In My Wildest Fantasies

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 would 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 madness, 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?"

"That is what I am thinking." He 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? What has happened?"

Mr. Jacobs inclined his head and spoke in a 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's gaze darted uneasily to the duke. "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. He gazed incredulously at Blake. "What the blazes are you doing here? Why aren't you in London with Vincent looking 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 hear 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. He handed it 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," he replied, sucking back a deep swig of brandy.

Devon placed a comforting hand on his father'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 him 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."

Darkness had already descended upon the estate when Devon and Blake returned from the fields. 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 gaze 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, he 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 he 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 the 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 just to please her.

All of it was acceptable to him. He was quite happy to continue on in that way, enjoying sex but never speaking of more intimate matters of the heart. He suspected, however, it would just be 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."

He 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."

He 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.

She 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," 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 genitals swelling pleasurably beneath the 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 on his brain.

"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 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 into the tub, 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 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, 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?" she asked, backing up toward it.

"Undoubtedly, so you 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 her breasts and the curve of her hips and the enticing triangle of curls between her thighs.

He thought again of their argument the day of their wedding, and how he had felt when her father had informed him that she'd been engaged to another.

Devon had told her 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 her 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 that up 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?"

He 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 next to her. "Come and lie down with me."

He joined her on the bed. "Tell me, Rebecca. I want to know."

She hesitated, then finally began to explain. "Mr. Rushton used to come to our house and have tea with us. It was always very strange and silent and awkward. He would look at me in a way that made me uncomfortable."

Suddenly agitated, Devon inched closer to her. "Did he ever touch you?" he asked again, more demanding this time.

Her slender throat bobbed with a swallow. "Once."

Devon braced himself for whatever she was about to tell him, and began in advance to subdue the anger he knew would come. "What happened?"

She hesitated again. "It was a year ago. I did not know he had come to visit. I was in the stables after returning from an afternoon ride. He came up behind me, grabbed hold of my skirts, and tore them as he pulled me toward him. He tried to kiss me, but I fought him and scratched his face and ran into the house. I never told Father."

"You should have."

"I don't know that it would have made a difference. Father would never have confronted him, and I did not want to place that burden of guilt on him."

Devon was surprised that his principal reaction was not anger, but his need to reassure her that she was now safe here at Pembroke Palace-that nothing like that would ever happen to her again. He touched his lips to hers.

"Neither he, nor any other, shall ever touch you that way again, Rebecca. If any man does, you shall tell me, and I will not hesitate to confront him. In fact, I will hunt him down tirelessly in order to do so."

She nibbled at his lips. "I thought you did not wish to be my protector."

She was challenging him, meaning to prove that he was wrong to think he was not born to be her hero.

"It is my duty as your husband to protect you."

"Just duty?" she asked, eyeing him intently. "Does it have nothing to do with passion? Jealousy? Love?"

His heart was beginning to pound in his chest. He shifted uncomfortably. "Sometimes we have no choice about the things we must do."

"Do you regret the choices you have made?" she asked, referring, of course, to their marriage.

Growing more and more uneasy with the direction of this conversation, he rolled on top of her. "I regret nothing. But tell me, do you think Rushton will ever try to see you again?"

"Why are we talking about this tonight," she asked, "when you have avoided the subject all week?"

"I don't know. I am always surprised by the things I feel when I am with you."

She wiggled her hips invitingly, beckoning him, pushing against the throbbing tip of his erection. "I doubt he will come here. This is Pembroke Palace, and you are the future duke."

He thrust gently into her heated folds, but paused. "If I were him, I would want matters resolved once and for all-perhaps an apology from you for leaving without a word. I would also want to meet the man who stole my fiancee."

She cupped his buttocks in her hands and pulled him in closer and tighter. "I told you before, I never agreed to be his fiancee. He knows that. He will simply have to let the matter go."

Devon pushed and entered her in a single, deep thrust. She sighed with rapturous delight, while he began to lose sight of life beyond this bed, his raging arousal sliding in and out. She gyrated beneath him, and he quickened his stroke.

Soon, passion obliterated everything else. They made love eagerly, changing positions often, exploring different sensations and responses. In the end, shortly after they both climaxed, they lay flat on their backs with their heads down at the footboard, struggling to catch their breath in the fading firelight.

"That was wonderful," Rebecca said in a breathless sigh of release.

"As it has been every night," he replied.

They lay quietly, exhausted. He was just drifting off to sleep when she spoke.

"Why did you want to know those things about Mr. Rushton? Do you still believe there are things I am keeping from you? Do you suspect there was something more between us?"

"I confess, part of me still wonders."

"There was nothing, Devon. Nothing."

He turned his head to look at her. "And yet, there is something inside of me that feels rage when I imagine you reading that diary aloud to him."

"I never did. You must believe me about that."

He looked at the ceiling again. "I suppose I do. I just hope to God I never meet him. For his sake."