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

by Julianne MacLean

Rebecca leaned up on her elbows. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes,” he replied, pulling them on. “I don’t want to risk gossip if I am missed.”

  She felt some uncertainty suddenly and wished he did not have to go.

  He wasted no time pulling on his shirt and buttoning his waistcoat. She supposed this sort of thing was easier for a man. No doubt, he had done this before. Dozens of times, probably, or maybe even hundreds for all she knew.

  He put on his shoes, pulled on his dinner jacket, then leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead. “Sleep well,” he said. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  He left her alone in the empty bed and dying firelight to contemplate her dreams of a happy future. A moment later, the fire flickered out, leaving only a few smoldering embers. A chill came into the room, so she drew the covers up to her shoulders and hugged her knees to her chest to keep warm.

  Devon walked out of Rebecca’s bedchamber. He closed the door quietly behind him and strode down the corridor before someone had a chance to encounter him in this wing where he had no reason to be. Other than to debauch a virgin and seduce her into becoming his wife with immediate haste.

  As soon as he entered the corridor that housed his own lodgings, he stopped and rested a hand over his stomach. He backed up against the wall, closed his eyes, and tipped his head against the dark oak paneling.

  He had wanted Rebecca tonight, there was no question about that, and he wanted her still—with every primal, pounding urge in his body. The troubling fact of the matter was—he had forgotten himself. He had allowed romance and desire to overshadow his intellect and discipline.

  Marriage. He’d known he would have to succumb to it eventually, he just hadn’t expected to be swept away so quickly and impulsively without even attempting to swim against the current. He had been home for only a few days, and already he was back in that familiar saddle, doing exactly what his father wanted him to do. This, when the man was clearly out of his mind.

  Devon wondered how he would be dealing with this situation if Rebecca had not come to the ball. He certainly would not have been deflowering Lady Letitia tonight, or any of the other women who had attended. He would have been thinking things through more carefully, perhaps even swimming upstream in the opposite direction. He would not have been so full of lust and desire as to thrust himself recklessly past the point of no return.

  There was no going back now.

  So it was her fault then, he told himself, with an embittered chuckle and cynical shake of his head. Her fault entirely, for being so inconceivably alluring, like some beautiful, magical nymph sent here to bring him to his knees.

  Maybe it was a test of some kind to see if he had learned anything from the past and had strengthened his will. If it was, he was failing it. Miserably. He would try to do better.

  He pushed away from the wall and headed toward his own room. All he could do now was focus on practicalities. He would plan a swift and efficient wedding to the woman he had just bedded.

  That very night, far from Pembroke Palace, beyond the Cotswold Hills, Rebecca’s father, the Earl of Creighton, rose from his desk and sat down in front of the fire in his bedchamber.

  He held a letter in his hand. The ink was barely dry. He had signed his name to it only seconds ago.

  Rushton would not be pleased when he received it. What would he do? Would he come here straight away, or would he give up his plan to have Rebecca as his wife and simply back down?

  Unfortunately, the earl knew that Rushton would not be so easily defeated. The man had spent his entire life working toward this goal, climbing and clawing his way back to this tiny, secluded part of the world. He was not going to give up, and he was not going to be happy.

  The earl took a sip of brandy and stared into the hot, dancing flames. His daughter was gone. Damn her for her independence. She was too much like her mother.

  But perhaps it was that very spirited nature that had attracted Creighton to his wife more than twenty years ago, and later, after his wife’s death, that young woman Rushton had brought round...

  Serena.

  For a brief fleeting second, Creighton thought he could see Serena’s pretty face in the flames, her golden hair flying in the wind, but then she was gone, and he became quite certain that he was looking into the very portal to hell.

  Chapter 10

  Devon hesitated in the doorway of the breakfast room when he spotted Lady Saxby standing by the sideboard with a cup of tea in her hands. She was laughing and conversing with one of the other female guests. Lady Letitia was on the opposite side of the room with her mother.

  Rebecca sat at the table beside Charlotte. He looked at Rebecca’s lovely face and recalled the tantalizing warmth of her voice when she had read to him from the diary the night before, and the mindless lust that had driven him to make love to her and propose. Something lurched in his chest and all at once his feet seemed fixed to the floor.

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. He wondered suddenly if Lady Letitia might have been a safer choice, for there would never have been any danger that he might lose his heart to her.

  But, no, there was no point wondering about what might have been. He had sins to atone for, and he had made his choice last night. He would go forward.

  Devon stood for a few minutes more, then entered the room and approached Lady Saxby.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but if I could have a word with you in private, madam?”

  Her smile disappeared and was replaced by a look of surprise. “Of course, Lord Hawthorne.” He bowed to the others, then escorted Lady Saxby out of the breakfast room and through the wide doors to the blue drawing room, which boasted the best tapestries in the palace. He gestured toward the two striped chairs facing each other in the corner and spoke courteously. “Please.”

  She took a seat.

  He sat down as well. “May I enquire without pretense, madam, about your niece?”

