In My Wildest Fantasies

Chapter 4

Dear Diary,

Heaven help me, I am doomed.

This morning, I woke in my bed in my father's house with the early morning sun shining in on me, and felt again those wicked sensations of need in my body. I fought to resist them, truly I did, but alas, I was weak. I slipped out from between the thin sheets, dressed quickly, and went into the woods again.

It was cool beneath the shelter of the trees, and the deeper I went into the forest, the faster my heart began to race with that wild and decadent excitement that will not release its hold on me. Soon, like all the other times, I did not even care how wicked it was. My skin was tingling with anticipation, and, oh, how I gloried in the cool perspiration that drenched my body! I pulled the pins from my hair and let it fall loose down my back, then I began to run, shedding all my inhibitions and reservations along the way. All I cared about was the irresistible pleasure I knew he would bestow upon me when I came to him.

I reached the clearing and he was there, lying naked on the grass, bathing in the sweet warmth of the sun. If only I could describe the overwhelming fire in my blood and the ferocity of my passions! I stood unable to move, blinded by my desire and bewildered by the impossible splendor before me. His smooth skin was gleaming, his long, muscular legs stretched out on the blanket, and that manly part of him I cannot bring myself to put in writing held me captive and burning with fascination. I could barely catch my breath!

Then I could not wait another minute. I removed all my clothes and left them in a careless pile on the grass, then walked naked across the lush, green clearing toward him.

He heard my soft approach and sat up. "Lydie," he said in a deep, husky voice that made my heated body throb. "I knew you'd come."

"I couldn't stay away."

He smiled at me with desire in his eyes. "Come closer."

When I stepped onto the soft, warm blanket, he rose up on his knees and touched his open mouth to my quivering belly, licking and suckling just below my navel until my-

A knock rapped hard at the door, and Rebecca slammed the musty diary shut, then stuffed it under the pillow.

Taking a few seconds to cool her thoughts and subdue her racing heart, she slid off the bed and crossed the small room of the Pembroke Village Inn. She paused briefly at the door, listening. "Who is it?"

"It's Grace," her aunt whispered from the other side.

Exhaling with relief, Rebecca smoothed out the fabric of her dressing gown before she opened the door for her aunt, who was barely visible beneath the flouncy mountain of costumes in her arms.

"I'm glad it's you." Rebecca struggled to distract herself from her wicked reading just now, by stepping forward to peer up and down the narrow corridor. "I panicked for a moment, thinking it might be Father."

She stepped back in.

"He has no idea where we are. We're safe for the time being," Aunt Grace said.

Rebecca looked more closely at her aunt's gown for the ball that evening. "This is beautiful."

Grace was going to the Pembroke Palace Fancy Dress Ball dressed as Mary, Queen of Scots. Before she'd lost her head, of course. "I can't wait to see you in it, Aunt Grace."

"And I cannot wait to see you in your costume. Shall we begin?"

Rebecca stepped aside to invite her aunt into the room, so they could assist each other in preparing for the ball. Neither of them, under the present circumstances, had dared to bring their maids.

Her aunt squeezed her plump figure along with the oversized costume through the door. "I wore this two years ago at the Summervilles' costume ball in London. I do hope none of the guests at Pembroke attended that particular evening, or I shall be quite embarrassed."

"There was hardly time to have new costumes made," Rebecca reminded her, recalling with a shiver how they had fled her home in the night like two thieves making their escape. "I'm sure it will be fine, Aunt Grace."

But would it really be fine? she wondered uneasily as she went to withdraw her own costume from her valise in the large armoire. Her whole life had been turned upside down in the past week with the devastating news that her father intended to marry her off to their neighbor, Mr. Rushton.

Though he was handsome by certain standards and could wield some charm when he wished to, she could never marry him, not in a thousand years, for he was a bully and a tyrant. He slapped his horses in the face when they were not quick enough to obey him, and once, not long ago, when she was out walking, she had seen him kicking his dogs into submission. She had boldly confronted him about it a day later when he paid a call to her father-for what purpose she never knew; they always conversed in private-but he denied doing any such thing and assured her it must have been one of his grooms. With a mocking, patronizing display of shock and concern, he promised to reprimand all of them.

Even now she felt her jaw clenching as she remembered the incident.

For her father's part in this…Well, she could only conclude that his pain was what had made him irritable these past few years-so irritable that he seemed to resent her very presence in the house, despite the fact that she was the only person in the world who still endeavored to cling to the tattered remnants of her affection for him.

