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

by Julianne MacLean

  “He wants me to leave you tonight and arrive at his door by tomorrow, midnight.”

  Devon imagined such a thing. “You are not to leave your room tonight,” he said curtly, “nor will you set foot outside the palace tomorrow. Do you understand?”

  She turned her face to the side, almost as if he had slapped her, and responded with ice-cold derision. “Yes.”

  “I will put a footman outside your door,” he said, “in case your former betrothed grows impatient and decides to come and fetch you directly.”

  She glared at him. “You are sure it’s for my protection? Perhaps imprisonment is a better word.”

  Devon stood motionless, staring at her. Was it a better word? Was it rage, jealousy, and obsession that had inspired his unfeeling instructions? Had he wanted to punish his wife for making him fear the loss of her? Or did he simply want to protect her?

  “Get some rest, Rebecca. We will discuss how to deal with this in the morning.” He moved to leave.

  “I never wanted to be a burden to you,” she said.

  He felt a stab of regret, but he already had one hand on the door. “I know,” he said, without turning around, because he did not want to surrender to his emotions. “You thought I would enjoy being your knight in shining armor. But you did not know me very well, did you? Nor I you.” With that, he walked out and did not stop until he reached the end of the corridor, then he came to an abrupt halt, squeezed his eyes shut and tapped his forehead against the wall.

  Heaven help him. He had just done it again. He had dealt with Rebecca in a cold and unfeeling manner—just as he had on their wedding day—when he should have shown her some compassion and eased her fears.

  Her father had just been accused of murder, and she had trusted him with that secret. She had trusted him! Even when she knew he could turn her out or turn her father over to the authorities.

  He had responded callously. He had even suggested she had given Rushton false hopes. Devon had smothered his tender feelings for her and had not permitted the fear of losing her to take hold—because that’s what he was afraid of, wasn’t it? He knew it. He understood it. Just the thought of Rebecca leaving him for another man made him want to put his fist through the wall.

  Touching the heel of his hand to his forehead, he managed to recover himself and started off down the corridor. He reached his own bedchamber, and only then did he realize it would be the first night of their marriage they would sleep apart.

  Chapter 22

  Dear Diary,

  It is true, as I have always known it would be one day. I am doomed. Perhaps this is the punishment I feared would eventually descend upon me for my wicked thoughts and desires, for the sinful pleasures I have sought, and because I gave my body freely to a man who was not my husband.

  Was it of no consequence that I loved him with all my heart and soul—that I would have died for him and would die for him still?

  But what does love matter now, I suppose, when I am to be dragged to the altar to marry another? In one hour, my father will come for me, and I will leave this dirty London inn for the church.

  And what of Jess? Is he even alive? Two days ago, my brothers beat him before my eyes and dragged him away. Where, oh where, did they take him?

  Please, dear God, I will do anything if you can spare his life. I will marry this man and repent my wicked desires, if only you will let my darling Jess go on living.

  Rebecca slammed the diary shut and wondered if she should deliver the book to Devon and mark the next page, for there were so many similarities to her own situation. If only her husband could believe that love like that truly existed. If only....

  But she was not going to take the book to him, because, for one thing, she was not supposed to leave her room. More importantly, she did not want to see him. She was far too angry. He had treated her like the criminal in all of this, when she was the one being threatened and mistreated.

  If anyone deserved her husband’s wrath, it was Mr. Rushton, for he was seeking to break up a marriage for his own selfish ambitions, while Rebecca could do nothing but worry about her father and live with the possibility that her entire life had been a lie—that she had sacrificed her happiness all these years for a killer.

  But no, that could not be true. She would not believe it. She could not even bear to think of it.

  Was her husband incapable of pity? Could he not see past his own skepticism and understand that she was in agony right now?

  She supposed he could not, and he had proven tonight that he was not so very different from Mr. Rushton. To him, she was a possession, and Devon had been overbearing and controlling because his power and authority had been threatened. He had told her she could not leave the palace, so it seemed she was indeed his prisoner.

  Devon woke at dawn the next morning, still uncertain about what to do. He lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. He supposed he could simply do nothing and let Rebecca’s father be exposed. Rebecca might not agree with that plan, but if her father was guilty of something heinous, it was only fair that he face justice.

  On the other hand, if he was innocent, the truth would prevail. There would be a scandal, yes, but at least Rushton would no longer hold any power over them, and Rebecca would be able to distance herself from it, here at Pembroke Palace.

  Devon looked toward the window. The sky was growing brighter. There were raindrops on the panes, more evidence of the wretched family curse, which his father would no doubt take to heart.

  At least Dr. Thomas had been helpful the day before. He had spent an hour with the duke and had spoken to Mother about it afterward, shedding new light on the duke’s fears and agitations.

  The doctor noted an intense fixation with the past and a delusional view of history, going as far back as the Dissolution of the Monasteries. As far as Dr. Thomas could ascertain, the duke believed the curse originated with one of the monks of Pembroke Abbey and that monk was still haunting the corridors.

