In My Wildest Fantasies (9 page)

"In what way?"

She pondered the question, not quite sure how to articulate what she meant. "You make people feel safe. He has quite the opposite effect."

Lord Hawthorne's pale blue eyes became expressionless as stone, then he bent forward slightly and spoke with a hush that sent a shiver of awareness through her. "What makes you think you are safe with me?"

Her body trembled, and she marveled at the peculiar panic he evoked in her. Then he turned and casually strolled around the dessert table, looking at everything but sampling nothing. Rebecca followed him and tasted a lemon jelly candy, then a sweet red grape.

When he came around again, having circled the table, he faced her, hands clasped behind his back. He couldn't have looked more relaxed if he were basking in the sun.

"So tell me," he said, "what did you and my brother speak about?"

"He asked if I was betrothed."

"Did he, indeed? And what was your reply?"

"That I am not, of course." She paused, watching his reaction, then continued. "He also asked if I was in love."

Lord Hawthorne shook his head with disapproval. "Tsk, tsk, Vincent. Such bold questions. And what was your reply to that?"

"No again. But the night is still young."

She wasn't quite sure where that clever but risky response had come from. She could only credit it to her provocative reading of late.

His smiling eyes glanced down at her body. "Did you enjoy dancing with him?"

"He is an excellent dancer."

"That's not what I asked."

She recognized a fire in his eyes--was it jealousy?--and decided not to answer the question. She simply took another sip of champagne and strolled to the other side of the table.

"Is that why you were waiting for me after I danced with him?" she asked. "And why you escorted me here to the dessert table? To protect me from your brother, the alleged scoundrel?"

"Yes."

Her view of him was briefly obstructed by the tower of lemon cakes. She tilted her head to the side. "It seems you are always coming to my rescue, Lord Hawthorne. First a runaway coach, now a scoundrel of a brother. What next, I ask you?"

The corner of his mouth curled up in a grin, and when he spoke, the whispery quality of his voice tingled across her body, as if he had stroked her with a feather. "I suspect there will have to be something, Lady Rebecca. Any chance there might be a monster under your bed tonight that I can save you from?"

The implications of that question shocked her to her core, and she felt quite decidedly out of her depth. "Are you sure it is your brother who is the scoundrel?" she asked. "Perhaps I should be warned about the masked highwayman before me, who wants to peek under my bed."

He watched her turn and stroll to the end of the table. She reached for another grape, but did not eat it right away.

"What a night," she said. "I've danced with two scoundrels, and now I've been scandalized by a shocking comment about a monster under my bed. Lord Hawthorne, you are a very, very bad man."

And he excited her to the depths of her soul.

She popped the grape into her mouth, and something in his eyes changed. His searing gaze swept down her body again.

"You must come and stay in the palace with the other out-of-town guests," he said. "They are all staying until Friday."

The very air around them seemed to snap with electricity, and she began to believe that whatever she had said or done during these crucial moments around the table had worked. "But we have already unpacked at the inn," she explained.

"Tomorrow, then. My mother will speak to your aunt tonight before you leave."

Rebecca could not smother the great fire of triumph now burning inside her. "You have everything worked out, I see."

Her aunt appeared at her side, and Hawthorne turned his eyes to her. "You have returned, Lady Saxby. Rest assured, your charge was in good hands. I rescued her from the chocolate kisses. She did not have a single one."

"Gracious, my lord," Aunt Grace said, "I do owe you my deepest gratitude, because we all know that one kiss is never enough, and they are, oh, so dangerously sweet. A lady must watch herself."

He smiled with amusement at Aunt Grace, then bowed to both of them. "Good evening, ladies."

Her aunt watched him leave. "My, what an incredible man, Rebecca. No wonder you never forgot him."

"And you are terrible, Aunt Grace! What you said about the chocolate kisses! I could brain you!"

Her aunt ignored her admonishment. "I suspect he never really forgot you either, dear, and I predict you will be seeing him again."

Rebecca leaned close. "Sooner rather than later, it appears, because he has invited us to stay at the palace for the week."

Grace shot her a quick look. "You don't say. In that case, I suppose I don't need to be giving you any more advice, do I, child? You obviously have a natural talent." She lovingly patted her hand. "Well done, Rebecca. We have crossed the first threshold. I believe we are one step closer to your future happiness."

But after all the deprivations in her life so far, it had almost been too easy, Rebecca thought, with a strange and unexpected niggling of doubt. She thought of the old adage: too good to be true, and hoped it would not apply to her fairy-tale dreams of this man--and of the grand, passionate, perfect love she desired.

