In My Wildest Fantasies

Chapter 6

Rebecca had been right about how she would feel upon seeing Lord Hawthorne again after all these years. Her entire body was pulsing with excitement and desire, for he was even more handsome and compelling tonight than he had been upon their first meeting in the woods four years ago.

And there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her. Though she had almost no experience with men, her instincts told her it was because she was no longer a seventeen-year-old girl. She was a woman now. A woman whose senses were blazing with untested desire. Could he see it? Sense it? Recognize it?

Lydie's lover in the woods had always known what she'd wanted. He'd been instinctive that way. Lydie had said so.

The notion that Lord Hawthorne was instinctive in a similar way excited Rebecca beyond any imagining.

They reached the center of the room, and he slid his arm around her corseted waist, never taking his eyes off hers. Her blood coursed even faster through her veins from the thrill of his touch, which she had longed to feel on her body on so many dark, lonely nights alone. Was it possible to die from the painful restraint of passion? She almost felt faint.

Then he spoke. "My sister, Charlotte, mentioned this is the first time you have accepted one of our many invitations. I'm glad you chose a time when I would be here to pay my respects."

He held her firmly but moved with grace around the floor, and she had no trouble keeping pace with him as he turned her about the room. "I dare say, Lord Hawthorne, it is the first time, and I am quite overwhelmed by the grandeur of the evening. I apologize for our absence over the years, but I am sure you have heard that my father enjoys his privacy. He is a quiet man and we do not engage in many society gatherings."

That was putting it mildly. But Lord help her. She had not intended to sound so provincial. Surely Lord Hawthorne preferred a more sophisticated woman, a woman who could match his knowledge and worldliness. She had seen him dancing with a duke's daughter earlier.

"But your father is out of the country?"

"Yes, and I confess, my aunt has been waiting for this opportunity to steal me away."

"Remind me to thank her, because you have brightened my evening, Lady Rebecca. I only just arrived back at Pembroke this morning, and to be honest, after the day I've had, I would have been just as content to go straight to bed an hour ago. I'm glad I did not."

"I am glad, too. I am also flattered that you remember meeting my father and me all those years ago. As for myself, I never forgot it, the way you came to our rescue. It was a very…exciting evening for me. I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't come along."

"It was my pleasure, truly."

"But you were on your way somewhere at a very swift pace. I hope we did not make you late for an appointment."

"I assure you it was not important. Even if it had been, any concern over my poor punctuality would have been overshadowed by the unexpected adventure, and the very pleasant trip we took to the bog, you and I."

Despite the tension she felt-because so much of her future happiness depended on this single, vital dance-she somehow managed to laugh. "Pleasant?"

He leaned closer-so close, she could feel the heat of his moist breath in her ear. "I greatly enjoyed the perfect curve of your elbow that night."

A delicious shudder of surprise danced through her. She had come here to secretly entice him, but suddenly he seemed to be the one enticing her. Could it be, that after all she had been through lately, the fates were finally smiling down on her?

"You're the only man in the world," she confessed, "who has ever touched my elbow."

God help her, she felt as if she had just bared her soul to him. Perhaps it was too much. Her aunt had told her to be elusive.

But then he chuckled, as if he found her reply very witty, when it had not been a joke.

He spoke close to her ear again. "I wonder if one of these days I might be fortunate enough to touch it again."

She wanted to say, "Yesterday wouldn't be soon enough," but thankfully, she had more sense than that, and managed to simply smile daringly at him as he guided her around the outer edges of the dance floor, keeping perfect time with the music.

"Pardon my ignorance," he said, "but are you and your aunt staying here at the palace tonight? If so, I hope you have found your accommodations satisfactory."

"No, Lord Hawthorne, we are not staying at the palace." Did she detect a hint of disappointment in his eyes? She hoped so. "We only decided to come at the very last minute, so we are staying in the village."

"The Pembroke Inn?"

"Yes."

His voice, soft and low, filled her with quivering anticipation. "How unfortunate for me that I won't see you at breakfast in the morning. I believe the sight of you over coffee would be a most promising start to my day."

"Why don't you picture me in your mind," she suggested with a sensual lilt in her voice-the kind of lilt Lydie had once written about. "I will be wearing a rose-colored gown with white trim when I order my toast with strawberry jam, and I will ask for milk in my tea. Perhaps even a little sugar if I feel in the mood for something sweeter than usual."

He smiled again. "I promise you, I will think of nothing else all night, Lady Rebecca."

She felt a moment of triumph as he swept her past the tall tree fern near the orchestra, then toward the open French doors that led out onto the flagstone terrace. She caught a whiff of the cool, nighttime air and inhaled deeply as they passed by, feeling rejuvenated by their open flirtations and hopeful for her future once again. Mr. Rushton seemed a thousand miles away. He didn't even exist for her now, when she was being swept around the room in Lord Hawthorne's strong arms. She wished she could dance with him until dawn.

Sadly, however, the orchestra soon finished the piece, and she was forced to step out of his arms.

But that couldn't be it. It couldn't be over. She prayed for another opportunity to converse with him before they said goodnight.

