In My Wildest Fantasies (8 page)

"Why don't you picture me in your mind," she suggested with a sensual lilt in her voice--the kind of lilt Lydie had once written about. "I will be wearing a rose-colored gown with white trim when I order my toast with strawberry jam, and I will ask for milk in my tea. Perhaps even a little sugar if I feel in the mood for something sweeter than usual."

He smiled again. "I promise you, I will think of nothing else all night, Lady Rebecca."

She felt a moment of triumph as he swept her past the tall tree fern near the orchestra, then toward the open French doors that led out onto the flagstone terrace. She caught a whiff of the cool, nighttime air and inhaled deeply as they passed by, feeling rejuvenated by their open flirtations and hopeful for her future once again. Mr. Rushton seemed a thousand miles away. He didn't even exist for her now, when she was being swept around the room in Lord Hawthorne's strong arms. She wished she could dance with him until dawn.

Sadly, however, the orchestra soon finished the piece, and she was forced to step out of his arms.

But that couldn't be it. It couldn't be over. She prayed for another opportunity to converse with him before they said goodnight.

He escorted her back to her aunt, then bowed to both of them. "Thank you, Lady Rebecca. May I hope to escort you to the dessert table later this evening?"

Her prayers had been answered, and her heart drummed with delight. She accepted his invitation.

"I presume it went well," Aunt Grace said, speaking quietly after he left.

"It appears so."

They watched him circle the room. He stopped to speak to the young lady he had danced with earlier--the duke's daughter with the strikingly dark features--and Rebecca let out a sigh.

"Perhaps I am dreaming, Aunt Grace. Look at him. Surely he must prefer a woman like that--tall and graceful, with a neck like a swan. A woman who knows how to behave in society. I feel like such a novice."

"Maybe that is your charm."

Lord Hawthorne joined his younger brother, Lord Blake. They spoke briefly, then left the ballroom.

"Do not worry," Aunt Grace said. "He will return, and he has promised you a trip to the dessert table."

"But then what? Dancing with a man is one thing. Getting him to propose is quite another. And there are so many other attractive women here tonight. It appears I have quite a bit of competition."

Her aunt considered it. "You must have patience, darling. Rome wasn't built in a day."

Just then, Devon's mother, the duchess, approached again, and Rebecca turned to find herself gazing up at another handsome gentleman--tall and dark like Devon, with shiny black hair. His eyes were brown, however, instead of blue. The strong, attractive angles of his face resembled Devon's closely, but there was something very different about this man's demeanor. There was a bold, rather callous look in his eye.

The duchess gestured politely with a hand. "Lady Saxby and Lady Rebecca, since this is your first visit to Pembroke Palace, I thought you might like to meet another of my sons, who only just arrived from London this evening." She turned to him. "Allow me to present Lady Saxby of Gloucester and her niece, Lady Rebecca Newland. Ladies, my son, Lord Vincent Sinclair."

"Charmed," he said, before turning immediately to Rebecca. "May I request a dance?"

Caught off guard, she glanced uncertainly at her aunt, who nodded at her.

"I would be delighted," she replied, allowing Lord Vincent to lead her out, and wondering how this unexpected development was going to affect her plans for this evening.

"He arrived an hour ago," Blake explained as he left the ballroom with Devon. "Mother just told him about Father's demands upon us to find wives. I thought you should know."

They strode to the gallery to speak in private. "So he knows I have returned."

"Yes. Charlotte told him before he had a chance to remove his hat and gloves, but evidently he had nothing to say about it, and went straight to the billiards room with some local chap for a drink and a game before dressing for the ball."

"Then his hostility toward me has not waned."

"Were you hoping it had?"

Devon considered it. "Hoping? No. I rarely have hope. I'm too much of a realist. I knew I would not be welcomed back or forgiven, at least not by him."

He had only himself to blame, he supposed, for there had been a time when they had been not only brothers, but friends as well, sticking up for each other when trouble was at hand, laughing together, and later, drinking and gaming together. Vincent had always been loyal, even through the blinding glare of Devon's overprivileged position as heir, when their father had favored him and denied Vincent the respect and affection he'd needed and deserved.

Devon had never wanted to be treated differently at Vincent's expense. His guilt over that had reached a pinnacle on the day MaryAnn had written him that letter.

She had told him he was the most extraordinary man she had ever known. He wished he had burned it.

Devon jumped when Blake touched him on the shoulder and brought him back to the present. "Do not let him get to you," he said. "Vincent enjoys his anger and does not wish to let it go. You would do best to remember that and resist the urge to mend fences, at least for the time being. You'll only frustrate yourself because he will find a way to knock them down again. In fact, I think he has been anticipating your return for that very reason, and in that regard, I must warn you. He enjoys a fight these days, with anyone who will oblige him by raising a fist."

Devon gazed with regret at his younger brother. "It pains me to know that."

"I know."

He sighed deeply. "If Vincent enjoys a fight, Blake, you are the opposite. You keep the harmony."

Blake lowered his hand to his side. "We all have our purpose, I suppose."

"And what is mine?" Devon asked. "To be Duke of Pembroke and take care of this estate and all the people who reside here, when I am not to be depended upon? I have proven that with both my actions in the past and my prolonged absence." He shook his head. "I have often thought it should have been you. You're the diplomat. While I have deserted my post, you have remained here in my stead and kept the machine running."

"Not really, Devon. All I did was grease the wheels occasionally, when what we need is a new axle."

Devon thought of the once beautiful Italian Gardens and the melancholy in his mother's eyes, and knew his brother was right on that point. Something had broken down here. There had been too many betrayals and tragedies. He felt no hope in these rooms. He felt no hope inside himself.