  “Certainly.”

  He hesitated a moment to allow her time to comprehend what he was about to ask, then spoke without ambiguity, determined to say what he must, but being careful not to reveal that he had already secured Rebecca’s hand, quite irrevocably in fact, in the most dishonorable way possible.

  “Has she given any thought to her future? Does she wish to marry?”

  The woman stared at him for a moment before a clear understanding reached her eyes, then she spoke with complete discernment. “Yes, of course, Lord Hawthorne. What young lady of good breeding does not desire such a future for herself?”

  “In that case, may I enquire about her father? Is he available for discussions on the matter? Can he be reached during his travels?”

  Lady Saxby’s lips parted slightly, and she hesitated before she answered. He supposed this was an unnerving conversation for any woman in charge of a younger woman’s future.

  “He could be,” she replied, “but it might take some time for a letter to reach him.” She shifted in her chair and tilted her head to the side. “But would it be of interest to you, Lord Hawthorne, to know that my niece is only a few days away from her majority? She will be twenty-one on Saturday.”

  “Ah, that is indeed helpful,” he said, for Rebecca would not require parental consent in order to marry. That would speed matters up considerably. “But I would of course still wish to communicate with her father about any important decisions regarding his daughter’s future.”

  “I understand,” she smoothly replied. Then she tilted her head again. “But allow me to inform you also that Lord Creighton has left his daughter in my capable hands with the express purpose of attending the Season in London, and shall we say, solidifying her future. As you know, he is not a social person, but he desires his daughter’s happiness. So I have therefore been entrusted with his blessings, so to speak.”

  Devon studied Lady Saxby’s expressio
n with great care. She was eager, there was no doubt about it, but he supposed that was to be expected. Any woman in her position would consider it a great personal achievement to match her niece with a man of his rank. It was a plain and simple fact. He was heir to a dukedom.

  He inclined his head. “In that case, I wish to appeal to you for the honor of your blessing, Lady Saxby, so that I may request a private moment with your niece this morning and speak to her directly about a shared future.”

  She appeared to have some trouble speaking.

  “If that is agreeable to you, of course,” he added.

  With a quick breath, she said, “Yes, it is most agreeable, my lord. And of course, you have my utmost blessing with my own assurance that my niece, Rebecca, is very capable and mature and kindhearted. I feel comfortable leaving the two of you alone to discuss any matters of importance, as I trust her judgment entirely. You will find that she is most pleasant to talk to, and very honest and forthcoming.”

  “You do not have to convince me of anything, Lady Saxby. I have already discovered all of these things for myself. She is an extraordinary woman.”

  Her expression warmed knowingly, and he had the distinct feeling this woman was very shrewd. “And may I please say, Lord Hawthorne, that I believe you are an extraordinary man. I am delighted we were able to reach an understanding this morning.”

  He simply bowed his head. “Thank you, madam.”

  When they arrived back in the breakfast room, he turned his attention to Rebecca, who was still sitting beside his sister. Charlotte looked up at him with wide eyes, as if she knew exactly what was about to happen and was completely astounded by the velocity of it.

  He circled the table. “Lady Rebecca, may I request a word with you in private?”

  A hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned to him. Vincent walked in just then and stopped in the doorway.

  Rebecca cleared her throat and stood. “Of course, Lord Hawthorne.”

  He glanced across at Vincent, whose expression was impossible to read, then escorted his future wife around the table, choosing not to meet his brother’s gaze again as he passed by.

  Exactly one minute later, back in the blue drawing room among the fine tapestries, Devon dropped to one knee, proposed, and Rebecca accepted.

  “Your aunt informed me that you will be celebrating your birthday on Saturday,” he said, rising to his feet but still holding her hand. “Would it please you to celebrate our nuptials on the same day?”

  On Saturday? Rebecca’s head was spinning. Even though this was exactly what she had wanted when she’d fled her home in desperation, she still felt uneasy about how quickly everything was unfolding. It reminded her of how she had felt in that runaway coach all those years ago, how she had been thrown backward against the seat. “So soon?”

  “I don’t see any point in delaying,” he said. “Not after last night.”

  After last night. Yes, the memory of it had swirled amorously through her mind and body and kept her awake and aroused in her bed until dawn.

  “You’re right, of course,” she said. “But this has all happened so fast, I can barely catch my breath. May I ask...” She hesitated, not quite sure why she needed to know this, when she had come to Pembroke Palace with a clear purpose of her own to make him her husband. “Was it your intention to find a bride so quickly the other night at the ball?”

  He took a moment to put together a reply. “It has been my intention to find a bride my entire life,” he told her. “I’ve always known I would marry one day.”

  Rebecca stared into his striking blue eyes, searching for understanding, needing to hear something more. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, but she wanted to feel as if she knew what was in his heart.

  Not that she expected him to tell her he loved her. She wanted him to, of course, in time, but it was too soon for that, she knew. She only wanted some truth and honesty.

