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

by Julianne MacLean

  “Let me see that, too,” he said.

  His voice was heavy and smooth as velvet, and it sent luscious gooseflesh tingling down the side of her body. He reached for her arm and felt around the bones. “Does this hurt?”

  “No.”

  “This?”

  “No.”

  “What about this?” He massaged the muscle just above her elbow.

  She hardly recognized the deep, sultry sound of her voice in response. “That feels quite nice actually.”

  His head was bowed down, but his eyes lifted knowingly. A dark brow lifted, and he grinned again. “Yes, it does feel quite nice.”

  He continued to work his hand over her elbow while his horse stood by in the quiet forest, discreetly tasting the grass and flicking his ears at insects. Rebecca’s body grew warm and pleasantly weak from the gentleman’s touch.

  “Do you suppose this is proper?” he asked, lifting his eyes again with that same seductive expression. “We haven’t been introduced, you know, and we are very much alone.”

  She wet her lips and pondered the fact that they were indeed alone in the forest and he was touching her intimately, and she had no idea where her father was. Anything could happen. He could seduce her. He could sweep her off her feet and into his arms, carry her to the coach and toss her down upon the soft, leather upholstery, kiss her neck and hands, overwhelm her with terrifying passions she’d never known, and ravish her without mercy....

  She swallowed hard.

  “You are correct, sir. We have not been introduced, so I suppose it is not proper at all. I confess—you have me quite unsettled.”

  “I don’t mean to unsettle you.” He was quiet while he tested her upper arm. “Please allow me to give you this reassurance—there is nothing to fear. I only wish to be certain you are not hurt.”

  But despite his assurances, there was still something incredibly erotic about the way he spoke to her and touched her, and the way it made her feel hot and dreamy inside.

  “I do appreciate your concern.”

  He continued to massage down the length of her arm all the way to her wrist. “You’re very lovely. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “No.”

  “No?” He sounded surprised, then his gaze narrowed. “How old are you?”

  “I am seventeen, sir.”

  His hand went still upon her arm, then he gently lowered it, setting it away from him with a sigh. “Much too young for an elbow examination, I’m afraid.”

  “How old are you?” she asked, quite unable to restrain her curiosity.

  “That’s a bold question for a well-bred young lady like yourself.”

  “It’s the same question you asked me,” she argued.

  “Yes, but I am not a well-bred young lady.”

  She let her eyes sweep over the broad width of his chest and the visible power in his shoulders. “No, you certainly are not.”

  They stood gazing at each other for a moment until he looked across the green bog, those powerful shoulders heaving with another sigh. “I suppose I must turn your coach around and return you safely to your father. He is no doubt concerned.”

  “Yes, I am sure he is.” She realized with some chagrin that while this extraordinary man had been touching her, she had forgotten about her father completely. “I am fine now.”

  But her teeth were beginning to chatter.

  Without the slightest bidding from her, the man removed his heavy, fur-trimmed greatcoat and slung it around her shoulders. “This will keep you warm.” She felt the heat from his body inside it and smelled the enthralling fragrance of his cologne. “Thank you,” she said. “And thank you also for coming to my rescue.”

  He touched the brim of his elegant top hat before he swung himself up onto his horse again. “I assure you, it was nothing at all.”

  Oh, no, nothing at all, to come galloping after a runaway coach and pull a distraught young lady out of a bog, then make her forget all about the pain in her head and elbow and the fact that her skirts were dripping wet with that cold, sticky slime.

  He clicked his tongue, walked his horse back into the water, and took hold of the harness. “Onward, now,” he said.

  While he led the team in a wide circle and back up onto the grass, Rebecca admired his form without the coat. Wearing a fine black dinner jacket and crisp white shirt with a dark, crimson necktie, he was even more perfect than she could have imagined, for there was an incredible strength and vigor in his shoulders and in the defined lines of his torso and hips.

  As soon as the wheels were on dry land, he rode closer and dismounted again. “Allow me to assist you.”

  She glanced uneasily at the coach. “The horses won’t bolt again?”

  “Not while I am leading them.”

  He certainly knew how to instill confidence.

  “Then I must thank you.” She took his hand and stepped back inside.

  She settled into the seat and covered herself with his coat to keep warm. He closed the door with a firm click but opened it again a mere second later and said, “I am twenty-four.”

  She stared numbly at him as he smiled. He closed the door again.

  A moment later, they started back along the road to where her father was surely waiting in a tizzy.

  Rebecca shook her head when she thought about that. Her father’s tizzy. Surely it could be nothing compared to hers, for it could never have been so frightfully wicked, yet so wonderfully breathtaking at the same time.

  Chapter 2

  “Thank the Lord!” her father said, looking Rebecca up and down from head to foot as she stepped out of the coach. “What happened? You’re wet!”

  “I am fine, Father,” she replied.

  “The horses turned off the road and into a bog,” the gentleman explained as he dismounted from his own horse. He removed his gloves and strode toward them, glancing briefly at her father’s misshapen hand upon his cane. “May I enquire about your driver, sir? Where is he?”

