In My Wildest Fantasies (6 page)

His father had completely destroyed the garden. He had moved the shrubs and hedges. He had dug up bulbs, leaving deep holes and large mounds of earth scattered indiscriminately. All that remained was the large fountain in the center and the beautiful statue of Venus, abandoned, left alone in a devastated wasteland. No wonder Mother had wished him to return.

Gathering his coat collar tighter around his neck and noting the fact that he could see his breath in the damp chill, Devon tightened his grip on the umbrella handle and looked toward the highest point on the property. There, he saw his father with a garden spade, digging another hole.

Devon left the stone terrace and walked up the gravel path, running a hand down his thigh to massage the pain out of his knee. When he finally reached his father, he stood quietly for a moment, watching him.

The duke forced the shovel into the tough ground and tossed the wet earth carelessly behind him. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, and his coat was soaked straight through. He did not seem to care, however. His only concern was the hole in the ground.

Devon cleared his throat. "Father."

The duke continued to dig, so Devon took a step closer and spoke again, louder this time. "Father!"

The duke stopped and turned and stared bewildered at him. "My son!" He dropped the shovel, rushed forward and wrapped his arms around him. "Thank God! You've come home!"

Devon managed to hug his father and hold the umbrella over both their heads, while his emotions fell into turmoil. His father was not the same. He did not seem to recall the terrible fury and anger upon which they had parted three years ago. It was as if it had never happened.

"Yes, Father, I have returned," he said warily. When they stepped apart, Devon held the umbrella over his father's head, not his own. "Blake said you wished to speak to me about something."

"Yes, it's very important."

"Why don't we go inside to talk," he suggested. "It's pouring rain, and you're soaking wet."

"Not yet. I have to save the garden. Everything needs to be right here, exactly where we are standing. On high ground."

Devon looked at the disastrous layout of shrubs and hedges, which had been hastily transplanted with no sense of order or beauty. It was utter chaos, and mud was oozing everywhere.

He hated mud. He hated the look of it, the feel of it, the smell of it.

"Surely this can wait until tomorrow," he suggested. "Guests have already begun to arrive for the ball tonight, and Mother would like to have you with her to greet them. It is her birthday after all."

The duke glanced back at the half dug hole. "But I must finish. I must get that rose bush into the ground before the flood comes."

Devon swallowed uneasily. "There is no flood, Father. This is just a heavy spring rain."

"But there is a curse on us."

Devon stared at his father for a moment. "No, Father. It has been raining all over England. Not just here."

"But it is our fault it is raining." His father continued to stare doggedly at him, shivering in the cold. God in heaven. He was going to catch his death if he carried on like this. He had to be brought inside.

Devon looked down at the rose bush waiting in the cart, then back at his father.

"I'll plant it for you," he heard himself saying, "if you will hold my umbrella and explain to me what you told Blake--how you believe only I can stop this...this curse."

The duke reached a shaky hand out to take the umbrella from him. "Thank you, Devon. You're a good son. The very best."

Devon glanced briefly at his father while he moved to scoop up the heavy rose bush and its jungle of roots, caked in dirt. He carried it to the hole and got down on one knee to set it inside. Then he picked up the shovel and began to fill the hole back in, making sure to cover all the roots.

"I won't keep you guessing any longer," his father said at last. "You must marry right away, Devon, and you must convince all three of your brothers to do the same."

Marry?

Devon stopped patting the mud around the bush and straightened. "I beg your pardon? Did I hear you correctly?"

"Yes. It will stop the curse and therefore stop the rain."

"How the hell will four weddings stop the rain?"

"They just will," his father said simply, sounding completely sane.

Devon stabbed the shovel into the ground with his boot and leaned a wrist upon the handle. Rain pounded onto his shoulders.

"You are not making sense, Father, and I will not succumb to this. I am going to send for Dr. Lambert immediately and insist that he prescribe something for you to take at night that will help you sleep."

His father shook his head. "No. Dr. Lambert's a man of science. He doesn't understand any of this, and it's not sleep I need, it is a legitimate grandchild. The palace is in jeopardy."

Devon's head drew back as if a ball had just been thrown his way. A grandchild to save the palace. Suddenly everything was becoming very clear.

"Father," he said, as gently as possible, "I assure you, there is no need to worry. You have four sons, and you have my word that one of us will eventually provide an heir. The ducal line will continue."

The duke laughed scornfully. "Rubbish. This rain is a warning, because you boys are all too busy playing cards in London or gallivanting about the world, never thinking about settling down and doing your duty. Except Blake, who's been taking care of everything in your absence, but for that reason hasn't had a single minute to look around and find himself a pretty lass. And you, Devon, you're the eldest, the future duke. You should set an example. At least be speaking of it occasionally, but I swear all you do is look at your mother's sour face and think to yourself, 'I am never getting myself shackled.' And poor Charlotte. She tried, but what happened to her? The bloke went off and got himself stuffed into the ground, six feet under, and what is she to do now but cry herself to sleep?" He lowered the umbrella to his side, completely oblivious to the rain now pouring down upon his head and shoulders, streaming down his body. "I know everyone thinks I am mad, but I am not. The family is cursed, I tell you, and we must do something about it. There must be another generation begun in this house before winter."

"There is plenty of time," Devon assured him. "As I said before, we will each marry when we are ready."

"No. You will marry now."

Devon slowly shook his head at him. "No, Father," he firmly said. "We will not."

The duke stared at him for long moment, then his face sank into a dark, angry frown. "I see nothing has changed."