  The doctor promised to return again in a few days for further analysis. He told the duchess that if the family desired it, he could recommend that the duke’s new will be rendered invalid on the basis of their father’s insanity. That would, however, require an official declaration that their father had gone mad.

  Devon and the rest of the family would have to take some time to consider the broader ramifications of such a course of action, and they had yet to receive word from Garrett.

  But that was not Devon’s first concern that morning. His first thought was to speak to Rebecca again and decide what must be done.

  He rose from bed and dressed without calling for his valet, then left his bedchamber and walked through the quiet palace. He passed a maid with a feather duster who seemed startled to see him at such an early hour. She quickly backed up against the wall as he passed.

  He turned the corner and spotted a footman pacing in front of Rebecca’s door. The young man stopped when he spotted Devon.

  “Good morning,” Devon said.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  Devon knocked on the door. There was no reply, so he knocked again, louder the second time.

  Still no answer came, so he turned to the footman. “No one has come or gone since I left?”

  “I was posted here only an hour ago, my lord, but I understand it was a quiet night.”

  Devon turned the knob, but the door was locked. He knocked louder and more insistently, and his heart began to beat faster as a sense of panic cut through to his bones. Rebecca wouldn’t have done anything foolish, would she? She wouldn’t have used the passageways to leave him...

  He turned to the footman. “Go and get a key from Mrs. Callahan.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The young man ran down the corridor toward the stairs, while Devon waited impatiently. A moment later, the housekeeper appeared with the footman.

  Mrs. Callahan f
umbled with her keys. “Good morning, Lord Hawthorne,” she said, as if nothing were amiss, but she was quick to insert the key into the lock and open the door.

  Devon entered Rebecca’s bedchamber and found it empty, though the covers were in disarray. At least the bed had been slept in. He went to the dressing room and peered inside, but there was no one about. He looked at the portrait on the wall, slightly ajar.

  Where had she gone, he wondered? If she had left the palace, he would have a hard time finding her, and pray God she didn’t leave to confront Rushton alone or surrender to his demands. If she did, Devon would have only himself to blame. He had offered her no help or support. He had made her feel like a prisoner.

  He turned from the room and met the footman and housekeeper waiting in the corridor. “If you would be so kind,” he said, “as to help me locate my wife. If you find her before I do, tell her I wish to speak with her in my study.”

  “Of course, Lord Hawthorne.”

  He strode off and went from room to room. He searched the library, the gallery, the breakfast room, the saloon, each of the drawing rooms, but she was nowhere to be found.

  With growing panic, he went back upstairs to his study, hoping the housekeeper had already brought her there, but the room was empty like all the others. Bloody hell, had she left? Had he been that much of a brute the night before? Oh, he knew he had. That was without question. But surely, she would not have been so foolish and impulsive to actually leave without telling anyone...

  What if she had? What if he had lost her forever?

  He ran back down the stairs again to find the housekeeper, but passed a footman carrying a pot of coffee. “Where are you going with that?” he asked.

  “To the breakfast room, my lord.”

  “Someone is up at this hour?”

  “Yes—”

  Devon turned and ran in that direction and burst through the door. Lo and behold, there she was—his precious, lovely wife—sitting at the white-clothed table with a book, dressed for the day and looking completely at ease in a sunny yellow gown with lace around the collar.

  He had never been so relieved to see anyone at breakfast in his life. If anything had happened to her... If he had lost her...

  What? he asked himself with a frown. What would he have done? How would he have felt?

  It was pointless to deny it. Despite all his worthy efforts to avoid falling hopelessly and desperately in love with his wife, despite his intentions to focus on his duties, not his heart, his heart was in pieces in her pretty little lap.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, struggling to recover from the panic still searing his brain. “I have been searching everywhere for you.”

  She frowned at him and lowered her book. “You did not make it entirely clear, Devon, whether that footman was posted at my door to keep unwelcome visitors out, or to keep me in. And I confess the mere idea that I was not permitted to leave my room was offensive to me in every way. Did you actually think—for one single minute—that I would run away in the night and submit to Mr. Rushton’s attempt to blackmail me?” She slammed a fist onto the table. “You forget I have a will of my own, Devon. I will not be forced to do something I do not wish to do. And I am not stupid!”

  The footman walked in at that moment with the coffee pot, saw the fire blazing in her eyes, her fist on the table, then promptly turned around and walked out.

  Devon realized he was short of breath from running up and down the stairs, not to mention the disconcerting effects of walking into this room just now and discovering his heart was not as impervious as he had thought.

  And now—after listening to Rebecca’s very impressive tirade....

  Damsel in distress? Clearly not.

  How could he ever possibly win the fight against loving her? He could not. It was as simple as that. He was conquered, defeated, done for.

  “I apologize,” he said, “for not being clear on that point. The footman was intended to keep unwelcome visitors out. You are of course free to move about the palace at your leisure.”

