In My Wildest Fantasies

Chapter 11

Dear Diary,

Sometimes I wonder if the fates are determined to punish me for all my wicked thoughts and deeds-for today, the most wonderful thing happened, followed by the very worst.

Jess gave me a ring he made from a daisy in the clearing and told me he wanted to marry me. He said he would find a way somehow, then he cupped my head in his hand and pulled me close and kissed me deeply, sweeping his hot, delicious tongue into my mouth until I was sure I would melt into ecstasy right there in his arms. He made me promise to come to him in the clearing in the morning, and I said I would. I said I would do anything for him.

But tonight Father told me he was going to send me to live with Aunt Beatrice, for there was a man in her village who wanted a wife. Father said he was a successful merchant, and that it would be best for me. I think he knows about Jess.

I hate him, Diary. I hate my father. And I will go to the clearing tomorrow to see the man I love. I will not be forced to marry another.

Rebecca closed the book, laid it down on the bed beside her, and touched a finger to her lips. She knew exactly what Lydie's future held, for she had read the diary so many times over the past few years, she knew it all by heart.

Knowing the outcome of Lydie's life gave her some reassurance that she had done the right thing by fleeing her father's home and coming without delay to Pembroke Palace. She was also thankful that Devon had returned to England when he did. Now there was hope for her future happiness.

She could not help but wonder, however, if she should have told him about her situation and her father's plan for her to marry Mr. Rushton. Lydie had certainly told Jess. He had known all about it and done everything he could to keep her at his side. But they had already been deeply in love.

If she had told Devon right away, would he have chosen her over Lady Letitia, or gone so far as to propose? Perhaps he would not have, for he might not have wished to become involved in a complicated family matter, at least until it was all settled and he was sure she did not belong to another man.

Which she did not. She had never, ever belonged to Mr. Rushton, no matter what her father had said to him. Her heart had always belonged to Devon, and it always would.

She would tell him about Mr. Rushton when the time was right. She promised herself she would, and she hoped with all her heart that he would understand.

That same night, a shiny black coach approached Creighton Manor. The ominous clouds overhead began to shift and roll, and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. The wind picked up, hissing and blowing through the trees and hedges.

The coach rolled to a stop, the door swung open, and two heavy black boots pounded down upon the walk, where weeds grew in the cracks between the stones.

Maximilian Rushton, standing tall and slender as he stepped out of the coach, looked down at the weeds with disdain and spit into the overgrown garden of wildflowers. He lifted his head to look up at the front of the medieval house cloaked in ivy, and felt a distasteful mixture of frustration and loathing.

He had expected a celebration of victory today and had been anticipating his vengeance with great delight. Instead, he was here at Creighton Manor with nothing but a note of apology in his pocket, his purpose hindered, his anger inflamed.

He strode to the front door and rapped hard on the brass knocker.

"Get the earl out of bed," he said to the young maid who answered. He shoved the door open and pushed past her into the main hall. "And tell him I am not happy."

"Yes, Mr. Rushton." She curtsied and scurried up the stairs, while he watched the tempting curve of her plump backside until she was out of sight.

He removed his gloves and strode slowly across the stone floor toward the central hearth, eyeing the stained-glass window at one end of the vast hall and looking up at the timber ceiling, reaching to a high peak overhead.

This old feasting room looked too much like a church, he thought, glancing toward the three arches that led to the pantry and buttery, and turning his nose up at the plain medieval furnishings.

He stood in front of the hearth, where a few embers still smoldered in the grate, though mostly, it was just ash. He hated this house. At least, he would hate it until he was master here. Then it would be his greatest achievement.

He walked to the window where he could look outside to the south wing where the ballroom was located. Possession of that, he supposed, was his foremost ambition.

A few minutes later he heard the sound of the earl's cane tapping down the stone staircase, then he appeared, breathing heavily and clutching a woolen shawl around his narrow, hunched shoulders.

"How dare you keep me waiting," Rushton said.

Creighton made his way across the hall. His face was pale and gaunt. "May I offer you a drink?"

"No."

The earl approached him warily. "I assume you read my note?"

Rushton reached into his breast pocket and withdrew it. He held it up between two long fingers, wiggled it in the air, then tossed it onto the ashes in the grate. "How is it possible that you do not know the whereabouts of your own daughter?"

"She sneaked away four nights ago. I thought perhaps she might return by now."

"You promised to deliver her to me today. Instead I get this written apology. You should have informed me sooner."

The earl had no reply.

Rushton strode to him. He was more than a foot taller than the old earl, and found himself looking at the top of the man's balding head, for his cowardly gaze was fixed on the floor as usual.

"Did you make the mistake of telling her she would become my wife?"

The earl nodded. Still he did not look up.

Rushton spoke in a low controlled voice, though it boiled with his wrath. "Why? You should have just stuck her in the carriage and brought her to me."

"I had to tell her," he replied. "She knew something was wrong."

"Well, now something is wrong," Rushton said. "My bride has run off and you are in danger of being exposed. If you want to prevent it, get your daughter back."

"I don't know where she went."

"You had best figure it out, Creighton, or you know what will happen. You have one week."

Never once lifting his gaze, the earl backed away and sank into a chair against the wall. He dropped his head into a trembling hand and began to weep.

Rushton felt no pity for the man. He could not. Creighton had brought this on himself, doing what he did to Serena that day at the rotunda. He deserved to go to hell for it.

Besides that, there were too many years of his own misery locked away in this house. It was why he had brought Serena here to tempt and lure the earl into his trap in the first place. If the man had not lost his head at the rotunda, Rebecca would not now be forced to be a part of this. Serena would have accomplished the task for her. She would have borne a male heir for Creighton, then Rushton would have moved in to take over from there.

But it hadn't worked out that way, had it? So now he needed Rebecca. His lip twitched with repugnance as he turned around and walked out.