She often asked herself why she continued to cling to them with so little return of affection, and the answer, she supposed, was simple. Because he was her father, and he was not well. She wanted to be a good and dutiful daughter, to be patient and understanding about his cantankerous moods. She did what she could for him. She wanted him to be comfortable. She genuinely did not want him to be alone in his discomfort, for there was a time, many years ago, when they had been close.

But now, because of this mad promise he had made to Mr. Rushton with no concern for her wishes, everything was different. His actions had chipped away at her compassion. Now, all she could do was accept that his isolation from the world had caused him to lose all sense of reality. He had not stepped outside his home in over a year, and therefore could not comprehend that there was life beyond the borders of his estate. He could not even fathom that there were other men in England she could marry. When she had suggested it, he had insisted her duty was there, near the estate-to him and the Creighton title, for it was one of the few earldoms that descended through the female line.

She laid her costume out on the bed, and thought about how difficult it had been to deliberately defy him by leaving without a word. A daughter was supposed to obey her father. She knew that.

But to marry Mr. Rushton?

She sighed. Perhaps in some ways, she should be grateful for this call to arms, for she had been living far too long in the thin, dwindling realm of her optimism, clinging to her dreams and bright hopes for the future, even when her life had become unbearable, while she had remained at his side.

She had never had a proper debut or a magical first Season like other young women her age, nor had she accepted a single invitation to anything outside the vicinity of her father's estate. A few country fairs and dances under the chaperonage of an elderly female neighbor were the most she had experienced.

Looking back on all of it now-from a very different and desperate vantage point-she wondered if she had accepted that life for so long because she had been living in a world of dreams, and experiencing passion through someone else's diary-the mysterious Lydie. Perhaps she might have fought harder for her independence if things had been different, if she'd never found that diary to keep her dreams alive-dreams of a particular gentleman who had left England for America three years ago.

Perhaps his absence was the very thing that had allowed her to be content in her small world, because she knew someday he would return, and she was perfectly willing to wait for the kind of relentless passion she had been reading and dreaming about. The kind of passion she had known once before for herself on a deserted country road not far from the inn.

Well, the waiting was over at least, she thought, struggling to regain her wounded optimism as she sat down in front of the mirror and watched her aunt sweep her wavy red hair into a knot on top of her head, then pull a single lock free to trail down her back. Lord Hawthorne had come home. He had arrived just in time for his mother's fiftieth birthday celebration ball, and just in time to give Rebecca hope again. She, with her aunt as chaperone, would be in attendance at that ball, because Rebecca needed him. Urgently.

"Do you think he will remember me?" she asked, working hard to sound relaxed and nonchalant as she looked at her aunt's reflection in the mirror.

She was going to the ball dressed as Helen of Troy, and had chosen the costume with the express purpose of attracting his attention. Helen's beauty had launched a thousand ships, after all.

"I don't know, dear," her aunt replied as she pinned Rebecca's costume more snugly over her shoulder. "He's been gone for so long."

Rebecca wet her lips and nodded, trying not to feel too disappointed.

Her aunt smiled at her in the mirror. "Oh, what am I thinking? In the past four years, how often could he have come to the rescue of a beautiful red-haired damsel in distress in a runaway coach, whose driver had fallen down drunk from his seat?"

Rebecca tried to smile. "You are right, Aunt Grace. Surely he remembers that night, but what I want to know is-will he remember me, or more importantly, will he treat me differently, now that I am older? I was only seventeen then. I am almost twenty-one now."

Six days shy of her twenty-first birthday, to be exact. And six days short of her majority.

Her aunt toyed with the fabric of her Trojan costume, adjusting the way everything draped in the front. "He has kept you and your father on his family's guest list all these years, so that is a good sign."

"He probably put us there and promptly forgot about us, since we haven't gone to one single party."

At least now, she understood why she had never been permitted to attend any gatherings. It was why she and her aunt were here, registered at the Pembroke Inn under false names. It was why she had snuck away in the night like a criminal.

Just the thought of it filled her with sickening grief over her father's betrayal, and a genuine fear for her future. She could still hear the impatient tremor in his voice from three days ago. You will not refuse him, Rebecca. He won't stand for it. Nor will I.

She turned to her aunt. "Thank you, Aunt Grace, for helping me. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been willing to take this risk. It means so much to me."

Her aunt touched her cheek. "How could I possibly say no? Your mother was my beloved sister, and when she was alive, we would have done anything for each other. I could not let you be forced into marrying that man. Have you decided which earrings to wear?" Aunt Grace was clearly eager to change the subject, for the hour was growing late. She held both pairs up for Rebecca to consider.