Devon's gut wrenched with an agony he did not wish to feel. He had spent his entire childhood trying so very hard to be the son his father wished him to be, and had succeeded most of the time--until three years ago when he had failed miserably and his father had cast him out.

Bloody hell, he did not want to care that his father was disappointed in him. He could do that well enough on his own.

"I thought that might be the case," the duke said with the forceful, unwavering conviction Devon remembered so well from his youth. "So I took steps to ensure that you would do as I say. Events are already in motion. My solicitor was here four days ago and I have altered my will. It now states clearly--and legally I might add--that if all four of my sons are not married by Christmas, I shall leave my entire unentailed fortune to the London Horticultural Society." He gazed with agitation at the rose bush, then stomped on the dirt at its base. "So that they may replant my gardens after the flood."

Devon strove to curb the rage twisting and turning in his gut, while his father nodded triumphantly. "There now. You're not so happy now, are you, my wayward one, knowing you won't have your inheritance to squander on another continent. You will get the estate, of course. There is nothing I can do about that. But I warn you--without the fortune you will have little else. Land isn't what it used to be."

He started toward the garden cart and tossed the umbrella inside. "And don't bother trying to invalidate the will," he said, taking hold of the handles. "Dr. Lambert has deemed me quite fit, and my solicitor has assured me that I can leave my money to whomever I bloody well choose."

With that, he started down the hill. "Find a bride, Devon. You can begin at the ball tonight. I have invited a number of suitable young ladies, but there is one in particular who will be a good match. She is the daughter of a duke, so she will fit right in."

Tonight?

Bloody hell! Did his father think it would be that easy? That Devon would surrender to this ridiculous plan just like that? Surely a snowball was more likely to survive a full year in the burning furies of hell.

Chapter 5

By some miracle of God, the rain stayed away that evening, the downpour stopping approximately one hour before the guests from the village began to arrive. The cool air carried the fresh fragrance of early spring, reminding everyone of the brightness that normally touched their spirits and stirred their hearts at this time of year.

Everyone except for Devon, of course, for spring was the season he hated most of all. Not to mention the fact that he had just been told he must marry immediately or be disinherited, and he was now waiting to be presented to a young lady his father had already picked out. All in all, it had not been a good day.

While he wandered around the perimeter of the ballroom, dressed in the costume his mother had arranged for him--a highwayman's black cape and mask--he wished he had arrived the day before and had at least been given a chance to absorb what was happening and to accept this fate being forced upon him. Or perhaps find a way around it.

Right now, all he seemed able to do was look around the room at all the young English girls and their mothers, eyeing him with the same hungry purpose--to be the next Duchess of Pembroke.

It was hardly an aphrodisiac, when what he really needed right now was some plain and simple sexual attraction. A flirtation. The promise of pleasure. A bit of a challenge, perhaps. Maybe even a hint of seduction. Was it too much to ask, to be attracted to a potential bride?

If he was committed to finding one, of course. Which he was not.

Just then--surely by some second miracle of God--a woman waltzed by him, passing by so fast, he felt a slight breeze ruffle his cape. Her hair caught his eye--flame red, one single lock trailing thick and wavy down her back. She was dressed as a Roman, or a Trojan...Helen of Troy perhaps? He turned and watched her circle the room with her partner, Dr. Lambert's son, who resided in the village.

But who was the woman? He did not recall her being announced, though he might have been outside taking some fresh air at the time. To avoid complete and utter suffocation inside.

His mother approached. "Devon, I've been looking for you. Where have you been?" She brought two women with her. A mother and daughter, ravenous with high hopes, no doubt.

"Good evening, Mother," he said. "I was outside on the terrace, enjoying the air and marveling at the notion that one could do so without becoming thoroughly drenched." He smiled courteously.

"Oh, yes," his mother said, "how we all appreciate this welcome respite from the rain." She turned to Devon and gestured to the others. "Allow me, if you will, to present the Duchess of Swinburne and her daughter, Lady Letitia. They came all the way from Cornwall to join us this week. Ladies, this is my son, Lord Hawthorne."

And this was the young lady his father had selected--a striking beauty to be sure. He bowed. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance," he said. "I hope this weather did not make your travels unduly difficult."

Her Grace, a small, plump woman with dimples, brown hair, and round spectacles, shook her head. "Not at all, Lord Hawthorne. Nothing could keep us from your mother's birthday celebrations, not even weather such as this."

Devon turned his attention to the dazzling daughter, who was not small like her mother, but tall and slender with shiny black hair and a flawless ivory complexion. She was dressed as a fairy with wings, gazing at him with interest. "May I compliment you on your costume, Lady Letitia? It is most becoming."

Her eyes, from beneath her sparkling white mask, revealed her pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you, Lord Hawthorne. You are most kind."

His mother then engaged the duchess and her daughter in a conversation about orchids. While they discussed the pretty flower, he let his gaze wander discreetly until it came to rest on Helen of Troy again, who had been returned to her chaperone and was now standing with her back to him. This allowed him the opportunity to admire the curve of her hips and backside.

Her hair--that striking, shocking red hair--stirred his masculine senses, for he was consciously aware of the fact that although it was swept up in an intricate twist, that long, curling lock he'd noticed before fell to a sharp point at the precise juncture between the center of her lower back and her bottom. He liked the shape of that bottom, to be sure. It was very easy to imagine her standing there completely nude.

He could not contemplate such ideas further, however, for Helen of Troy turned to be presented to someone, and he was struck by an odd familiarity.

Good God, he had met this woman before. But where? When? If he had, it would have been a long time ago, before he'd left for America. In London perhaps? If only he could place her. If only she weren't wearing that mask.