That night, after all the guests and family members were asleep in the palace, the duke, wearing only his nightshirt and cap, slid quietly out of bed and lit the lantern. Carefully picking it up by the squeaky handle, he padded across the dark chamber to his slippers by the door, then slid his bare feet into them and gazed anxiously about the room. He raised the lamp and peered through the dim golden light at the wood-paneled walls. His brows pulled together in a frown, his mouth fell open. His breath came faster in the chill of the night air.

He hastened to the door and ventured out into the dark corridor, looking both ways before he stepped softly to the right, quickening his pace while he checked over his shoulder. Carrying the lamp to the end of the hall, he stopped there and held it high before the massive gilt-framed portrait of the second Duke of Pembroke.

His Grace stared at it for a moment, then quickly shook his head before starting off toward the south wing. He passed a number of the guest chambers, glancing briefly down at the brass knobs on the doors as he passed.

"Yes, it is a very good time," he said.

He continued on, reaching the main staircase and hurrying down to the ground floor, his thin nightshirt flapping about his legs as he went.

He raised the lamp again and looked around the great hall. "No, Brother Salvador, not that way. This way." The duke slowed his pace at last and shuffled into the gallery. "Now let me tell you about young Rupert," he said. "He was a very good boy, but no one seems to remember him. No one except for me."

He walked the long length of the gallery, and the glow from his lamp seemed to bring the portraits back to life in the dark.

Chapter 7

"At least we have until winter," Blake said to Vincent over the breakfast table the next morning, before any of the guests joined them in the room.

Vincent chuckled bitterly. "Good God. Leave it to you to find the silver lining in hell."

Devon walked into the room and met Vincent's dark gaze. His brother, seated at the white-clothed table with a plate of eggs and sausage before him, paused with his fork in midair, then lowered it with a noisy clink upon the fine china. "I believe I've lost my appetite."

Exhausted--for he had been up all night, his thoughts bouncing back and forth between his father's insane demands and the stimulating allure of Lady Rebecca--Devon went immediately to the sideboard for coffee. "Don't miss out on a hot breakfast on my account, Vin. You know I'm not worth it."

He could feel his brother's gaze at his back while he poured himself a cup, then he took a seat at the table across from him. They glared at each other. Vincent picked up his fork again and resumed eating.

"We were just discussing Father's intentions to see all four of us married by Christmas," Blake said.

Devon curled his hand around his hot coffee cup. "I have news about that. Early this morning, just before dawn, Father came to my room and informed me that he would offer a reward to each of us if we marry before the end of the Season. Five thousand pounds in a lump sum on the wedding day."

Blake whistled. "That's a hefty sum. He is losing his mind, isn't he?"

"Five thousand pounds you say," Vincent sat back in his chair.

"Garrett must be informed of the situation as soon as possible," Devon said.

"The last time we heard from him," Blake replied, "he was somewhere in the Greek Islands enjoying the Mediterranean wine. He won't be pleased to hear this."

"I doubt he'll even care," Vincent said. "He's already declared he wants nothing from Father. He'd be just as happy to stay in Greece and let us all drown in the bloody flood."

Devon brought his hand down flat upon the table. "There is no flood."

"You don't say," Vincent replied with sarcastic bite. "Look, it's your fault the old man went so nutty in the first place," he said. "You weren't here to witness his wrath after you left. He probably burst something in his brain from all the ranting he did."

Devon gazed out the window at the rain pelting down upon the devastated garden terrace, filling the deep holes with water, the wind howling through the trees.

Yes, perhaps part of their father's madness was his fault, for he had disappointed him more than ever that last day, walking out after what he'd done and leaving the country without a word. He had abandoned them all.

You are no longer my son.

He was not proud of his prolonged absence from England, he never had been, but he'd always known his exodus was necessary. He'd needed to go off alone and suffer for a while, to wallow in his shame before he could finally distance himself from certain events. He'd had to do that before he could return home and fulfill his duty to the family.

He looked at his brother--the brother he had betrayed. "You are correct in that regard," he said. "I am to blame for the sorry state of affairs here at Pembroke."

Vincent set down his fork again and leaned back in his chair. "Bloody well right."

"No, Devon," Blake said, interrupting. "Our father's madness is not your fault."

Devon shook his head. "I suppose we'll never know, will we? But in the end, that is not the point."