She examined them only briefly. "I like these," she said. "They will bring out the color in my eyes and I will need all the help I can get from behind this mask. Oh, how I wish this was a regular ball, not a masquerade. He won't even be able to see my face."

"I disagree, dear," Aunt Grace said. "There is nothing more appealing to a man than a woman of mystery, and when we arrive, remember what I told you in the coach on the way here. If you wish to entice him, you must be confident and elusive. You cannot be presented to him like a drooling puppy with your tail wagging, or like a young woman who wants something from him. Being the heir to a dukedom, I am sure he encounters women like that every day of his life. You must tease him and lure him in your direction. Make yourself into a golden ring he cannot quite grab hold of, then at the end of the night, you will be the one he will remember. The one he will wish to see again. Then you, my dear, will be safe from Mr. Rushton, for you will have caught yourself the son of a duke."

Rebecca sighed and nodded, even though it was not his station in life that had brought her here after fleeing her home and the prison of her future. It was the very man himself who had haunted her dreams for four difficult years. It was the memory of his touch, his strong and capable hands on her body that wild and dangerous night when she had met someone who was everything a man should be-confident, honorable, heroic.

She longed to see him again with every breath in her body. She wanted him to be the one she would marry, not Mr. Rushton. She wanted to feel passion for her husband, the kind of passion Lydie wrote about in her diary.

Perhaps, if the fates were kind, she would feel that passion tonight, and maybe even secure a happy future. She certainly hoped so, because if she were forced to marry a man she did not love, she might as well give up breathing.

Devon strode out of the palace doors into the cold, hard rain, and raised an umbrella over his head. He crossed the flagstone terrace to look over what had once been the Italian Gardens, but saw only a muddy ruin.

His father had completely destroyed the garden. He had moved the shrubs and hedges. He had dug up bulbs, leaving deep holes and large mounds of earth scattered indiscriminately. All that remained was the large fountain in the center and the beautiful statue of Venus, abandoned, left alone in a devastated wasteland. No wonder Mother had wished him to return.

Gathering his coat collar tighter around his neck and noting the fact that he could see his breath in the damp chill, Devon tightened his grip on the umbrella handle and looked toward the highest point on the property. There, he saw his father with a garden spade, digging another hole.

Devon left the stone terrace and walked up the gravel path, running a hand down his thigh to massage the pain out of his knee. When he finally reached his father, he stood quietly for a moment, watching him.

The duke forced the shovel into the tough ground and tossed the wet earth carelessly behind him. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, and his coat was soaked straight through. He did not seem to care, however. His only concern was the hole in the ground.

Devon cleared his throat. "Father."

The duke continued to dig, so Devon took a step closer and spoke again, louder this time. "Father!"

The duke stopped and turned and stared bewildered at him. "My son!" He dropped the shovel, rushed forward and wrapped his arms around him. "Thank God! You've come home!"

Devon managed to hug his father and hold the umbrella over both their heads, while his emotions fell into turmoil. His father was not the same. He did not seem to recall the terrible fury and anger upon which they had parted three years ago. It was as if it had never happened.

"Yes, Father, I have returned," he said warily. When they stepped apart, Devon held the umbrella over his father's head, not his own. "Blake said you wished to speak to me about something."

"Yes, it's very important."

"Why don't we go inside to talk," he suggested. "It's pouring rain, and you're soaking wet."

"Not yet. I have to save the garden. Everything needs to be right here, exactly where we are standing. On high ground."

Devon looked at the disastrous layout of shrubs and hedges, which had been hastily transplanted with no sense of order or beauty. It was utter chaos, and mud was oozing everywhere.

He hated mud. He hated the look of it, the feel of it, the smell of it.

"Surely this can wait until tomorrow," he suggested. "Guests have already begun to arrive for the ball tonight, and Mother would like to have you with her to greet them. It is her birthday after all."

The duke glanced back at the half dug hole. "But I must finish. I must get that rose bush into the ground before the flood comes."

Devon swallowed uneasily. "There is no flood, Father. This is just a heavy spring rain."

"But there is a curse on us."

Devon stared at his father for a moment. "No, Father. It has been raining all over England. Not just here."

"But it is our fault it is raining." His father continued to stare doggedly at him, shivering in the cold. God in heaven. He was going to catch his death if he carried on like this. He had to be brought inside.

Devon looked down at the rose bush waiting in the cart, then back at his father.