He escorted her back to her aunt, then bowed to both of them. "Thank you, Lady Rebecca. May I hope to escort you to the dessert table later this evening?"

Her prayers had been answered, and her heart drummed with delight. She accepted his invitation.

"I presume it went well," Aunt Grace said, speaking quietly after he left.

"It appears so."

They watched him circle the room. He stopped to speak to the young lady he had danced with earlier-the duke's daughter with the strikingly dark features-and Rebecca let out a sigh.

"Perhaps I am dreaming, Aunt Grace. Look at him. Surely he must prefer a woman like that-tall and graceful, with a neck like a swan. A woman who knows how to behave in society. I feel like such a novice."

"Maybe that is your charm."

Lord Hawthorne joined his younger brother, Lord Blake. They spoke briefly, then left the ballroom.

"Do not worry," Aunt Grace said. "He will return, and he has promised you a trip to the dessert table."

"But then what? Dancing with a man is one thing. Getting him to propose is quite another. And there are so many other attractive women here tonight. It appears I have quite a bit of competition."

Her aunt considered it. "You must have patience, darling. Rome wasn't built in a day."

Just then, Devon's mother, the duchess, approached again, and Rebecca turned to find herself gazing up at another handsome gentleman-tall and dark like Devon, with shiny black hair. His eyes were brown, however, instead of blue. The strong, attractive angles of his face resembled Devon's closely, but there was something very different about this man's demeanor. There was a bold, rather callous look in his eye.

The duchess gestured politely with a hand. "Lady Saxby and Lady Rebecca, since this is your first visit to Pembroke Palace, I thought you might like to meet another of my sons, who only just arrived from London this evening." She turned to him. "Allow me to present Lady Saxby of Gloucester and her niece, Lady Rebecca Newland. Ladies, my son, Lord Vincent Sinclair."

"Charmed," he said, before turning immediately to Rebecca. "May I request a dance?"

Caught off guard, she glanced uncertainly at her aunt, who nodded at her.

"I would be delighted," she replied, allowing Lord Vincent to lead her out, and wondering how this unexpected development was going to affect her plans for this evening.

"He arrived an hour ago," Blake explained as he left the ballroom with Devon. "Mother just told him about Father's demands upon us to find wives. I thought you should know."

They strode to the gallery to speak in private. "So he knows I have returned."

"Yes. Charlotte told him before he had a chance to remove his hat and gloves, but evidently he had nothing to say about it, and went straight to the billiards room with some local chap for a drink and a game before dressing for the ball."

"Then his hostility toward me has not waned."

"Were you hoping it had?"

Devon considered it. "Hoping? No. I rarely have hope. I'm too much of a realist. I knew I would not be welcomed back or forgiven, at least not by him."

He had only himself to blame, he supposed, for there had been a time when they had been not only brothers, but friends as well, sticking up for each other when trouble was at hand, laughing together, and later, drinking and gaming together. Vincent had always been loyal, even through the blinding glare of Devon's overprivileged position as heir, when their father had favored him and denied Vincent the respect and affection he'd needed and deserved.

Devon had never wanted to be treated differently at Vincent's expense. His guilt over that had reached a pinnacle on the day MaryAnn had written him that letter.

She had told him he was the most extraordinary man she had ever known. He wished he had burned it.

Devon jumped when Blake touched him on the shoulder and brought him back to the present. "Do not let him get to you," he said. "Vincent enjoys his anger and does not wish to let it go. You would do best to remember that and resist the urge to mend fences, at least for the time being. You'll only frustrate yourself because he will find a way to knock them down again. In fact, I think he has been anticipating your return for that very reason, and in that regard, I must warn you. He enjoys a fight these days, with anyone who will oblige him by raising a fist."

Devon gazed with regret at his younger brother. "It pains me to know that."

"I know."

He sighed deeply. "If Vincent enjoys a fight, Blake, you are the opposite. You keep the harmony."

Blake lowered his hand to his side. "We all have our purpose, I suppose."

"And what is mine?" Devon asked. "To be Duke of Pembroke and take care of this estate and all the people who reside here, when I am not to be depended upon? I have proven that with both my actions in the past and my prolonged absence." He shook his head. "I have often thought it should have been you. You're the diplomat. While I have deserted my post, you have remained here in my stead and kept the machine running."

"Not really, Devon. All I did was grease the wheels occasionally, when what we need is a new axle."

Devon thought of the once beautiful Italian Gardens and the melancholy in his mother's eyes, and knew his brother was right on that point. Something had broken down here. There had been too many betrayals and tragedies. He felt no hope in these rooms. He felt no hope inside himself.

"Shall we go back?" Blake asked, and Devon could not help but notice again that his brother seemed weary. It was no easy task, he supposed, keeping the peace in this family.

"Yes, I want to see Vincent," he said. "Despite the wretched history between us, and the fact that he despises me, and quite rightly so, he is still my brother. We must at least look each other in the eye before we venture into a new decade of open hostilities."

