His brother stared intently at him. “Have you no interest in Lady Letitia? She is the daughter of a duke, and from what I understand, Father handpicked her.”
Devon made no reply.
Vincent turned away, waving a dismissive hand. “Fine, you can have the Trojan. Perhaps I shall consider Lady Letitia, just to make Father happy because I adore him so.” He faced them again and spread his hands wide. “What a noble son I am.”
Vincent left the room, and Blake seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, while Devon merely squared his shoulders and went to refill his coffee cup. He needed to prepare himself for the week ahead, as it appeared that he was suddenly in the market for a wife and had already voiced his preference for one woman in particular.
Who would ever have thought he would find himself herded into a matrimonial future so soon after returning home? Who would have thought he would give in to the pressure to take a wife in such a swift, calculated fashion?
But what did it matter, he supposed as he stood next to the sideboard and sipped his coffee, when all was said and done? He’d always known he would marry one day, and he had come home to make amends and fulfill his duty as heir. He had never been eager to combine marriage with love. Love brought a fleeting, temporary joy, then it inevitably soured into a lifelong hell. He had seen it countless times before. His parents were no exception, and he had experienced it quite plainly for himself.
What he needed and what he must look for was someone uncomplicated. Someone who could be a proper duchess, provide heirs, and run this household. Lady Rebecca had been running the house at her father’s estate for years, and Devon was most certainly attracted to her, which would at least make the duty of producing an heir a pleasant one. Unlike Lady Letitia, Rebecca had not been out in society for long, so she was a clean slate, so to speak, and would be easily molded to fit into his life at the palace. She had no scandals in her past, no other gentlemen sniffing around. Outside of Vincent, that is.
And she was here, which was convenient above all else.
Ease and convenience was all he could ask for, really, for everyone knew his opinions about undying love and fairy-tale endings. They were contemptuous at best.
Maximilian Rushton had just pressed his stamp into a sticky bead of red wax to seal a letter, when a knock sounded at his door. Irritated by the interruption when he had other letters to write, he set the stamp down and shouted across the room, “What the devil is it?”
The maid answered him uncertainly from the other side of the door. “You asked to see the room, sir? When it was prepared?”
He slid his chair back and stood. A moment later, he walked into the bedchamber that would belong to his bride. He stood in front of the fireplace and let his meticulous gaze pass over everything—the fresh bed coverings, the thickness of the pillows, the quality of the very expensive rug beside the bed. He assessed the color and design of the wallpaper he had chosen, as well as the drapes and upholstery on the chairs. The white bassinet with gilt trimmings in the corner was spectacular. It would be an effective reminder of his wife’s duty in this room, and would likely give her some pleasant dreams, imagining a child of her own one day.
She would be happy here, he decided. At least until her father was dead, at which time she would no doubt be pleased to return to her childhood home as Countess of Creighton, with the Creighton heir. His own son. Maximilian would be pleased to relocate there as well. He had been waiting a long time.
Turning toward the fireplace, he inspected the interesting knickknacks he had selected for the mantel. He had chosen ornaments his mother would have approved of—a tiny, ceramic statue of a dog and a delightful fabric box covered in seashells. She’d had a seashell collection of her own, he remembered.
He also had found a small, framed print of a sailing ship. His mother had always wanted to travel abroad. He was especially proud of the ebony jar designed to hold hatpins—his mother had owned dozens of them—and the sterling silver puff box.
Yes, it was a lovely room for a lady. A bride. A mother. He turned to look at the bassinet, and his gut began to roll with hunger. Tomorrow. She would arrive tomorrow.
His trousers tightened abruptly over a sudden arousal. He clenched his jaw with annoyance, just as his gaze shot to the plump parlor maid who had entered the room at that moment with a vase of fresh flowers. He watched her set the vase down on the table close to the window.
Maximilian crossed toward her. The woman was lazy as the day was long and smelled of stale cabbage, but she would know what he wanted and she would be repulsively eager. It was why he kept her in his employ.
After moving into their rooms at the palace and unpacking their things, Rebecca and her aunt enjoyed an informal luncheon with the female guests. Afterward, while sitting in the drawing room sipping tea, Lady Letitia rose elegantly from her seat by the piano and joined Rebecca at the window.
“Your costume was quite the thing last night,” she said, holding her cup and saucer in her slender, long fingered hands. She towered over Rebecca, who had to crane her neck to look up at her. Letitia’s ebony hair was clean and shiny, swept into an ornate, braided twist in the back, which flattered the delicate bone structure of her face. Her complexion was soft and dewy-looking, altogether feminine, but there was something aggressive in her eyes, which Rebecca noted with caution.
“And your costume was delightful, Lady Letitia. You were lovely in it.”
They looked out the window. A lengthy silence ensued.
“I didn’t think you were staying at the palace,” Letitia said. “In fact, it was my understanding you arrived at the last minute, only to attend the ball.”
Rebecca nodded. “That’s right. We had rooms reserved at the Pembroke Inn, but last night, Lord Hawthorne was kind enough to invite us to join the family for the rest of the party.”
