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

by Julianne MacLean

  Panting with impatience, he leaned to the side on one elbow while he unbuttoned the bottom of her bodice, working his way up while she started at the top. As soon as it was free, she sat up and yanked it off her shoulders. At the same time, he was unfastening her skirts and drawers and wrenching them down over her hips.

  At last, their clothing was out of the way. Very quickly he positioned himself between her thighs and moved until he found the precise location for his purposes, then slowly, smoothly, he entered her.

  She gasped with unrestrained lust, aching for more as he made love to her voraciously.

  “I cannot understand this,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut, surprising her with his confession. “This madness. I cannot fight it. I must have you, Rebecca. Completely.”

  Nor could she understand it, as sensation overwhelmed reason. She could not even begin to contemplate the forces at work in this room. She had been so angry with him earlier for his arrogance and the withdrawal of his gentler affections, and for his lack of forgiveness, when he was as guilty as she.

  Yet she still wanted him and would do anything for him. All she knew presently was the tremendous power of her desires, coursing through her nerve endings to the very center of her being. Pleasure assailed her, and she released a muffled scream into her husband’s mouth as she felt at the same time the sudden release of his tensions.

  He collapsed heavily upon her, and they lay in the dazzling afternoon light, their desires fulfilled, their bodies damp with perspiration, limp and weak, wondrously sated.

  “Have no doubt,” she whispered in his ear as she ran a finger up and down his smooth, slick back. “I am yours. I was never Rushton’s.”

  “Don’t say his name again,” he softly said. “Ever. Just the sound of it infuriates me.”

  She could barely breathe under the tremendous weight of her husband. “Nothing would please me more than to never speak it again, or hear of it. But you must promise me something, too.”

  Devon rolled to his side and faced her, waiting in silence for her request.

  “You must promise to at least try and forgive me for our unfortunate beginning, as I will forgive you. I want you to love me in return,” she said. “If not today—someday.”

  He rested his head on his arm. “We are still strangers, you know.”

  “But we won’t be forever. Every day will bring us closer if you will only let me love you, which you must, because no matter what has happened between us, now that I have found you, I cannot live without you.”

  He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. “Do not rely on me for your happiness, Rebecca. You must find other things to occupy yourself besides me, because I cannot be responsible for all that.”

  She sat up. “You are not responsible for my happiness.”

  “But you just said you cannot live without me.”

  “It was an expression of love,” she told him, “and I warn you, I will say other things like it in the future. I want us to be everything to each other.”

  He spoke in a calm voice, his gaze steady. “That is not the kind of love I ever imagined myself wanting.”

  “What other kind is there?” she asked, unable to understand how he could think or feel any other way.

  He stared at her for a long time. “I honestly don’t know, and I am not sure I want to find out. It is not a question I wish to explore.”

  Chapter 18

  Every morning for a week, Devon woke to the sound of wind and rain pelting against his window, rattling the panes. The river had risen higher than anyone remembered in fifty years, and he heard from a servant, who had gone into the village the day before, that a bridge had collapsed in the next county and a farmer crossing over it on foot was swept away.

  The duke was not taking the news well. He was pacing constantly, whether in the privacy of his own bedchamber or in full view in the drawing rooms. He wandered the corridors, loitered in the gallery, and even skulked about in the servants’ wing. Occasionally he stopped to look up at a portrait of an ancestor and apologize in a vague, disturbing way, which the family took note of with concern.

  “Do you think we should summon the doctor again?” Blake asked, late one afternoon, while he and Devon were alone in the study, working on estate matters.

  Devon was seated at the desk inspecting the ledgers, which he had been spending a lot of time on lately, for it kept his mind off the two things that were a constant concern to him: his father’s illness and the antagonism he still felt regarding his wife’s former engagement.

  He wished he could let it go, but for some reason he could not. It still incensed him on a daily basis. Every time he looked at her, he thought of that other man who had believed she would be his, and found himself wondering what conversations they’d had in the past, what this man knew of her, and how he had reacted to the news that she was now another man’s wife.

  “Devon?”

  He blinked a few times, then laid down his pen and looked at his brother. “I’m sorry.... Yes?”

  “Should we summon the doctor again?” Blake asked, repeating his earlier question.

  Devon labored to bring his mind back to the subject at hand. “Dr. Lambert has not been helpful in the past. He would no doubt continue to tell us this behavior is normal, which I suppose it is, if it is simply old age.”

  “But perhaps he could give Father a tonic or something to ease his mind or help him sleep.”

  Devon leaned back in his chair. “I am of the opinion that it is time to call on someone new, someone who has some experience with this kind of thing. Someone who does not expect to be named in the will.”

  “Someone from London?”

  “Yes.” Devon leaned forward and picked up his pen again. “Didn’t Mother work on a hospital benefit last Christmas? Perhaps she would know someone.”

  “It is worth a try,” Blake said.