"Shall we go back?" Blake asked, and Devon could not help but notice again that his brother seemed weary. It was no easy task, he supposed, keeping the peace in this family.

"Yes, I want to see Vincent," he said. "Despite the wretched history between us, and the fact that he despises me, and quite rightly so, he is still my brother. We must at least look each other in the eye before we venture into a new decade of open hostilities."

Lord Vincent, like his older brother, was a confident, skillful dancer. His shoulders were broad and his movements smooth. He was a handsome man and possessed a good deal of charm, but otherwise, Rebecca knew very little about him, except that he was the duke's second son, only one year younger than Devon, and that he spent most of his time in London away from Pembroke Palace.

Oh, and she had once read in the society pages that he was an incorrigible scoundrel.

"You must be pleased to have your brother back in England," she said, seeking to establish some polite discourse while they danced.

"Yes, we are all overjoyed," he replied. "Father especially. Though sometimes I wonder if my brother should be forgiven at all for staying away as long as he did. How helpless we have all been, living our lives without him."

Rebecca stiffened at Lord Vincent's obvious sarcasm, and almost missed a step. She did not know what to say.

He smiled. "I've shocked you, Helen of Troy. Please accept my apologies. I will confess the truth. My brother and I have been at odds in the past, and shameful brother that I am, I have not yet welcomed him home. I did see him, though, from across the room, dancing with you. That was when I decided I had to dance with you as well."

Rebecca frowned at him. "Your confession is hardly flattering, my lord. If you are at odds with your brother, what does that make me? The rope in your tug of war?"

All at once, the fairy-tale palace of her Prince Charming seemed not such a perfect world after all. There appeared to be battle lines drawn in the house. But real life was always more complicated than fantasy, she had recently discovered.

Lord Vincent smirked at her. "Why have we not met before?" he asked. "You're very lovely and very clever."

"I rarely visit London," she replied. "My father has always preferred the country."

"Pity for us Londoners," he said with a blase tone, looking over her head. "But may I be so bold as to ask, are you spoken for? Betrothed? In love?"

She swallowed over her shock. "You are indeed bold, Lord Vincent."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

She was feeling rather aggravated by his blatant cheekiness. "No to everything."

"Delighted to hear it."

Not quite sure what had just happened, she somehow managed to make light conversation for the rest of the dance, and when it ended, they stepped apart and he offered her an arm to escort her off the floor.

As the crowd cleared in front of them, dispersing in all directions, Rebecca spotted her aunt in the very place she had left her, but she was not alone. Beside her, watching attentively from the edge of the ballroom, was Lord Hawthorne.

His strength and power seemed to fill the room--and to fill Rebecca simultaneously with the exhilarating notion that he had been watching her. Her intuition told her he'd been making sure his presumptuous younger brother was not overstepping those battle lines--whatever and wherever they might be.

Lord Vincent halted, forcing Rebecca to halt as well. She glanced up at him. His face had gone pale. He did not seem quite so confident now. He appeared rather shaken in fact.

Lord Hawthorne on the other hand, stood with one hand behind his back, the other at his side, his eyes beneath the black mask fixed upon Rebecca. It felt as if they were the only two people in the room.

She and Lord Vincent started off again.

"Lady Rebecca," Hawthorne said when they reached him, and though he did not say it out loud, there was a question in his eyes. Is everything satisfactory?

She had never spoken to anyone without words before, but believed she succeeded in assuring him that all was well.

He bowed to her, then directed his gaze at his brother. "Vincent, it is good to see you."

"And you."

A long, uncomfortable silence weighed heavily upon them. Rebecca glanced at her aunt who watched the exchange with some dismay.

Lord Hawthorne asked, "How is London these days?"

"It is the same as it was before you left," Vincent replied. "Only wetter."

The brothers continued to stare heatedly at each other, until Lord Hawthorne turned to Rebecca and her aunt. "Pardon me, ladies, but if I recall, I promised you both a guided tour of the dessert table, did I not? Shall we see what delectable treats await us?"

The tension in the air drained away with the pleasant tone of his voice, and Rebecca let out a deep breath.

"That would be lovely," Aunt Grace said, accepting the arm he offered with a flirtatious smile of her own. It appeared Aunt Grace was not immune to Lord Hawthorne's charms, either.

Rebecca took his other arm and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at Lord Vincent, when she could feel the heat of his scorching gaze upon their backs.

They left the ballroom and reached the dessert table, which was adorned in lace and covered with gleaming silver platters covered in cream cakes and sugared fruit in every color of the rainbow.

Rebecca wandered around the table, eyeing everything before she removed her gloves and tasted a raspberry bonbon, then a chocolate tart with whipped cream on top. She was licking the cream off the tip of her baby finger when she noticed Lord Hawthorne was not enjoying any of the sweets. He was merely watching her with heavy lidded eyes from the opposite side of the table.

She felt a quivering thrill in the pit of her belly and stopped what she was doing, for she knew these moments at the dessert table were pivotal. Her instincts were telling her to do something in order to capture and hold his attention. She had to tempt him, beguile him, perhaps even seduce him, but for the life of her, she had no idea how to do it.

He turned to converse with her aunt. A moment later, Aunt Grace left to go and speak with an acquaintance who was sipping champagne on the other side of the dessert room.

Rebecca raised an eyebrow at him, encouraging his approach. Virile and striking in his black costume, he came around the table to stand before her.

"So you met my brother," he said matter-of-factly.

A footman appeared beside them with a tray of champagne, and they each helped themselves to a glass. Rebecca took a sip. "Yes, my lord, and he is very different from you."