"I'll plant it for you," he heard himself saying, "if you will hold my umbrella and explain to me what you told Blake-how you believe only I can stop this…this curse."

The duke reached a shaky hand out to take the umbrella from him. "Thank you, Devon. You're a good son. The very best."

Devon glanced briefly at his father while he moved to scoop up the heavy rose bush and its jungle of roots, caked in dirt. He carried it to the hole and got down on one knee to set it inside. Then he picked up the shovel and began to fill the hole back in, making sure to cover all the roots.

"I won't keep you guessing any longer," his father said at last. "You must marry right away, Devon, and you must convince all three of your brothers to do the same."

Marry?

Devon stopped patting the mud around the bush and straightened. "I beg your pardon? Did I hear you correctly?"

"Yes. It will stop the curse and therefore stop the rain."

"How the hell will four weddings stop the rain?"

"They just will," his father said simply, sounding completely sane.

Devon stabbed the shovel into the ground with his boot and leaned a wrist upon the handle. Rain pounded onto his shoulders.

"You are not making sense, Father, and I will not succumb to this. I am going to send for Dr. Lambert immediately and insist that he prescribe something for you to take at night that will help you sleep."

His father shook his head. "No. Dr. Lambert's a man of science. He doesn't understand any of this, and it's not sleep I need, it is a legitimate grandchild. The palace is in jeopardy."

Devon's head drew back as if a ball had just been thrown his way. A grandchild to save the palace. Suddenly everything was becoming very clear.

"Father," he said, as gently as possible, "I assure you, there is no need to worry. You have four sons, and you have my word that one of us will eventually provide an heir. The ducal line will continue."

The duke laughed scornfully. "Rubbish. This rain is a warning, because you boys are all too busy playing cards in London or gallivanting about the world, never thinking about settling down and doing your duty. Except Blake, who's been taking care of everything in your absence, but for that reason hasn't had a single minute to look around and find himself a pretty lass. And you, Devon, you're the eldest, the future duke. You should set an example. At least be speaking of it occasionally, but I swear all you do is look at your mother's sour face and think to yourself, 'I am never getting myself shackled.' And poor Charlotte. She tried, but what happened to her? The bloke went off and got himself stuffed into the ground, six feet under, and what is she to do now but cry herself to sleep?" He lowered the umbrella to his side, completely oblivious to the rain now pouring down upon his head and shoulders, streaming down his body. "I know everyone thinks I am mad, but I am not. The family is cursed, I tell you, and we must do something about it. There must be another generation begun in this house before winter."

"There is plenty of time," Devon assured him. "As I said before, we will each marry when we are ready."

"No. You will marry now."

Devon slowly shook his head at him. "No, Father," he firmly said. "We will not."

The duke stared at him for long moment, then his face sank into a dark, angry frown. "I see nothing has changed."

Devon's gut wrenched with an agony he did not wish to feel. He had spent his entire childhood trying so very hard to be the son his father wished him to be, and had succeeded most of the time-until three years ago when he had failed miserably and his father had cast him out.

Bloody hell, he did not want to care that his father was disappointed in him. He could do that well enough on his own.

"I thought that might be the case," the duke said with the forceful, unwavering conviction Devon remembered so well from his youth. "So I took steps to ensure that you would do as I say. Events are already in motion. My solicitor was here four days ago and I have altered my will. It now states clearly-and legally I might add-that if all four of my sons are not married by Christmas, I shall leave my entire unentailed fortune to the London Horticultural Society." He gazed with agitation at the rose bush, then stomped on the dirt at its base. "So that they may replant my gardens after the flood."

Devon strove to curb the rage twisting and turning in his gut, while his father nodded triumphantly. "There now. You're not so happy now, are you, my wayward one, knowing you won't have your inheritance to squander on another continent. You will get the estate, of course. There is nothing I can do about that. But I warn you-without the fortune you will have little else. Land isn't what it used to be."

He started toward the garden cart and tossed the umbrella inside. "And don't bother trying to invalidate the will," he said, taking hold of the handles. "Dr. Lambert has deemed me quite fit, and my solicitor has assured me that I can leave my money to whomever I bloody well choose."

With that, he started down the hill. "Find a bride, Devon. You can begin at the ball tonight. I have invited a number of suitable young ladies, but there is one in particular who will be a good match. She is the daughter of a duke, so she will fit right in."

Tonight?

Bloody hell! Did his father think it would be that easy? That Devon would surrender to this ridiculous plan just like that? Surely a snowball was more likely to survive a full year in the burning furies of hell.