In My Wildest Fantasies (11 page)

She gasped and blinked up at him, befuddled. "Good gracious, whatever happened?"

"You must have gotten up from your chair too quickly," Devon replied. "Are you all right?"

"Oh," she said with a sigh, touching her forehead with the back of her hand. "I do beg your pardon, Lord Hawthorne. How mortifying."

"Do not trouble yourself," he said. "Just lie still for a moment until you feel strong enough to stand." A footman approached with a glass of water on a tray, which Devon picked up and handed to Lady Letitia.

The others had crowded around them, gaping down at her, and when it was clear she was going to recover, they began to chatter and disburse.

Aunt Grace came to stand beside Rebecca. "That was quite a performance," she whispered.

Rebecca glanced at her aunt. "Do you really think so?"

Grace raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

"You are so kind, Lord Hawthorne," Letitia said, taking his hand in hers while she continued to blink up at him. "How can I ever make it up to you?"

"Nonsense." He helped her to her feet and began to escort her out of the conservatory, walking past Rebecca and Aunt Grace without so much as a single backward glance. "All I ask is that you feel well enough to attend dinner this evening."

"Oh, yes," she replied. "I'm sure I will be better by then, thanks to your gentlemanly assistance. And I will count every minute."

"As will I." He exited the conservatory with Letitia on his arm, while her mother trotted merrily along behind them.

It was becoming dreadfully apparent to Devon as he mingled through the drawing room reception before dinner, that Lady Letitia and her mother were conniving shamelessly to attract his attention, and to prevent any opportunity that might arise for him to speak to any of the other young ladies in the room, most notably the flame-haired Helen of Troy.

Devon's father was not helping matters either, for he was the one who encouraged Blake to escort Lady Rebecca into dinner, leaving Devon with no choice but to offer his arm to Letitia.

As if he weren't already being maneuvered enough into his future as it was.

Nevertheless, he did not wish to act too hastily in either direction. There was his father to consider, and his inheritance. He had to keep the old man happy.

They took their places at the table, and the meal was served. All the while, Letitia continued with her bold tactics to win his favor. She managed to boast about everything from her beautiful singing voice to her superb skills at archery, while her mother openly supported every narcissistic word that spilled out of her pretty mouth.

"And don't you agree, Lord Hawthorne," she said, when her dessert was set down in front of her, "that any lady of good breeding must have superb conversational skills? That she should have some experience moving about in society? A good hostess cannot hide away in the country, after all."

God help him, her chattering voice was like some kind of nightmare from which he could not awaken.

"You are quite right," he replied. "A lady of true accomplishments must possess some measure of charm."

"Oh, yes. That is how a lady can best serve the needs of her husband."

She gazed across the table at him with amusement in her eyes, as if they were sharing a private intimacy.

After dinner, the ladies retired to the green drawing room for coffee while the gentlemen enjoyed their cigars in the smoking room. Later they all converged in the blue saloon where one of the matrons took a seat at the piano and began to play for an informal country dance.

Devon was not in the mood for dancing, however. Nor did he have any desire to laugh and joke with the gentlemen or spend any more of his time with Lady Letitia, listening to her go on about her first-rate education and awe-inspiring travels to Paris and Rome. He was exhausted from all that had occurred over the past two days--the tension he had come home to, his father's madness, Vincent's hostilities, and his promise that he would be the first to marry. On top of it all, he was experiencing a persistent, aching desire to converse with another woman tonight. He'd had enough interruptions.

At that moment she entered the saloon in a yellow silk gown and pearls, her scarlet hair swept into an elegant twist adorned with sparkling combs. She looked like a welcome ray of sunshine in a room full of thunderclouds.

Their eyes met. She smiled with genuine warmth and crossed to the window, not far from where he stood. He took the liberty of approaching.

"Good evening," he said. She turned and smiled again, as if she had been waiting just for him. "Permit me to say, you look ravishing."

"Shameless flatterer." Her green eyes glimmered with teasing.

A footman strolled by with a tray of sherry, and Devon picked up two glasses and handed one to her. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and slowly sipped his drink, savoring the potent flavor and the pleasant effects of the vision before him--Lady Rebecca, in all her feminine glory.

"Did you enjoy the poetry reading this afternoon?" he asked.

"Yes. I found it very moving."

"You must not be referring to the comedy, then," he whispered, "which took place, stage left?"

"My lord?"

He leaned his head a little closer. "Just so you know, my father hasn't always had a penchant for leafy ferns. That is a recently acquired taste, I'm afraid."

She sipped her sherry and took a moment to consider her reply, then gave him a quiet smile. "I thought I was the only one who noticed."

"I hope you were."

They both shook their heads to refuse the offerings on a tray filled with chocolate cookies and squares, brought round by another footman.

"May I presume your father is experiencing some symptoms of old age?" she asked, as soon as the footman moved on.

"You presume correctly."

"It is not uncommon," she assured him, "but difficult for the family nonetheless."

Taking another sip of sherry, she looked away and watched the duke for a moment, while he warmed his hands in front of the fire. Devon saw compassion in her eyes, or was it melancholy? He wished to observe everything about her with great care.

"If there is anything I can do while I am here," she said, "I would be happy to assist. I quite enjoy your father's conversations actually. He is very passionate about his gardens, and I admire his spirit."

"That is most kind of you, Lady Rebecca."

"Well...My father has not been well either," she explained. "Though his ailments are more physical. He suffers from rheumatism, which has made life difficult for both of us. It has always hurt me to see him endure the pain." She paused and lowered her gaze while she took a deeper sip, then spoke in a low, somewhat defeated voice. "I am afraid he has not been himself lately."