Lord Vincent, like his older brother, was a confident, skillful dancer. His shoulders were broad and his movements smooth. He was a handsome man and possessed a good deal of charm, but otherwise, Rebecca knew very little about him, except that he was the duke's second son, only one year younger than Devon, and that he spent most of his time in London away from Pembroke Palace.

Oh, and she had once read in the society pages that he was an incorrigible scoundrel.

"You must be pleased to have your brother back in England," she said, seeking to establish some polite discourse while they danced.

"Yes, we are all overjoyed," he replied. "Father especially. Though sometimes I wonder if my brother should be forgiven at all for staying away as long as he did. How helpless we have all been, living our lives without him."

Rebecca stiffened at Lord Vincent's obvious sarcasm, and almost missed a step. She did not know what to say.

He smiled. "I've shocked you, Helen of Troy. Please accept my apologies. I will confess the truth. My brother and I have been at odds in the past, and shameful brother that I am, I have not yet welcomed him home. I did see him, though, from across the room, dancing with you. That was when I decided I had to dance with you as well."

Rebecca frowned at him. "Your confession is hardly flattering, my lord. If you are at odds with your brother, what does that make me? The rope in your tug of war?"

All at once, the fairy-tale palace of her Prince Charming seemed not such a perfect world after all. There appeared to be battle lines drawn in the house. But real life was always more complicated than fantasy, she had recently discovered.

Lord Vincent smirked at her. "Why have we not met before?" he asked. "You're very lovely and very clever."

"I rarely visit London," she replied. "My father has always preferred the country."

"Pity for us Londoners," he said with a blase tone, looking over her head. "But may I be so bold as to ask, are you spoken for? Betrothed? In love?"

She swallowed over her shock. "You are indeed bold, Lord Vincent."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

She was feeling rather aggravated by his blatant cheekiness. "No to everything."

"Delighted to hear it."

Not quite sure what had just happened, she somehow managed to make light conversation for the rest of the dance, and when it ended, they stepped apart and he offered her an arm to escort her off the floor.

As the crowd cleared in front of them, dispersing in all directions, Rebecca spotted her aunt in the very place she had left her, but she was not alone. Beside her, watching attentively from the edge of the ballroom, was Lord Hawthorne.

His strength and power seemed to fill the room-and to fill Rebecca simultaneously with the exhilarating notion that he had been watching her. Her intuition told her he'd been making sure his presumptuous younger brother was not overstepping those battle lines-whatever and wherever they might be.

Lord Vincent halted, forcing Rebecca to halt as well. She glanced up at him. His face had gone pale. He did not seem quite so confident now. He appeared rather shaken in fact.

Lord Hawthorne on the other hand, stood with one hand behind his back, the other at his side, his eyes beneath the black mask fixed upon Rebecca. It felt as if they were the only two people in the room.

She and Lord Vincent started off again.

"Lady Rebecca," Hawthorne said when they reached him, and though he did not say it out loud, there was a question in his eyes. Is everything satisfactory?

She had never spoken to anyone without words before, but believed she succeeded in assuring him that all was well.

He bowed to her, then directed his gaze at his brother. "Vincent, it is good to see you."

"And you."

A long, uncomfortable silence weighed heavily upon them. Rebecca glanced at her aunt who watched the exchange with some dismay.

Lord Hawthorne asked, "How is London these days?"

"It is the same as it was before you left," Vincent replied. "Only wetter."

The brothers continued to stare heatedly at each other, until Lord Hawthorne turned to Rebecca and her aunt. "Pardon me, ladies, but if I recall, I promised you both a guided tour of the dessert table, did I not? Shall we see what delectable treats await us?"

The tension in the air drained away with the pleasant tone of his voice, and Rebecca let out a deep breath.

"That would be lovely," Aunt Grace said, accepting the arm he offered with a flirtatious smile of her own. It appeared Aunt Grace was not immune to Lord Hawthorne's charms, either.

Rebecca took his other arm and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at Lord Vincent, when she could feel the heat of his scorching gaze upon their backs.

They left the ballroom and reached the dessert table, which was adorned in lace and covered with gleaming silver platters covered in cream cakes and sugared fruit in every color of the rainbow.

Rebecca wandered around the table, eyeing everything before she removed her gloves and tasted a raspberry bonbon, then a chocolate tart with whipped cream on top. She was licking the cream off the tip of her baby finger when she noticed Lord Hawthorne was not enjoying any of the sweets. He was merely watching her with heavy lidded eyes from the opposite side of the table.

She felt a quivering thrill in the pit of her belly and stopped what she was doing, for she knew these moments at the dessert table were pivotal. Her instincts were telling her to do something in order to capture and hold his attention. She had to tempt him, beguile him, perhaps even seduce him, but for the life of her, she had no idea how to do it.

He turned to converse with her aunt. A moment later, Aunt Grace left to go and speak with an acquaintance who was sipping champagne on the other side of the dessert room.

Rebecca raised an eyebrow at him, encouraging his approach. Virile and striking in his black costume, he came around the table to stand before her.

"So you met my brother," he said matter-of-factly.

A footman appeared beside them with a tray of champagne, and they each helped themselves to a glass. Rebecca took a sip. "Yes, my lord, and he is very different from you."

"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.