  Just then, the door swung open and hit the wall, and the estate steward, Mr. Jacobs, entered with their father, who strode across the room in a wild frenzy.

  “Devon,” he said. “Devon...”

  Startled by the abrupt interruption and the panic in his father’s voice, Devon rose from his chair. “What is it?”

  Mr. Jacobs spoke in a surprisingly calm voice. “Good afternoon, Lord Hawthorne. There is some news about the fields to the east.”

  “News!” the duke shouted. “It is not news! It is the end!”

  The steward made an effort to ignore the duke’s outburst. “I thought you should know, my lord,” he said to Devon, “that some of the fields require attention. The drainage ditches are not performing as they should.”

  Devon glanced at his father, who was having difficulty breathing and was now tugging at his cravat.

  “You are here to tell me,” Devon said, “that the fields are flooding?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Wonderful.

  “Do you hear that?” his father said, pointing at the steward while gazing incredulously at Blake. “What the blazes are you doing here? Why aren’t you in London with Vincent searching for a bride? And where is Garrett? Have you reached him yet? Does he know? Why has he not returned?”

  “I have posted a letter,” Devon assured him, “but it will take some time to reach him, and it will be longer still, before we receive a reply.”

  “But what are we going to do in the meantime?”

  Devon moved out from behind the desk and went to pour a glass of brandy, which he handed to his father. “There is no need to worry. Blake and I will accompany Mr. Jacobs to the east fields now and assess the damage, then find a solution. We will dig new drainage ditches ourselves if we have to. Everything will be fine, Father.”

  “But that will only buy us time,” the duke replied, sucking back a deep swig of brandy.

  Devon placed a comforting hand on his fath
er’s shoulder. “Maybe time is all we need.”

  The duke looked into his eyes and stared blankly, then his breathing calmed. He strode to a chair. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

  Mr. Jacobs watched the duke with further uneasiness, then cleared his throat and spoke to Devon. “My lord? Do you wish to see the fields now?”

  “Yes. Blake and I will accompany you. Have a groom ready the horses.”

  Blake followed Devon out of the library, but glanced over his shoulder at their father, who was finishing off the brandy in record time.

  “Maybe we should skip the horses, Devon, and take a rowboat instead.”

  Devon gave him a warning look. “Blake, I swear, if you tell me you’re starting to believe in this ridiculous curse, I will respectfully suggest that you go stick your finger in a dyke.”

  “Point taken,” his brother replied. “Horses will do.”

  By the time Devon and Blake returned from the fields, darkness had fallen. They were both soaked through to the bone, their feet numb from the chill, their hands shaking with fatigue, blistered after working with the tenant farmers to dig extra drainage ditches where they were needed.

  The butler met them at the door and took their wet coats and hats, then they each ordered hot baths and brandy in their rooms. They took a glass together in the study while they waited for the baths to be drawn, then scaled the steps wearily and headed toward their private lodgings, each of them intent upon collapsing with all due haste as soon as they cleaned the grime from their skin.

  Devon said goodnight to his brother and started down the long corridor. A wall sconce flickered wildly as he passed by, then blew out.

  He stopped in his tracks, then started again. Reaching the next sconce, he kept his eyes fixed upon it. Thankfully it remained lit, illuminating one of the many palace portraits of his ancestor, the first Duke of Pembroke.

  Devon stopped in the corridor and looked up at it. It was disturbingly lifelike, as were all the paintings of that man. No wonder their father was obsessed with them and talked to them in the night.

  At last Devon reached his door and turned the knob to discover a fire roaring in the grate and a tub full of hot water waiting for him. He closed and locked the door, then stripped off his wet clothing and stepped into the steaming bath. When his hands touched the water, however, his blisters burned like hot pokers, so he rested his arms along the brass rim of the tub, palms up.

  His entire body was aching, his mind in a fog of exhaustion. The fields had indeed been flooded, and if his father had seen them for himself, he would have collapsed in a hysterical fit. Something had to be done, but for the life of him, Devon didn’t know what.

  Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. It wasn’t a moment before he felt that pleasant feeling of floating as sleep approached, but a dripping sound pulled him from that place and compelled him to open his eyes.

  “I must be dreaming,” he said, recognizing his wife sitting beside him, leaning over the tub, dipping a cloth into the water and squeezing it out over his knees. “Because I see an angel.”

  Indeed, an angel she was, dressed in her flowing white nightgown, her red hair spilling in graceful waves down her back.

  Over the past week, they had made love every night, reading from Lydie’s diary when it suited them, but more often than not, leaving it in a drawer and exploring their own particular tastes and desires with enthusiasm and curiosity. Their lusty appetites were always in harmony, and the sex was, without question, superb.

  Rebecca was adventurous in every sense of the word, and Devon was thankful for that. It gave their relationship a clear dynamic, for they were both open about what they wanted in bed and had no reservations when it came to the use of titillating words and lusty language. They were each determined to satisfy and be satisfied, and it was the one thing they had in common—the daily anticipation of sex, and the question of when and where they would have it next.

