Rebecca continued to watch him, wishing she could know him better, and wondering about all the tiny details of his life. What did he like to do when he was not rescuing young maidens in the forest? Did he hunt? Did he enjoy politics? Dinner parties? Was he always this charming?
And had he found a bride yet?
She knew what her father would say to such a silly, romantic notion. You’re only seventeen—too young to be thinking of marriage.
But she would not be seventeen forever.
They stood outside the inn while Lord Hawthorne mounted his horse. He turned the great animal around, then touched the brim of his hat. “Safe journey.”
“Same to you,” her father replied.
He kicked his boot heels and said, “Onward, Asher,” then trotted down the hill in the moonlight. Rebecca watched him until the hoofbeats faded to silence and their brief encounter found a private, profound place in her memory.
She sighed when she considered how this night compared to the empty stillness of her existence back home—but supposed her life would not be so empty now. Not after what had just occurred, because she would have this to dream about and to give her hope for the future. Yes, Lord Hawthorne would figure prominently in her dreams for a long time to come.
And soon, Rebecca would be entering society as a lady—the very next Season if her father permitted it—and it was entirely possible she would encounter Lord Hawthorne again in different circumstances. As a woman.
She quivered with excitement when she imagined it and surrendered to the fact that she would spend the next year of her life fantasizing about that moment.
Chapter 3
Four Years Later
April 1874
On the day Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, returned to Pembroke Palace after a three-year journey abroad, it was raining. In fact, it had been raining in every corner of England for six days straight. Bridges and roads had been washed away, rivers were rising, and the farmers were indoors—the idea of spring planting nothing more than a hazy dream in their heads until the weather passed.
Devon’s coach barely made it up the hill on the steep approach to the palace, for the road was slick with mud and the horses could not gain a proper footing. His driver shouted and snapped his whip at them, and the sensation of the carriage wheels slipping and sliding put Devon on edge more than he cared to admit.
He gripped the side of the coach and looked out the window. The rain fell harder still. Clouds hung low over the hilltops, thick and heavy, like a pillow coming down upon one’s head. He ran a hand over the top of his thigh to his knee and squeezed at the deep, aching sensation of that old wound he preferred to forget, but it was impossible to ignore the pain on a damp day like this.
Springtime in England. How he loathed it. If it weren’t for his mother’s fiftieth birthday celebration and her flood of letters over the past six months imploring him to come home for the grand masquerade ball, he would still be in America, enjoying his freedom and his comfortable, homeless wandering.
He breathed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment, and cupped his forehead in his hand. He recalled the last letter she had sent, where she had tried so hard to sound cheerful. He knew, however, that there was a great deal she was not telling him about what was going on at home. He had recognized her anxiety in the white spaces between the lines.
Then again, perhaps it was simply the fact that she was coming to the end of another decade of her life and was feeling the weight of her regrets over how her life had unfolded. Or perhaps at this stage in her life, she was bidding farewell to impossible dreams.
He opened his eyes and looked again through the glass, streaked with water and splattered with mud. He desired his mother’s happiness, just as he desired Charlotte’s, his sister, who had written him dozens of letters as well over the past three years, keeping him informed of her joys and tragedies, always asking when he would return, never mentioning why he had left. She was twenty-three now, and her life, like their mother’s, had not unfolded as she had believed it would.
But life was never predictable. He had learned that before he’d left.
And of course, there was Blake, the brother to whom he was closest—taking care of everything, as always, amidst everyone’s hard luck at home.
As for Vincent and his father...
Devon had not received any letters from either of them, though he had never expected it. Frankly, he would be surprised if they were even at home to welcome him back. Vincent especially.
The coach reached the crest of the hill, and the wheels finally gripped the road and picked up speed. Devon drew in a deep breath, then let it out and leaned closer to the window.
There it was. He could make it out in the distance, even through the wash of rainwater down the grimy glass windowpane, obscuring his view. His home—that imposing, stately palace, materializing in the mist like an enormous dragon with wings spread wide across the land.
Despite the tension he felt in anticipation of seeing Vincent and his father again, he could not deny a sense of awe at the extraordinary grandeur, which was his birthright. Everything seemed breathtaking—the towers and turrets, the thirty-foot stone finials topping the central rooftop like coronets, and the triumphal arch at the entrance gate leading into the massive cobbled court. It was built to extravagant excess on the ruins of an ancient abbey, high upon a hilltop overlooking lush, green parkland studded with aging oaks. Altogether, it was a noble citadel and monument to the great glory of England, dominating the English countryside like a mighty sovereign.
He felt with surprise an unexpected surge of pride and sentimentality suddenly, remembering that this was his childhood home. There was a time when he had been happy here, when he was younger, when things were different.
Perhaps his mother had been right to press hard to bring him home. Perhaps it was time to put the past behind him and mend what had been shattered and broken. If it could be mended. He was not entirely sure that it could.
