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.
Devon 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 upon 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. The man 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 will 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 out a trembling hand to take hold of the umbrella. “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 his good 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. It must happen this year.”
Marry?
Devon stopped patting the mud around the bush and straightened. “I beg your pardon?”
“It will stop the curse and therefore stop the rain.”
“How in the world 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 has 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?” The duke 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 a 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, the rain stayed away that evening and the downpour stopped 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 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 selected for him. 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 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 a plain and simple at
traction. A flirtation. The promise of temptation and 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—a woman waltzed by him, passing so fast, he felt a slight breeze ruffle his cape. Her hair caught his eye. It was 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.
“Ah, yes,” his mother said, “how we do appreciate this welcome respite from the rain.” She gestured to the others. “Allow me, if I may, 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.”
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 the room 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 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.
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, had he met this woman before? If so, 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.
She turned to face him, and her gaze traveled about the room, just as his had a moment ago, as if she were looking specifically for someone. Then her eyes found his. He wished again that she were not wearing a mask because he would dearly love to see her whole face. Not that he had any doubts about her beauty. Her lips were full, her skin creamy white, her nose tiny and straight. And that hair—Lord that hair. It was her crowning glory. What he wouldn’t give to comb his fingers through it and see it splayed out on a pillow.
She reached up and fiddled with an earring, never taking her eyes off him as she did so, and he felt another stirring when she confidently wet her lips with her tongue.
He liked confident women. Women who were capable and could handle themselves in any situation.
“Devon?” his mother said, and he realized he had not been listening. “Were you sorry to leave America?” She was repeating a question the duchess had asked.
Devon politely answered, then gazed at Lady Letitia, who smiled at him again.
He wondered if she might have a fiery spark like Helen of Troy, then sought to discover it for himself. “Will you do me the honor, Lady Letitia?”
“I would be delighted,” she replied as she took his proffered hand.
He led her onto the floor for a country dance, and she engaged him in polite conversation throughout the steps, offering one-or-two-word answers to his questions. She then asked a question of her own concerning the weather, which was now a subject thoroughly exhausted. He replied courteously, however, reminding himself that this was the nature of casual discourse, and in that regard, she was displaying her perfect manners.
There was not much to think about while he danced and spoke to her, so he found himself glancing away every so often in the direction of the red-haired woman who made no secret of the fact that she was watching him as well.
He could not count the number of times their eyes met across the crowded floor, nor could he deny the pleasure he gleaned from it. And he was all for pleasure tonight, looking for a diversion from all his responsibilities.
The dance came to an end, and he escorted Lady Letitia back to her mother. His own mother was now with Charlotte on the far side of the room, so he excused himself and set off in their direction.
He reached them and lowered his voice. “Do either of you know that woman with the red hair? See there, she is speaking to Sir Charles.”
His sister and mother both looked in the direction he implied.
“Do you mean Helen of Troy?” Charlotte asked. “Why, that is the Earl of Creighton’s daughter, Lady Rebecca. She is here with her aunt, Lady Saxby. We were all surprised she attended this evening. It’s the first time she has accepted one of our many invitations, which we have been sending to her father for years. Though I cannot, for the life of me, remember why.”
Devon listened to all of this with astonishment and remembrance, for his ravishing Helen of Troy was none other than Lady Rebecca Newland, the young girl from that very intriguing night on the old coach road years ago. He recalled it well. She and her father had been stranded, and he had pulled her out of a bog.
She had been dressed in black that day and had seemed older and more experienced than her years. He remembered lifting her down from his horse. Ah, yes... He would never forget that soft, lush bosom sliding down his chest.
He would also never forget how frustrated he had been to learn she was too young to touch, because there had been something about her eyes and the sumptuous sound of her voice that aroused him. He remembered the exact way her lips had puckered when she spoke, and the way she looked at him with a very obvious sexual curiosity.
And here she was, standing across a ballroom. A woman now. A confident, coquettish woman with enough sexual charisma to stop a train. How old would she be? Twenty-one? Why was she not yet someone’s wife? Were the men of England blind? Perhaps she was too much for them. The thought made him smile.
“Is her father here?” he asked.
“No, just her aunt,” Charlotte replied. “Evidently, her father is somewhere in India.”
“Which is very surprising,” his mother added, “considering the earl’s reputation. He has been described as a bit of a hermit. I once heard he chases visitors off his property with a pack of dogs, but I am sure that is overblown gossip. Look at his daughter. She is lovely, is she not? How could she blossom so beautifully under such depressing circumstances?”
“I met her father, once,” Devon told them. “They were stranded on the road near here, and I offered a
ssistance. The earl possessed a serious nature, to be sure, but he was nevertheless gracious and invited me to his home, so you are right, Mother, that must be gossip.”
He was completely aware that he had been watching Lady Rebecca the entire time he was conversing with Charlotte and his mother, and saw no reason to put off the inevitable. “I would like a proper introduction,” he said, though it seemed silly after how intimate they had been so long ago. But she might not remember him, and a ballroom had its rules. “If you would be so kind, Mother.”
“Certainly,” she replied, starting off in that direction. “She is indeed a prestigious young lady, Devon. Despite her father’s odd reputation, his title is very old, and it descends in the female line, which will make her a peeress in her own right one day, for she is an only child.”
“How nice for her,” he replied.
His mother sighed with frustration. “What did you think of Lady Letitia, then? Your father was adamant that you meet her this evening.”
“A lovely girl as well.”
“She made her debut last Season and has an exquisite singing voice. She is Swinburne’s eldest daughter and has already turned down two marriage proposals. Mind you, these came from gentlemen who were quite beneath her, from what I understand, but you, Devon... Oh, your father would be overjoyed if...”
Devon leaned close to his mother’s ear. “Let us not put the cart before the horse. Despite Father’s demands, I am not ready to be matched up with a bride just yet. I only arrived home this morning. Let me at least catch my breath and get my bearings.”
“My apologies, Devon.”
She led him around the edges of the ballroom until they reached Lady Rebecca and her aunt, then made the appropriate introductions. “Allow me to present Lady Saxby and her niece, Lady Rebecca Newland, whose father is the Earl of Creighton. Ladies, my son, Lord Hawthorne.”
Now that he was closer, he could see the rich green color of her eyes behind the sparkling mask and remembered again how striking he had thought them to be that night years ago in the forest.
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 5