  Devon knew their lovemaking was distracting them both from the secrets they had kept from each other before their marriage, as well as his unwillingness to surrender to the kind of love she wanted him to feel.

  Every night she said those words to him—I love you—and every night, he answered with a kiss. He simply could not return the sentiment. He was not capable of letting his emotions go free in that way, nor could he lie to her and say it simply to please her.

  All of it was acceptable to him. He was quite happy to continue in that way, enjoying sex but never speaking of more intimate matters of the heart. He suspected, however, that it would be only a matter of time before Rebecca would want something more.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked, determined to enjoy things the way they were, for as long as he could.

  “You’re not the only one who knows about the secret passages in this house,” she said. “Charlotte has been taking me around.”

  Devon glanced at the tall wardrobe by the bed with its double doors ajar. “Alas, my secret is no longer a secret. Where else did she take you? Have you seen the mice in the old south passage yet?”

  “The abbey underground? No, she refused to take me there. She said it gave her nightmares as a child, because she thought it was haunted by the monks.”

  Devon puckered his lips. “I think the nightmares came from her unscrupulous brothers, who told her terrible ghost stories about those monks.” His brow furrowed as he recalled certain, specific details from his boyhood. “Maybe there was a spider or two involved,” he added.

  Rebecca shook her head with disapproval, then changed the subject. “I heard you worked very hard today.”

  “Yes, and I will work my fingers to the bone again tomorrow, and the day after that if this weather continues.”

  “Not all landlords would do what you did,” she said, sounding wistful and pensive. “You picked up a shovel and worked side by side with your tenants. I am sure you won much respect and loyalty today.”

  He slid down and dunked his head, remained under water for a moment, then surfaced and wiped the back of a hand over his face.

  She noticed the blisters and calluses. “Oh, Devon.” She took hold of his hand and kissed it.

  “I’ll survive,” he said. “I am not so sure about the fields though.”

  “The rain will stop eventually,” she assured him. “It’s just a bad spring, that’s all. Summer will soon be here, and we will all be roasting in the sunshine, praying for a cloudy day.”

  He tipped his head back upon the smooth rim of the tub. “I hope you’re right. For my father’s sake.”

  “Of course I am.”

  She reached for the soap and lathered it between her palms, then stood up, moved behind him, and began to wash his hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed while she massaged his scalp and stroked his temples firmly with her thumbs. He reveled in the sound of swabbing lather, enjoyed the sensation of his body under the warm water.

  “You are a goddess,” he said.

  “No, I am your wife. Now rinse.” She kissed his forehead, then moved around the tub and picked up the cloth again.

  He slid down and dunked his head, came back up and wiped his eyes, then lay back while she rubbed the lathered cloth over his neck and chest and shoulders, then down to his navel and lower still.

  She had only to look into his eyes to recognize the need coursing through his body and the errant thoughts in his mind.

  “Would you like me to get in there with you?” she asked. “Or would you prefer to come out here with me?”

  “I think I would like for you to hand me a towel.”

  Smiling, she reached for it and held it out. He rose from the hot tub, water sluicing down his naked body and dripping noisily, his skin glistening in the firelight.

  “I should apologize in advance,” he said. “After the day I’ve had, I doubt I’ll have my usual stamina
.”

  “I’ll have enough for both of us,” she replied. “Or we can simply rest together, if you prefer.”

  She held the towel up while he stepped out, but he did not make use of it. He took it from her and dropped it carelessly onto the mat, while dripping water and leaving shiny footprints behind him as he followed her, naked, to the bed.

  “You’re going to get me wet, aren’t you?” Rebecca asked with a smile as she backed up toward it.

  “Undoubtedly, so you’d better take that off.” He pointed at her dressing gown.

  With a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, she pulled it off over her head and stood before him, also naked.

  He stopped where he was, letting his eyes feast upon the graceful swell of his wife’s breasts and the curve of her hips. He thought again of their argument the day of their wedding, and the jealousy he felt when her father had informed him that she had been engaged to another.

  Devon had told Rebecca everything about MaryAnn that day. Well, almost everything. He had left certain details out.

  He wondered in turn, with a hint of unease, what details he did not know about Rebecca’s former life.

  He strode toward her and rested his hands on her hips. “Tell me something. Did he ever touch you?”

  Her elegant eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Who?”

  “Rushton.”

  She looked disappointed that he had interrupted what they were about to do by bringing up Rushton again. “Why does it matter?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Why? What good would it do for you to know something like that? And why do you want to know?”

  Devon realized suddenly that he was now the one digging for information about intimate matters outside of their sexual encounters, and the thought was disturbing to him.

  Not, however, as disturbing as the fact that she would not answer the question.

  She sighed and climbed onto the bed, completely uninhibited about her nudity, as always. She patted the spot beside her. “Come and lie down with me.”