The coach drove across the cobbled court and pulled to a halt at the front entrance. A liveried footman dashed down the wet steps carrying an umbrella, his buckled shoes splashing through puddles. He opened the door of the coach and lowered the step, then held the umbrella up for Devon, who emerged at last from the dark confines.
He would have liked to take a moment to gaze up at the enormous portico above the grand entrance and the sculptures on the clock tower, but the rain was coming down too hard, pounding on the ground and hissing like a beast while the wind gusted and threatened to pull the umbrella inside out.
“Welcome back, my lord!” the footman shouted in his ear.
What was it about the rain that made people think they needed to shout? “Thank you. It’s good to be back.”
It was partly true, at least.
He started up the stairs with the footman at his side holding the umbrella for him, but as soon as they passed through the open door and entered the grand hall, the servant was gone, and Devon’s mother, the duchess, was striding toward him with a smile.
He stopped. She was as beautiful as ever with her golden hair swept into an elegant twist, her form-fitting gown the color of a ripe peach, the long, trained overskirt caught up at the sides and draped with pleats in the front. She was almost fifty, but possessed the slender, attractive figure of a woman half her age, and an ivory complexion few women could rival.
She crossed the hall to him. “Oh, my dear, you are home at last.” She rushed to him and took his hands in hers. Her eyes sparkled. She seemed too excited to breathe.
Devon bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. “How wonderful to see you, Mother,” he said. “You look exquisite. More lovely than ever, if that is possible.”
She raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. “I see my son has not lost his charm. I’ll wager those American girls were very sorry to see you board that ship back to Eng
land.” He shook his head, and she slapped him playfully on the arm. “Don’t be modest, Devon. You know I’m right. Oh, I thought this day would never come.”
Another set of heels came clicking across the marble floor. It was his half-sister, Charlotte. “Devon!” His mother had to step back to clear the way as she dashed into his arms. “At last! You’re here!”
“Yes, Charlotte,” he replied, pleased to see that the past year—with all its painful emotional heartbreak over the death of her fiancé—had not broken her spirit. She was still as boisterous as ever. He held her away from him. “Let me get a look at you.” Charlotte was golden-haired like their mother, and equally as lovely with deep blue eyes, long lashes, and a flawless complexion. “What a beauty you have become.”
She smiled. “And you are still the same handsome heartbreaker you were before you left. I must admit, however, I am surprised you did not come home with a rich American wife.”
A wife? Him?
“It’s been in all the papers lately,” she explained, “about Lord Randolph Churchill marrying the Jerome girl from New York, just last week. Did you hear about it?”
“Of course. The New York papers printed every detail of the engagement.”
“They say she’s very beautiful.”
“I am sure she is, and I hope someday to meet her.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag. “My only wish at the moment, however, is to see you, my dear sister, wearing the gift I brought you.”
“Oh, Devon.” She reached for the bag. “What is it?”
“Open it and find out.”
She slid her fingers into the drawstring opening, withdrew a pearl bracelet, and held it up to the light. “It’s stunning. Help me put it on?” She handed it to him, and he wrapped it around her slender wrist, then fastened the silver clasp. “It’s perfect.”
“I have something for you, too, Mother,” he said, “but it’s wrapped up in one of my trunks.”
“You didn’t have to, Devon. Your presence in the house again was the only gift I wanted.”
He noted a slight melancholy in her voice, a weariness in her eyes, and recalled a similar look on her face the day he had left, when the family had seemed to split apart at the seams with heartbreak and hostility.
“Is Vincent here?” he carefully asked.
She lowered her eyes and shook her head. “No. He is still in London. I’m sorry.”
He watched her for a moment. “No need to apologize, Mother. I didn’t expect him to be here.”
Blake’s voice sounded from the saloon. “Devon, you’re back!”
Devon felt a swell of pleasure at the sound, then strode forward to shake his brother’s hand, noting that the young man he had left behind three years earlier had matured. At twenty-six, his looks had not changed much—he was still tall and dark and broad-shouldered—but something in the way he carried himself was different. He had always been a calming influence in the family, but now, he seemed to know it. He appeared relaxed and confident, and Devon felt certain that whatever problems had arisen while he was gone, they had been kept well in hand.
“Good God, man,” Blake said, pumping his hand firmly and squeezing his elbow. “You’ve been in the sun. You look like a pirate.”
Devon laughed. “I spent every possible minute up on deck during the crossing, which I am sure you would have done, too, had you been there. This rain...” He turned to direct his comment at Charlotte and their mother. “Will it ever stop?”
“We are all wondering the same thing,” Blake replied, then his voice took on a twinge of resignation. “But the weather is a taboo subject around here. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
She nodded. “Yes, it is.”
Devon narrowed his eyes, looking at each of them in turn.