  “I am afraid I do not know. We thought he might have stopped to retrieve a bag that fell from the coach before you came along.”

  “Did he not tell you of his intentions?”

  “No.”

  Tapping his fine leather gloves against his palm, her handsome rescuer looked up at the baggage tied down on the roof. “Everything appears to be secure, even after what just occurred.” He turned to look in the direction from which they had come. “Wait here, please. I’ll be back shortly.”

  He started walking.

  “Well, at least you’re all right,” her father said, glancing quickly at Rebecca. “This gentleman, was he...Was he helpful?”

  “Very helpful, yes,” she replied, sensing her father’s concern and doing her best to alleviate it with a show of indifference. She could not possibly tell him what had really occurred, not to mention how much she had enjoyed it. “I’m fine, Father.”

  A few minutes later, they heard footsteps returning, and curiosity compelled Rebecca to start walking toward the sound.

  “Where are you going?” her father snapped. “Stay here beside me, if you please.”

  She stopped in the center of the narrow road but remained exactly where she was with her back to her father, anxious to see her magnificent hero returning. At last he appeared, carrying Mr. Smith over his shoulder like a heavy sack of potatoes. “What in the world happened?” she asked.

  He continued walking toward her, but addressed her father, not her. “I regret to inform you, sir, it was not a piece of baggage that fell from your coach. Your driver has had too much to drink and tumbled over the side.”

  “How can you be sure?” Rebecca asked, following them back to the coach. “What if he is ill?”

  He carried Mr. Smith around to the front of the coach and managed with a grunt to tip him over the driver’s seat rail.
The unconscious man fell backward across the cushioned bench, his arm falling limp and resting on the footboard. He snorted and groaned.

  “I found the empty bottle a few feet away from him,” her gentleman-hero explained as he wiped at his hands. “And he smells like a distillery.”

  Rebecca’s father limped around the coach and stood beside her, leaning on his cane. “He is no good to us in the driver’s seat. What the devil are we to do now?”

  “May I ask your destination?”

  “The Cotswolds Arms for tonight, then we’re on to Burford in the morning.”

  The gentleman turned and strode toward his horse. “You can expect to be there in an hour.”

  Her father limped after him. “But wait, sir! How are we to get there?”

  Rebecca followed as well. After everything her handsome rescuer had done for them so far, was he going to abandon them now? Surely not.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “but my father cannot drive. His hands cause him great pain.”

  The man had already reached his horse and was now leading the animal past them, toward the back of the coach. “I understand that,” he said, “and it would be my pleasure to drive you.”

  Rebecca exhaled with relief, then marveled at the strangeness of this day and the miracle of how this extraordinary man seemed to have everything decided before she or her father even realized there was an issue to work out. And her head was still spinning from the wild carriage ride and the most unnerving memory of his touch. She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.

  “That is most kind of you, sir,” her father said, while the man tethered his horse to the handrail above the page board. “But we don’t wish to inconvenience you. Are you certain it is no bother?”

  The gentleman stroked the horse’s muscular neck, then his expression warmed as he bowed slightly at the waist. “As I said, it would be my pleasure.”

  She sensed her father’s reluctance to accept the offer—as he did not enjoy being beholden to anyone for anything. God forbid that particular person might pay a visit to their isolated house in the country to provide him the opportunity to return the kindness. But under the present circumstances, they did not have much choice unless he would allow Rebecca to drive, and that was most certainly not going to happen.

  Her father straightened his thin shoulders and finally resigned himself to the necessity of accepting the offer. “You are most kind,” he said to the gentleman. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Newland, Earl of Creighton, and this is my daughter, Lady Rebecca Newland.”

  Introductions at last.

  The gentleman held out his hand to shake her father’s. “It is an honor to meet you, Lord Creighton, and a pleasure, Lady Rebecca.” He bowed to her, revealing nothing of what had occurred between them earlier. Not a hint of a grin, wicked or otherwise. No mention of the way his hands had worked over her arms and down her neck.

  “I am Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne,” he said. “My father is the Duke of Pembroke.”

  “Of Pembroke Palace,” her father blurted out.

  “That is correct.”

  Good Lord, they were in illustrious company indeed, and they were about to employ a marquess, the future Duke of Pembroke, as their coachman.

  “The palace is not far from here,” he said. “Just under an hour’s ride to the north.”

  This was his father’s property, all of it, miles and miles of prosperous farmland and thick, lush forests. And he was the Marquess of Hawthorne, and heir to one of the oldest, most prestigious titles in England. Rebecca could barely comprehend it. A thrill rolled up her spine, as thick and compelling as the mist all around them.

  “But what about our driver?” her father asked. “I’m half tempted to leave him here.”

  “Father...” Rebecca admonished, glancing down at the ground as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  Lord Hawthorne smiled. She was so glad she finally knew what to call him.

  “I might be tempted toward the same end myself,” he said, “if he were my driver. But have no worries. I’ll prop him up beside me, and he’ll keep me company when the moon rises.” Lord Hawthorne glanced up at the darkening sky. “Which will be very soon, so if you don’t mind, I must insist we move on. Allow me?”