Letitia’s eyes narrowed. “How very chivalrous of him. He is a generous man, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, very.”
They both sipped their tea, saying nothing for another minute or two, then Letitia gestured toward the front of Rebecca’s gown. “I must say, you have your own sense of style, don’t you? Your dress is very... Oh, how can I say this without insulting you? It’s very daring for a ladies’ luncheon.”
Rebecca touched her neckline. It was not so very daring. No worse than any other dress in the room. Nevertheless, she glanced around just to make sure.
“But you still look lovely in it,” Letitia added brightly. “The color is quite nice. Not a shade I would choose, but... It looks pretty on you just the same.” Her eyes raked over Rebecca from head to foot, then she smiled, but Rebecca detected a hint of scorn.
She resolved to be careful around this woman.
Later that afternoon, everyone gathered together in the conservatory for a poetry reading, where chairs had been set up facing a small dais of stone. The roses and gardenias were in full bloom, and the scent of spring flowers was almost strong enough to distract everyone from the hissing downpour of rain onto the glass ceiling over their heads.
Lady Charlotte was first to read Browning’s Two in the Campagna, and Rebecca listened to the moving elegance of the words and was lulled by the musical tone of Charlotte’s voice as she recited. Rebecca was soon distracted, however, by a pair of eyes upon her, staring. She glanced to the left and discovered Lady Letitia’s head turned in her direction.
Rebecca nodded at her. Letitia nodded in return, then faced front again, lifting her chin as she raised her hands to applaud the reading.
Charlotte lowered her book and appeared so deeply moved by the poem, that she was on the verge of tears. She quietly took her seat in the front row.
Lord Faulkner stood and read Summer Dawn, by William Morris. His deep, masculine voice resonated throughout the conservatory. Rebecca listened to every word of the poem, realizing just what she had been missing in life by stayi
ng home with her father and never learning the joys of society and other people outside her own small world. She felt as if she were seeing a sunrise for the first time.
When Lord Faulkner finished his reading, she joined the others in enthusiastic applause, then turned toward the grove of tree ferns where the elderly duke stood, and noticed he was not clapping, but picking at the leaves, tasting them and spitting them out.
Rebecca discreetly glanced over her shoulder at Lord Blake in the row behind her, who had already noticed the duke’s strange behavior and was rising from his chair to intervene. When Blake touched his father’s shoulder, the man turned his back on the tasty fern and joined his son in applause.
Rebecca looked to the other side of the conservatory where Lord Hawthorne stood alone, leaning upon a low wall of stone around a bed of roses. His long legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He had already been watching her. When their eyes met, his expression did not change. He did not smile. He merely watched her with hooded eyes, and she could not move or think or even breathe.
She remembered suddenly why she had come here in the first place when she thought she would be forced to marry Mr. Rushton. She had believed this man from her dreams could conquer any foe, solve any predicament, and she still believed that was so.
Lord Hawthorne continued to hold her captive in his cool gaze, and a hot tingling erupted in the pit of her belly. She knew she should look away, for the next guest with a poem had already risen and moved to the front, but she could not, especially when the marquess pushed away from the stone wall and came to sit in the chair beside her.
He said nothing. He merely crossed one leg over the other and listened to the reading. Lord Faulkner concluded his recital, and while everyone was clapping, Lord Hawthorne leaned a little closer to her. “Are you comfortably settled in?”
“Yes, thank you,” she whispered.
The readings were finished, and the other guests rose from their chairs and murmured in conversation. “You did not have a poem you wished to read?” Rebecca asked.
His blue eyes swept over her face. “I prefer more intimate surroundings for the reading of poetry.”
“I see.” Her cheeks flushed with color when she realized how breathlessly she had spoken.
Just then, there was a commotion behind them, and Rebecca turned to see Lady Letitia sigh and stagger, then begin to crumple to the stone floor in a billowing heap of silks and satin.
Lord Hawthorne had already pushed past and caught the young woman in his arms just before she hit the ground. He dropped to his knees and lowered her gently.
“Upon my word!” Letitia’s mother fumbled through her reticule and handed him her vinaigrette.
“Thank you.” He flipped open the gold case and waved it under Letitia’s perfect, tiny, aristocratic nose.
She gasped and blinked up at him, befuddled. “Gracious, what happened?”
“You must have gotten up too quickly,” Devon replied. “Are you all right?”
“Oh,” she said with a sigh, touching her forehead with the back of her hand. “I do beg your pardon, Lord Hawthorne. How mortifying.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” he said. “Just lie still for a moment until you feel strong enough to stand.” A footman approached with a glass of water on a tray, which Devon picked up and handed to Lady Letitia.
The others had crowded around them, gaping down at her, and when it was clear she was going to recover, they began to chatter and disperse.
Aunt Grace moved to stand beside Rebecca. “That was quite a performance,” she whispered.
Rebecca glanced at her aunt. “Do you really think so?”
Grace raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“You are so kind, Lord Hawthorne,” Letitia said, taking his hand in hers while she continued to blink up at him. “How can I ever make it up to you?”