He faced his brother again. “You have all worked very hard to drag me home from America, and I can see you are itching to tell me something. Accompany me to the library, if you will, Blake. You know how I hate being kept in the dark.”
Blake’s face clouded over with uneasiness. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Indeed, there is much to discuss, and there is no point putting it off. The library it is, then. Is it too early in the day for a brandy?”
“Not by my watch,” Devon replied. “Judging by the look of dread on your face, something tells me I’m going to need it.”
“So here it is in a nutshell,” Blake said, his voice somber as he handed a glass to Devon. “It’s Father. I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he appears to be... Well, there is no polite way to put it. We all believe he is...” Blake paused a moment. “Father is…he has gone mad.”
Devon accepted the glass without looking at it, because it was all he could do to keep his eyes steady on his brother. “Mad, you say.”
“Yes, mad. Rattled in the brain, nutty as a fruitcake, cuckoo, loony, out of his tree...”
Devon held up a hand. “I get the picture, Blake. Has the physician been summoned?”
“Yes, a few times over the past few months, but he assures us Father is in perfect health.”
“But you believe otherwise,” Devon said, watching his brother carefully as he sipped his brandy. “Did you tell this to the doctor?”
“Of course. Mother and I both have, but whenever he comes to perform an examination, Father is perfectly lucid and explains everything quite sensibly, so the doctor thinks we are overreacting, and that we simply do not understand his eccentric disposition.” Blake strode across the room to the desk in front of the window and leaned back upon it. “Dr. Lambert’s a bloody brownnoser if you ask me. He’s been the family physician for thirty years and he expects something from Father in the will, no doubt. He doesn’t want to cross him.” His voice grew resigned. “Father is sixty-nine now, Devon. He is not going to live forever.”
Devon gazed down at the brandy in his glass. “I am aware.” He took a slow sip. Outside the window, the rain came down harder, driving against the panes. “But tell me of his behavior. What evidence do you have to support your suspicions?”
Blake’s dark brows lifted, as if he had a whole list of examples, but didn’t know where to begin.
“About six months ago, he began to have trouble sleeping. Now, every night, he gets up and wanders the dark corridors for hours in his nightshirt and slippers. He often talks to himself and speaks about our ancestors and what he knows about their lives.”
Devon went to the sofa and sat down. For a moment, he considered what his brother was describing to him.
“I admit,” he said, “that this is disturbing to hear, but perhaps the doctor has a point. You said yourself that Father is sixty-nine now. This sounds to me like nothing more than the eccentricities of old age. He is simply reminiscing about the past. Sleepwalking. Perhaps that is why the doctor is not overly concerned.”
His brother took another sip of brandy. He looked tired all of a sudden and shook his head.
“You seem disappointed,” Devon said, as a small twinge of displeasure nipped at his mood. “Were you expecting that I would come home and simply wave a hand and make the problem disappear?” When his brother gave no reply, Devon studied his expression carefully, then leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Or perhaps you are remembering that I am not the hero everyone always imagined me to be.”
It was why he had left home in the first place three years ago—because he had disappointed everyone to impossible degrees. Vincent and Father especially.
No... Disappointed was not a strong enough word. Because of his own youthful passions, he had betrayed Vincent’s trust and shattered and crushed his father’s grand and lofty opinions of him. He had annihilated the man’s unfathomable pride in his eldest son.
Devon remembered every word of their argument as if it happened only yesterday—how his father had told him what a useless failure he was as a son, and especi
ally as a man.
Why hadn’t he been able to control the horse? his father had asked. How could he have been so foolish as to take that slick, muddy path through the woods that time of year? And what had he been doing with MaryAnn in the first place? Had he no sense of honor or decency? She was his brother’s fiancée.
Devon had listened to all of this at a time when he was leaning on crutches, when the stitches over his eye still burned, and when the guilt over what had occurred was worse than death itself.
Because MaryAnn—the woman Vincent had loved and intended to marry—was dead.
You are no longer my son, his father had snarled at him from behind the desk.
Their argument ended there. Devon did not even say goodbye the next morning when he struggled awkwardly into the coach to leave for America. He had never written to his father, nor had he received any letters from him, but he had not expected it, such was the intensity of the man’s rage that night.
“We need you,” Blake quietly said, interrupting Devon’s recollections. “You are the head of the family.”
“No,” he firmly replied. “Our father, the duke, is head of the family.”
“Not if he is mad.”
Devon stared uneasily at his brother, then set down his glass. “I am not yet convinced he is mad, Blake, nor will I be until I speak to him myself. As I said, it is probably just old age. There is nothing to be done about that except to be patient and tolerant as best we can until the end comes.”
“Until the end comes, you say.” Blake chuckled with some bitterness.
“Is there something amusing about that?”
Blake stood and walked to the window. “It is not amusing at all. I only chuckle at the coincidence of your remark. You see, I didn’t get to the most distressing part of all this.”
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 3