  Somehow, he seemed to recognize her need for both those things and kissed her hand. “Yes, Rebecca. It was my intention to search for a wife that night.”

  She pondered that. “Is that why you came home to England when you did? To settle down and marry? I am not naive, Devon. I understand that as the future Duke of Pembroke, you have responsibilities. You may be honest with me.”

  Again, he took some time to answer. He seemed to be choosing his words with great care. “Indeed, I do have responsibilities, and it pleases me that you have these practicalities in mind. If you must know, my father was exerting some pressure upon my return, and given his age and his rather unfortunate state of mind, I feel it is my duty to oblige him.”

  “I see.”

  Was she disappointed? Had she truly imagined it was instant love that had moved him to propose? That he had been utterly swept away by his passions, as she had been?

  “Rest assured,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts, “that I would not have married just anyone. I was drawn to you the other night, no one else. I wanted you in the most basic way a man can want a woman, which I am sure you saw for yourself last night in your bedchamber.” He smiled at her. “You have warmth and charm, my family already adores you, and on top of all that, you have been managing your father’s household for a number of years, so I am confident you will make an excellent duchess. I am very pleased with this arrangement, Rebecca.”

  Pleased with this arrangement.

  So, she had not been the only one with specific ambitions the past few days. He had been holding the reins, too, controlling their speed and direction toward matrimony.

  Not that it mattered. She had gotten what she wanted. She should be thankful that the fates had overlooked her shameless, wicked behavior and been so very generous. Her luck had been incredible.

  “It appears I chose the perfect time to finally attend a gathering at the palace,” she said uneasily. “You were looking for your bride, which is exactly what I wanted to be.”

  “Yes. Did we not say it was destiny?” He kissed her hand again.

  Perhaps it was, she told herself. Perhaps she should even be thankful that her father had betrayed her and promised her to Mr. Rushton. Perhaps she had needed that cruel but firm push to force her to take charge of her life once and for all. Otherwise, she might still be back home reading Lydie’s diary, living through someone else’s passions instead of experiencing her own. And Devon might be proposing to Lady Letitia that morning.

  “That is very romantic,” she said. “I shall remember it always.”

  And she would not fret over the new direction her life was taking, even though it was happening so fast, she felt a little dizzy.

  The slap across his face came without warning and stung like the devil.

  “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

  Devon stood in the center of his study, allowing Lady Letitia this moment of fury, because she obviously felt she deserved it.

  “You used and misled me,” she said.

  “How exactly did I use you?” he asked, touching his cool hand to his burning cheek.

  She glared at him with a blaze of fire in her eyes. “You led me to believe there was an understanding between us.”

  Her jealous fury he would allow. Lies and accusations, he would not. “I beg your pardon, Lady Letitia. I did no such thing.”

  “But you did! You flirted with me and charmed me, and you invited me to sing for your guests.”

  “An invitation to sing does not signify a courtship. Nor is it a marriage proposal.”

  She slapped him again, harder this time. “It appears my ladylike behavior was not to your tastes. You preferred an improper seduction.”

  He sighed. “I did not seduce anyone.”

  “Not you, Lord Hawthorne. Her. That woman used immoral tactics to trap you, didn’t she? I could tell by the way she looked at you. It was appalling.”

  He swallowed over the u
gly, sour taste of this conversation. “No one has trapped anyone, and that is the future Duchess of Pembroke you are speaking of, so I recommend you hold your tongue. I believe we are done here.”

  Letitia began to tug at her reticule, as if she wanted to rip it apart. “We are most certainly done, Lord Hawthorne. My mother and I will be leaving the palace at once.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  She turned to leave but paused at the door and spoke over her shoulder. “Permit me to say, sir, that you chose the wrong woman to be your wife. And I will wager my grandmother’s diamond tiara that one day, you will live to regret it.”

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” Vincent said to Devon as he entered the stable on a large, dappled gray horse and swung down from the saddle. Soaking wet after a morning ride through the driving rain, Vincent handed the reins to a groom. “They say the wedding is to be held on Saturday. And to think you were worried about not having time for romance and a proper courtship.” He strode across the hay-strewn floor and removed his gloves, tapped them a few times on his thigh, then leaned against a post at the corner of the stall. “You always could sling the rubbish.”

  Devon was not in the mood for this. He had come out to the stables to be alone with his thoughts and to see Marlow, the horse that had been a yearling when he’d left for America three years ago. Marlow had been sired by Asher.

  Asher was gone now, of course. Vincent had seen to that. He had been the one to take the shotgun to the hill that day.

  “I had a duty to this family,” Devon said, “and Lady Rebecca was a practical choice.” He ran a brush over the coarse hair and the firm bands of muscle on Marlow’s neck. “There was no point beating around the bush.”

  “Oh, but I’d wager you did just that,” Vincent said. “You probably beat around her bush at least once, just to make sure she’d have no other options but to—”

  “Stop right there.” Devon strode out of the stall and pointed a finger at his brother. “I’m warning you, Vince.”