlotte replied. They both remained in the window, watching him approach. “What shall we do?”
“There is nothing else to do,” Rebecca answered, working hard to steady her nerves, “but wait here until he comes through the door, at which time we will discover what he wants.” She swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. “Let us stand together, Charlotte. I am glad you are here with me. I refuse to be intimidated.”
Chapter 20
Devon had just sat down in his study to answer some letters of estate business when the butler knocked and entered. “There is a Dr. Thomas to see you, my lord.”
“Do send him up,” Devon replied, relieved that the man had finally arrived.
A moment later, the butler returned and announced the doctor, then left and closed the door behind him. Devon took in the man’s appearance and demeanor. He was fair-haired, slender, and appeared to be in his mid-fifties. There was a clear mark of intelligence in his eyes.
“Dr. Thomas, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Devon said, rising and coming out from behind the desk, “and it was good of you to come on such short notice.”
“It is an honor to be of service to you, Lord Hawthorne.” They shook hands.
Devon invited the man to sit. “I presume my mother explained the particulars to you in her letter?”
The doctor moved to the sofa. “Her Grace said the duke has been unwell. She mentioned symptoms of insomnia, anxiety, and some possible delusions?”
Devon regarded the doctor steadily. “That is correct. All this is confidential I presume.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Devon paused a moment, watching the doctor’s eyes, then sat down in a facing chair. “My father wanders the palace corridors at night talking to himself—or rather, he talks to the portraits of his ancestors, the first duke especially. He has let his appearance go—his valet has had a difficult time lately—and he often seems nervous, agitated, frightened.”
“Frightened of what?”
Devon paused again. “I shall be forthcoming with you, Doctor. He believes the palace is under some kind of curse. He believes also that if all four of his sons are not married before Christmas, a flood will sweep us all away. He has even gone so far as to change his will to force us to comply, and if a single one of us does not, none of us will receive our portion of the unentailed fortune upon his death.”
The doctor’s eyebrows lifted. “I see. And you are certain he is not simply trying to scare each of you into growing up? Sometimes obstinate fathers can go to great lengths. You’re sure he is truly delusional about this curse?”
“I am sure.”
“And you do not believe in it.”
Devon chuckled. “No, I do not believe in ghosts or sorcery.”
The doctor glanced around the room at the paintings on the walls. “And the rest of your family feels the same?”
“Of course.”
“What about your younger sister? Is she being forced to marry as well?”
“No.”
“So, your brothers... Do they all plan on following in your footsteps and doing as he asks?”
Devon began to explain. “As it happens, my brother Vincent is in London at this very moment searching for his wife-to-be. He does not wish to lose his
inheritance. Blake, however, is in no great hurry, but he is never one to panic. A calmer man there never was.”
“What about your third brother?” the doctor asked, leaning forward slightly. “Your sister’s twin. He is abroad, is he not?”
Devon eyed the doctor shrewdly, then glanced up at his mother’s portrait on the wall. “That is correct, sir. Garrett is traveling in the Mediterranean. He is artistic and enjoys his freedom.”
The doctor leaned back. “Does he know about his father’s illness?”
“I sent a letter a week ago. I doubt he has even received it yet.”
“Ah, well, that is not my business, I suppose. I am here to examine your father. Is he expecting me, or will this be a surprise?”
“We have not told him of your visit, as he refuses to see anyone but his own physician, who always gives him the diagnosis he asks for.”
“That is not uncommon,” Dr. Thomas replied, “especially when a physician does not have a firm diagnosis to begin with. Diseases of the mind are sometimes the most challenging of all.”
“Indeed.”
The doctor stood. “If you will present me to the duke, Lord Hawthorne, and leave us alone for a time, I should be able to draw him out and see what is happening inside his mind.”
Devon hesitated a moment. “I beg your pardon, Doctor, but I must have your word that you will not harm him with any overly progressive treatments, or humiliate him.”
The doctor’s expression softened with understanding. “You have my word, Lord Hawthorne. I only intend to speak with him.”
Devon rose from his chair. “Then I shall take you to him straightaway.”
Charlotte and Rebecca stood at the hat shop window, watching Mr. Rushton cross the street toward them. He walked through the door, bold as a bull, paused just inside to peer obnoxiously at them, and said only one thing.
“Rebecca.”
She had never given him permission to use her Christian name before, and just the sound of it on his lips made her skin prickle with aversion.
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 20
