In My Wildest Fantasies (10 page)

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 hardly 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 very 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?" his brother 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'd 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."

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

But could he step aside?

He thought about it, and found himself growing tense.

His brother stared intently at him. "Have you no interest in Lady Letitia? She is the daughter of a duke, and from what I understand, Father handpicked her."

Devon made no reply.

Vincent turned away, waving a dismissive hand. "All right, all right, you can have the Trojan. Perhaps I shall consider Lady Letitia, just to make Father happy because I adore him so." He faced them again and spread his hands wide. "What a noble son I am."

Vincent left the room, and Blake seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, while Devon merely squared his shoulders, going to refill his coffee cup and preparing himself for the week ahead, as it appeared he was suddenly in the market for a wife and had already voiced his preference for one woman in particular.

Who would ever have thought he would find himself herded into a future so soon after returning home? Who would have thought he would give in to the pressure to take a wife in such a swift, calculated fashion?

But what did it matter, he supposed as he stood next to the sideboard and sipped his hot coffee, when all was said and done? He'd always known he would marry one day, and he had come home to make amends and fulfill his duty as heir. He had never been eager to combine marriage with love. Love brought a fleeting, temporary joy, then it inevitably soured into a lifelong hell. He'd seen it countless times before. His parents were no exception, and he'd experienced it quite plainly for himself.

What he needed and what he must look for was someone uncomplicated. Someone who could be a proper duchess, provide heirs, and run this household. Lady Rebecca had been running the house at her father's estate for years, and he was most certainly attracted to her, which would at least make the duty of producing an heir a pleasant one. Unlike Lady Letitia, she had not been out in society for long, so she was a clean slate, so to speak, and would be easily molded to fit into his life at the palace the way he wanted her to. She had no scandals in her past, no other gentlemen sniffing around. Outside of Vincent, that is.

And she was here, which was convenient above all else.

Ease and convenience was all he could ask for, really, for everyone knew his opinions about undying love and fairy-tale endings. They were contemptuous at best.

Maximilian Rushton had just pressed his stamp into a sticky bead of red wax to seal a letter, when a knock sounded at his door. Irritated by the interruption when he had other letters to write, he set the stamp down and shouted across the room, "What the devil is it?"

The maid answered him uncertainly from the other side of the door. "You asked to see the room, sir? When it was prepared?"

He stared at the door for a brief moment before he slid his chair back and stood. A few seconds later, he was walking into the bedchamber that would belong to his bride. He stood in front of the fireplace and let his diligent gaze pass over everything--the fresh bed coverings, the thickness of the pillows, the quality of the very expensive rug beside the bed. He assessed the color and design of the wallpaper he had chosen, as well as the drapes and upholstery on the chairs. The white bassinet with gilt trimmings in the corner was spectacular. It would be an effective reminder of his wife's duty in this room, and would likely give her some pleasant dreams, imagining a child of her own one day.

She would be happy here, he decided. At least until her father was dead, at which time she would no doubt be pleased to return to her childhood home as Countess of Creighton, with the Creighton heir. His own son. Maximilian would be pleased to relocate there as well. He had been waiting a long time.

Turning toward the fireplace, he inspected the interesting knickknacks he had selected for the mantel. He had chosen ornaments his mother would have approved of--a tiny, ceramic statue of a dog and a delightful fabric box covered in seashells. She'd had a seashell collection of her own, he remembered.

He also had found a small, framed print of a sailing ship. She had always wanted to travel abroad. He was especially proud of the ebony jar designed to hold hatpins--his mother had owned dozens of them--and the sterling silver puff box.

Yes, it was a lovely room for a lady. A bride. A mother. He turned to look at the bassinet, and his gut began to roll with hunger. Tomorrow. She would arrive tomorrow.

His trousers tightened abruptly over a sudden erection. He gritted his teeth with annoyance, just as his gaze shot to the plump parlor maid, who entered the room at that moment with a vase of fresh flowers. He watched her set the vase down on the table close to the window and toy with the arrangement.

Maximilian crossed toward her. The woman was lazy as the day was long and smelled of stale cabbage, but she would know what he wanted and she would be repulsively eager. It was why he kept her in his employ.

After moving into their rooms at the palace and unpacking their things, Rebecca and her aunt enjoyed an informal luncheon with the female guests, while the gentlemen engaged themselves in a political debate in the library.

They were sitting in the drawing room afterward, sipping tea and eating chocolates, when Lady Letitia rose elegantly from her seat by the piano to join Rebecca at the window.

"Your costume was quite the thing last night," she said, holding her cup and saucer in her slender, long-fingered hands. She towered over Rebecca, who had to crane her neck to look up at her. Letitia's ebony hair was clean and shiny, swept into an ornate, braided twist in the back, which flattered the delicate bone structure of her face. Her complexion was impossibly soft and dewy-looking, altogether feminine, but there was something aggressive in her eyes, which Rebecca noted with caution.