  She leaned back in her chair, appearing somewhat satisfied to hear it, even though it was a bald-faced lie. He had in fact wanted to keep her locked inside, because he did fear she might wish to save her father and would leave without a word. Without him at her side to...

  To do what?

  Protect her?

  Be her hero?

  Choke the very breath out of Rushton’s throat?

  He approached the table. “It’s time we discussed what must be done about the situation.”

  “You actually wish to discuss it with me?” she asked with a note of scorn in her voice. “You don’t intend to make the decision on your own, and simply inform me of it after the fact? If in fact you plan to do anything at all.”

  He deserved her open hostility and he knew it. He had not been sympathetic to her problems before now. He had been thinking only of his own fears. He was thinking of them still.

  He also knew he could not control what he felt. He could only control his actions and his words.

  It was clear she deserved some courtesy. She was not a burden. She was self-reliant. “I have a suggestion,” he said, “as to how we should proceed.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat across from her at the table. The footman returned and set the coffee pot on the sideboard, then more servants entered and set plates of eggs and sausage on the sideboard as well.

  As soon as they were gone, Rebecca leaned forward. “I am listening.”

  Devon leaned forward, too. “You told me Rushton wants you on his doorstep by midnight tonight.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then that is where you shall be,” he said. “I will deliver you there myself, and I will stand at your side when you knock on his door.”

  Rebecca frowned. “What then?”

  “The man believes he has all the power because you cannot see his cards. We must deal with this man head-on and knock those cards out of his hands.”

  “How?”

  “With knowledge. We must find out what your father did or did not do. We must know whether or not Rushton is lying.”

  Rebecca sat quietly for a moment, then rose from her chair and walked to the sideboard, saying nothing while she poured herself a cup of coffee. At last she turned.

  “What if he isn’t? What if it is true? What if my father is guilty of something?”

  “Do you suspect he is?”

  She took a long time to answer. “All I know is that Rushton has a note about a bracelet which implicates Father, and he claims the note was written by the victim, Serena Fullarton.”

  “Did you see this note?”

  “Yes, and Rushton also claims the woman is buried on my father’s estate—wearing the bracelet.”

  Devon leaned back and inhaled a deep breath.

  “There is something else I have not yet told you,” she said, “and if we are to face Mr. Rushton tonight, you must know everything.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He warned me yesterday that if I did not do exactly as he said, not only would he expose my father, he would somehow arrange for you or other members of your family to meet with...a fatal accident.”

  “He has threatened not only you, but my family as well?”

  “Yes.”

  If there was one emotion that Devon was willing to surrender to this morning, it was rage toward that man.

  Devon crumpled the napkin in his fist and stood. “Go and pack your bags. We will be leaving the palace immediately, and heaven help your neighbor Mr. Rushton when I finally lay eyes on him.”

  Chapter 23

  It should not have come as a surprise to any of them that the rain would not let up during the ten-hour journey to Creighton Manor. They were cooped up inside the coach the entire way—Rebecca, Devon, and Blake,
who had insisted on accompanying them, after Devon had explained the situation to him.

  The trip was cold and damp and endless. Water poured down the coach windows and the horses trotted through miles of puddles and muck. Rebecca sat next to her husband, but they could speak of nothing personal. She could not ask him if he forgave her for all the trouble she had caused, as Blake was always present.

  Even if he had not been, something would have held her back from more intimate communications with her husband, for he was preoccupied and gravely silent. He was determined to solve the immediate problem of Mr. Rushton’s attempts to blackmail her and her father.

  By the time they arrived at Creighton Manor, it was past dark. The coach pulled up at the front entrance, and though Rebecca was exhausted from the journey, she could barely keep from stepping out of the coach and running inside to see her father.

  She had not said goodbye to him before she left almost a month ago, and though she had been furious with him and continued to be uncertain of him now, he was still her father. He had once been the center of her life.

  Which was why none of this made sense to her, and why she felt as if the entire world was crumbling to pieces under her feet.

  The door of the coach opened at last, and Rebecca waited for her husband to step out and offer a hand. He escorted her to the door, and she rapped hard on the knocker.

  The maid answered. “Lady Rebecca!” Mary lunged forward and threw her arms around Rebecca, then spotted Devon and Blake behind her. “Begging your pardon, it’s Lady Hawthorne now, isn’t it? Goodness, would one of these gentlemen be your husband?” She let go of Rebecca and stepped back.

  “Yes, Mary. This is Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, and his brother, Lord Blake. We have come to see Father.”

  Mary curtsied to both of them and took their coats. “Welcome to Creighton Manor,” she said.

  “Go and fetch him right away, please,” Rebecca said. “We will wait by the fire.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.”

  Mary picked up her skirts and dashed up the stairs, while Rebecca led the way to the stone hearth in the great hall. She held her chilled hands out to warm them over the fire.