  He opened the door to the coach and lowered the step, then straightened and held out his hand to Rebecca. A rush of butterflies invaded her belly at the thrilling notion of touching him again, and when she slowly wrapped her tiny, gloved fingers around his larger ones, she felt the strength of his whole arm and the rock-solid support he offered, which she already knew firsthand. She gathered her heavy wet skirts in her other hand, then met his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. His blue eyes were dazzling, captivating, disarming, and the whole world came to a shuddering halt on its axis.

  Rebecca wet her lips and managed to say, “Thank you,” in a quiet, ladylike voice. He bowed his head and handed her up.

  Her heart was still racing when she sat down on the leather seat and watched the ducal heir assist her father up as well, holding him by the arm to steady his frail form.

  How strong and capable the marquess was, like a brave knight from a childhood story. None of this seemed real.

  As soon as her father was seated, Lord Hawthorne raised the step, but Rebecca spoke up. “Your coat...”

  He held up a hand. “I insist you take care of it for me until we arrive.” Then he addressed both of them from the open door. “We shall reach the Cotswolds Arms in one hour, so settle in. I will see you when we get there.”

  He closed the door, and the coach bounced slightly under his weight as he climbed up onto the driver’s seat outside. Rebecca and her father sat in silence, waiting while Lord Hawthorne lit the lamps, then the coach lurched forward. The harness jangled, and they began to roll on. They turned around in a clearing, back in the proper direction.

  “I suppose we were lucky that young man came along when he did,” her father said uncomfortably, folding both his hands upon his cane.

  “He was very helpful.” Rebecca took a deep breath and tried to settle in for the remainder of the journey, but it was not easy to relax when such a handsome, heroic man was sitting just outside, leading them out of the dense forest to their destination, after having saved her life and stirred her passions so unexpectedly. Her whole body was buzzing with delight under his warm, heavy, fur-trimmed coat, and it was a challenge just to sit still.

  What a night, and, Lord, what a man. She couldn’t wait to arrive at the inn just for the chance to be in his presence again, one more time, however briefly, before they said goodbye.

  The coach came to a smooth halt outside the inn, and Rebecca heard voices in the dark outside. Within seconds the door opened, and Lord Hawthorne stood there in his black dinner jacket and elegant hat—more handsome than he had been an hour earlier, if that were possible. He reached a hand in to Rebecca.

  “Here at last,” he said, with more charm and appeal than any man had a right to possess.

  “At last. Thank you.” She accepted his hand, but before she could step out, he glanced down.

  “Forgive me, Lady Rebecca. I am remiss in my duties already. What a terrible footman I would make. I must lower the step.” He let go of her hand and did just that, then straightened and met her gaze again with those enticing blue eyes.

  He handed her down, then assisted her father as well. Pointing at a groom who was setting a bucket of water down in front of his horse still tethered to the rear, he said, “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Griffin here, an excellent young man, and he will take care of your horses. He will see to Mr. Smith as well, who will be escorted into the stable for the night.”

  “Will he be all right?” Rebecca asked.

  Lord Hawthorne looked at her with pointed intensity, and she felt a sudden wave of dread, for the end was near. She
would be forced to say goodbye to him, and who knew when she would ever see him again? If she would ever see him again.

  “He will be fine,” he replied. “He was mumbling quite lucidly the entire way here.”

  Her father shifted his cane from one hand to the other. “I cannot thank you enough, Lord Hawthorne. You have been most helpful. I don’t know how I can ever make it up to you.”

  “Just see your lovely daughter home safely, sir.”

  Rebecca sighed with a strange mixture of joy and sadness. If only Lord Hawthorne knew this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, and that she thought him the most captivating, attractive man in the world. If only he knew that she was wishing this moment did not need to end, and that she would not have to return to her secluded home and her impossibly quiet life with her reclusive father.

  “At least join us for dinner here at the inn,” her father suggested.

  Yes, please!

  “Or a drink at least,” he added.

  It was not like her father to wish to dine with a guest, for he was not a sociable man, which proved it: Lord Hawthorne did have more charm than was humanly possible, if he was able to turn her father into a convivial person.

  “I appreciate the offer,” Lord Hawthorne replied, “but I am afraid I must decline. I have a previous engagement.”

  Her shoulders heaved with disappointment. She wondered where he had been heading before he’d come upon them.

  “I see,” her father replied. “I hope we were not a terrible imposition.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then let me extend an open invitation to you,” her father added. “If you are ever near Burford, you must come to Creighton Manor for dinner. It would be a great honor to welcome you.”

  And that, quite frankly, was a miracle, and the best thing Rebecca had ever heard her father say.

  “Thank you, Lord Creighton,” he replied. “Likewise, I shall see that you are invited to Pembroke Palace.” He bowed to Rebecca. “It was an honor making your acquaintance, both of you. Have a safe trip home and enjoy your stay at the inn.” He went to fetch his horse.