"And your costume was delightful, Lady Letitia. You were lovely in it."

They looked out the window. A lengthy silence ensued.

"I didn't think you were staying at the palace," Letitia said. "In fact, it was my understanding you arrived at the last minute, only to attend the ball."

Rebecca nodded. "That's right. We had rooms reserved at the Pembroke Inn, but last night, Lord Hawthorne was kind enough to invite us to join the family for the rest of the party."

Letitia's eyes narrowed. "How very chivalrous of him. He is a generous man, don't you agree?"

"Yes, very."

They both sipped their tea, saying nothing for another minute or two, then Letitia gestured toward the front of Rebecca's gown. "I must say, you have your own sense of style, don't you? Your dress is very...Oh, how can I say this without insulting you? It's very daring for a ladies' luncheon."

Rebecca touched her neckline. It was not so very daring. No worse than any other dress in the room.

Nevertheless, she glanced around just to make sure.

"But you still look lovely in it," Letitia added brightly. "The color is quite nice. Not a shade I would choose, but...It looks pretty on you just the same." Her eyes raked over Rebecca from head to foot, then she smiled, but Rebecca detected a hint of scorn.

She resolved to be careful around this woman.

Later that afternoon, everyone gathered together in the conservatory for a poetry reading, where chairs had been set up facing a small dais of stone. The roses and gardenias were in full bloom, and the scent of spring flowers was almost strong enough to distract everyone from the hissing downpour of rain onto the glass ceiling over their heads.

Lady Charlotte was first to read Browning's Two in the Campagna, and Rebecca listened to the moving elegance of the words and was lulled by the musical tone of Charlotte's voice as she recited. She was soon distracted, however, by a pair of eyes upon her, staring. She turned her gaze to the left to discover Lady Letitia's head turned in her direction.

Rebecca nodded at her. Letitia nodded in return, then faced front again, lifting her chin as she raised her hands to applaud the reading.

Charlotte lowered her book, and appeared so deeply moved by the poem she'd recited, that she was on the verge of tears. She quietly took her seat in the front row.

Lord Faulkner stood and read Summer Dawn, by William Morris. His deep, masculine voice resonated throughout the conservatory. Rebecca listened to every word of the poem, realizing just what she had been missing in life by staying home with her father and never learning the joys of society and other people outside her own small world. She felt as if she were seeing a sunrise for the first time.

When Lord Faulkner finished his reading, she joined the others in enthusiastic applause, then turned her eyes toward the grove of tree ferns where the duke stood, and noticed he was not clapping, but picking at the leaves, tasting them and spitting them out.

Rebecca discreetly glanced over her shoulder at Lord Blake in the row behind her, who had already noticed the duke's strange behavior and was rising from his chair to intervene. When Blake touched his father's shoulder, the man turned his back on the tasty tree ferns and joined his son in applause.

Rebecca looked to the other side of the conservatory where Lord Hawthorne stood alone, leaning upon a low wall of stone around a bed of roses. His long legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He had already been watching her. When their eyes met, his expression did not change. He did not smile. He merely watched her with hooded eyes, and she could not move or think or even breathe.

She remembered suddenly why she had come here in the first place when she thought she would be forced to marry Mr. Rushton. She had believed this man could conquer any foe, solve any predicament, and she still believed that was so.

He continued to hold her captive in his cool gaze, and a hot tingling erupted in the pit of her belly. She knew she should look away, for the next guest with a poem had already risen and moved to the front, but she could not, especially when he pushed away from the stone wall and came to sit in the chair beside her.

He said nothing. He merely crossed one leg over the other and listened to the reading.

Lord Faulkner concluded his recital, and while everyone was clapping, Devon leaned a little closer to her. "Are you comfortably settled in?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," she whispered.

The readings were finished, and the other guests rose from their chairs and murmured in conversation. "You did not have a poem you wished to read?" she asked.

His blue eyes swept over her whole face. "I prefer more intimate surroundings for the reading of poetry."

"I see." Her cheeks flushed with color when she realized how breathlessly she had spoken.

Just then, there was a commotion behind them, and Rebecca turned to see Lady Letitia sigh and stagger, then begin to crumple to the stone floor in a billowing heap of silks and satin.

Devon had already pushed past and caught the young woman in his arms just before she hit the ground. He dropped to his knees and lowered her gently.

"Oh, my word!" Letitia's mother fumbled through her reticule and handed him her vinaigrette.

"Thank you." He flipped open the gold case and waved it under Letitia's perfect, tiny, aristocratic nose.