“Nonsense.” He helped her to her feet and began to escort her out of the conservatory, walking past Rebecca and Aunt Grace without so much as a single backward glance. “All I ask is that you feel well enough to attend dinner this evening.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I’m sure I will be better by then, thanks to your gentlemanly assistance. And I will count every minute.”
“As will I.” He exited the conservatory with Letitia on his arm, while her mother trotted merrily along behind them.
It was becoming dreadfully apparent to Devon as he mingled through the drawing room reception before dinner, that Lady Letitia and her mother were conniving shamelessly to attract his attention and prevent any opportunity that might arise for him to speak to any of the other young ladies in the room, most notably the flame haired Helen of Troy.
Devon’s father was not helping matters either, for he was the one who encouraged Blake to escort Lady Rebecca into dinner, leaving Devon with no alternative but to offer his arm to Letitia.
As if he weren’t already being maneuvered enough into his future as it was.
Nevertheless, he did not wish to act too hastily in either direction. There was his father to consider, and the inheritance. Devon had to keep the old man happy.
They took their places at the table, and the meal was served. All the while, Letitia continued with her bold tactics to win Devon’s favor. She managed to boast about everything from her beautiful singing voice to her superb skills at archery, while her mother openly supported every narcissistic word that spilled out of her pretty mouth.
“And don’t you agree, Lord Hawthorne,” she said, when her dessert was set down in front of her, “that any lady of good breeding must have superb conversational skills? That she should have some experience moving about in society? A good hostess cannot hide away in the country, after all.”
Heaven help him, her chattering voice was like some kind of nightmare from which he could not awaken.
“You are quite right,” he replied. “A lady of true accomplishments must possess some measure of charm.”
“Oh, yes. That is how a lady can best serve the needs of her husband.”
She gazed across the table at him with amusement in her eyes, as if they were sharing a private intimacy.
After dinner, the ladies retired to the green drawing room for coffee while the gentlemen enjoyed their cigars in the smoking room. Later they all converged in the blue saloon where one of the matrons took a seat at the piano and began to play for an informal country dance.
Devon was not in the mood for dancing, however. Nor did he have any desire to laugh and joke with the gentlemen or spend any more of his time with Lady Letitia, listening to her go on about her first-rate education and awe-inspiring travels to Paris and Rome. He was exhausted from all that had occurred over the past two days—the tension he had come home to, his father’s madness, Vincent’s hostilities, and his promise that he would be the first to marry. On top of it all, he was experiencing a persistent, aching desire to converse with another woman tonight. He’d had enough interruptions.
At that moment Lady Rebecca entered the saloon in a yellow silk gown and pearls, her scarlet hair swept into an elegant twist adorned with sparkling combs. She looked like a welcome ray of sunshine in a room full of thunderclouds.
Their eyes met. She smiled with genuine warmth and crossed to the window, not far from where he stood. He took the liberty of approaching.
“Good evening,” he said. She turned and smiled again, as if she had been waiting just for him. “Permit me to say, you look ravishing.”
“Shameless flatterer.” Her green eyes glimmered with teasing.
A footman strolled by with a tray of sherry, and Devon picked up two glasses and handed one to Lady Rebecca. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and slowly sipped his drink, savoring the potent flavor and the pleasant effects of the vision before him.
“Did you enjoy the poetry reading this afternoon?” he asked.
“Yes. I found it very moving.”
“You must not be referring to the comedy, then,” he whispered, “which took place, stage left?”
“My lord?”
He leaned his head a little closer. “Just so you know, my father hasn’t always had a penchant for leafy ferns. That is a recently acquired taste, I’m afraid.”
Lady Rebecca gave him a quiet smile. “I thought I was the only one who noticed.”
“I hope you were.”
They both shook their heads to refuse the offerings on a tray filled with chocolate cookies and squares, brought round by another footman.
“May I presume your father is experiencing some symptoms of old age?” Lady Rebecca asked, as soon as the footman moved on.
“You presume correctly.”
“It is not uncommon,” she assured him, “but difficult for the family nonetheless.”
Taking a sip of sherry, she looked away and watched the duke for a moment while he warmed his hands in front of the fire. Devon saw compassion in her eyes, or was it melancholy? He wished to observe everything about her with great care.
“If there is anything I can do while I am here,” she said, “I would be happy to assist. I quite enjoy your father’s conversations actually. He is very passionate about his gardens, and I admire his spirit.”
“That is most kind of you, Lady Rebecca.”
“Well... My father has not been well either,” she explained. “Though his ailments are more physical. He suffers from rheumatism, which has made life difficult for both of us. It has always hurt me to see him endure the pain.” She paused and lowered her gaze while she took a deeper sip, then spoke in a low, somewhat defeated voice. “I am afraid he has not been himself lately.”
Could it be she understood exactly what Devon was going through? Devon felt a connection to her and wanted to know more. “I am sorry to hear that.”
She lightened her tone and lifted her gaze. “I am sure it gives your father great comfort to have you home again, Lord Hawthorne. It was good of you to return.”
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 8