Could it be she understood exactly what he was going through? Devon felt a connection to her suddenly, and wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything. "I am sorry to hear that."

She lightened her tone and lifted her gaze again. "I am sure it gives your father great comfort to have you home again, Lord Hawthorne. It was good of you to return."

After all his own self-inflicted punishment over the past few days--for all the ways he had not lived up to his responsibilities in the past--her plain assurance was like a balm to his senses. "Those are generous words."

"They are not generous," she said. "It is simply the truth. Your family is fortunate to have you among them."

Before he had a chance to reply, his sister Charlotte joined them, and Rebecca's whole face lit up.

"Lady Charlotte," she said with a warm smile, "I cannot tell you how moved I was by your reading this afternoon. Your voice carried so well, and you read with such confidence and emotion. Your poem was my favorite of the day."

He studied his sister's expression. He had not seen such a smile on her face since before he had left for America. Not even his gift of a pearl bracelet had evoked such joy in her eyes.

"Oh, Lady Rebecca, you are so thoughtful," she replied. "I worry I might have sounded too tragic."

"No, not at all. I mean, you did sound tragic, but that was what made it so special. There was such sincerity and integrity in your voice. It moved us all and reminded us of the beauty in the world, even when life seems grim."

Charlotte took hold of both her hands. "Thank you, Lady Rebecca. You have made me very happy."

Devon watched the two women, so close in age, as they discussed the other readings, and recognized an immediate connection between them as well. It pleased him to see it, for Charlotte was the only daughter among four sons in this family, and she had not often had a female friend to confide in. She had surely needed one in recent years.

He glanced across the room at Lady Letitia, who had been watching him with a frosty look on her face, but she smiled the instant their gazes met.

Lord Faulkner's son approached and asked Charlotte to join him in the next dance, which left Devon alone with Lady Rebecca again.

"Your sister is very beautiful," she said, as she watched Charlotte move to the center of the room with the young man. There was genuine affection in her eyes. "She has your mother's coloring."

She certainly did not have their father's.

"I will tell her you said so," Devon replied. "But before I do, will you do me the honor?" He held out a hand.

"I would be delighted." Her green eyes held a hopeful, encouraging gleam that no other eyes could rival.

Indeed, she was making a first-rate impression on everyone, including him. Unlike Lady Letitia, she was a pleasant infusion of fresh air and warm sunshine, wholesome and unselfish and without a cartload of problems trailing along behind her. He was not only attracted to her, but felt some affection toward her as well. Practically speaking, she would be a good choice for a wife.

He glanced briefly at Lady Letitia again as he passed her by. It was highly unlikely she could ever win his esteem or fire his passions the way Rebecca did. But that fact alone gave him pause, so much so, he almost fumbled his steps.

He supposed--when one considered his jaded outlook on love and marriage--Lady Letitia would be a good choice as well, in a completely different way. With her, it would be easy to become a husband, yet change very little about the way he lived. He could remain detached.

With that in mind, he decided he would do well to keep his options open.

Chapter 8

The following evening, Rebecca dressed in a formal off-the-shoulder gown of deep blue satin with sapphire jewels and long white gloves, and sat with Aunt Grace in the music room, waiting for the classical quartette to begin playing.

Quietly, she gazed around the room--at the musicians with their instruments and music stands in front of them, at the shiny parquet floor beneath her feet, and finally up at the dazzling brass chandelier over her head. It was quiet in the room except for a few hushed murmurs of conversation toward the back.

"I must admit something, Aunt Grace," she said. "I feel rather dishonest under these circumstances. I came here because I want Lord Hawthorne as my husband, yet I wish to escape another man I do not wish to marry. That, above all, is what has brought me here so hastily. I wish I could simply tell him the truth about my life."

Her aunt clasped her hand. "You simply cannot ask a man to marry you in order to do you a favor. He must want to marry you, preferably because he loves you. And if he does, it will be his greatest desire to protect you from every unpleasant thing in the world, whether it is Mr. Rushton or a bumblebee flying around your bonnet. That is when you will be able to tell him everything, dearest, and he will embrace every challenge you represent."

"Let us hope it will come to that."

She checked over her shoulder and saw Lord Hawthorne enter the room with his sister, Lady Charlotte.

"There he is," her aunt said, "and I must say, he is looking very handsome. Good gracious."

Tonight he wore a fine black evening jacket with white waistcoat and tie, and his dark, wavy hair was slicked back, gleaming in the lamplight. The style accentuated the strong, rugged lines of his face.

He met Rebecca's gaze and inclined his head at her. She smiled in return, then faced front again, struggling to overcome the uncontrollable beat of her heart when the evening had only just begun.

"Oh, Aunt Grace, who am I trying to deceive?" she said. "I want to marry him for love and a grand passion, nothing else. I want the fairy tale with my charming, handsome hero. Mr. Rushton does not even exist for me now that I am here."

Her aunt leaned close and whispered, "I assure you, my dear, Mr. Rushton does exist, and he could be searching for you at this very moment. For that reason, it is imperative that you do what you must to secure the man you really want. A man who can protect you."

"Do what I must..."

"Yes," her aunt plainly replied, flicking open her fan and fluttering it in front of her face. "You saw what Lady Letitia resorted to in the conservatory yesterday."

"Are you suggesting I should pretend to swoon? I couldn't, Aunt Grace. I would feel like a fool."