His trousers tightened abruptly over a sudden erection. He gritted his teeth with annoyance, just as his gaze shot to the plump parlor maid, who entered the room at that moment with a vase of fresh flowers. He watched her set the vase down on the table close to the window and toy with the arrangement.
Maximilian crossed toward her. The woman was lazy as the day was long and smelled of stale cabbage, but she would know what he wanted and she would be repulsively eager. It was why he kept her in his employ.
After moving into their rooms at the palace and unpacking their things, Rebecca and her aunt enjoyed an informal luncheon with the female guests, while the gentlemen engaged themselves in a political debate in the library.
They were sitting in the drawing room afterward, sipping tea and eating chocolates, when Lady Letitia rose elegantly from her seat by the piano to join Rebecca at the window.
"Your costume was quite the thing last night," she said, holding her cup and saucer in her slender, long-fingered hands. She towered over Rebecca, who had to crane her neck to look up at her. Letitia's ebony hair was clean and shiny, swept into an ornate, braided twist in the back, which flattered the delicate bone structure of her face. Her complexion was impossibly soft and dewy-looking, altogether feminine, but there was something aggressive in her eyes, which Rebecca noted with caution.
"And your costume was delightful, Lady Letitia. You were lovely in it."
They looked out the window. A lengthy silence ensued.
"I didn't think you were staying at the palace," Letitia said. "In fact, it was my understanding you arrived at the last minute, only to attend the ball."
Rebecca nodded. "That's right. We had rooms reserved at the Pembroke Inn, but last night, Lord Hawthorne was kind enough to invite us to join the family for the rest of the party."
Letitia's eyes narrowed. "How very chivalrous of him. He is a generous man, don't you agree?"
"Yes, very."
They both sipped their tea, saying nothing for another minute or two, then Letitia gestured toward the front of Rebecca's gown. "I must say, you have your own sense of style, don't you? Your dress is very…Oh, how can I say this without insulting you? It's very daring for a ladies' luncheon."
Rebecca touched her neckline. It was not so very daring. No worse than any other dress in the room.
Nevertheless, she glanced around just to make sure.
"But you still look lovely in it," Letitia added brightly. "The color is quite nice. Not a shade I would choose, but…It looks pretty on you just the same." Her eyes raked over Rebecca from head to foot, then she smiled, but Rebecca detected a hint of scorn.
She resolved to be careful around this woman.
Later that afternoon, everyone gathered together in the conservatory for a poetry reading, where chairs had been set up facing a small dais of stone. The roses and gardenias were in full bloom, and the scent of spring flowers was almost strong enough to distract everyone from the hissing downpour of rain onto the glass ceiling over their heads.
Lady Charlotte was first to read Browning's Two in the Campagna, and Rebecca listened to the moving elegance of the words and was lulled by the musical tone of Charlotte's voice as she recited. She was soon distracted, however, by a pair of eyes upon her, staring. She turned her gaze to the left to discover Lady Letitia's head turned in her direction.
Rebecca nodded at her. Letitia nodded in return, then faced front again, lifting her chin as she raised her hands to applaud the reading.
Charlotte lowered her book, and appeared so deeply moved by the poem she'd recited, that she was on the verge of tears. She quietly took her seat in the front row.
Lord Faulkner stood and read Summer Dawn, by William Morris. His deep, masculine voice resonated throughout the conservatory. Rebecca listened to every word of the poem, realizing just what she had been missing in life by staying home with her father and never learning the joys of society and other people outside her own small world. She felt as if she were seeing a sunrise for the first time.
When Lord Faulkner finished his reading, she joined the others in enthusiastic applause, then turned her eyes toward the grove of tree ferns where the duke stood, and noticed he was not clapping, but picking at the leaves, tasting them and spitting them out.
Rebecca discreetly glanced over her shoulder at Lord Blake in the row behind her, who had already noticed the duke's strange behavior and was rising from his chair to intervene. When Blake touched his father's shoulder, the man turned his back on the tasty tree ferns and joined his son in applause.
Rebecca looked to the other side of the conservatory where Lord Hawthorne stood alone, leaning upon a low wall of stone around a bed of roses. His long legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He had already been watching her. When their eyes met, his expression did not change. He did not smile. He merely watched her with hooded eyes, and she could not move or think or even breathe.
She remembered suddenly why she had come here in the first place when she thought she would be forced to marry Mr. Rushton. She had believed this man could conquer any foe, solve any predicament, and she still believed that was so.
He continued to hold her captive in his cool gaze, and a hot tingling erupted in the pit of her belly. She knew she should look away, for the next guest with a poem had already risen and moved to the front, but she could not, especially when he pushed away from the stone wall and came to sit in the chair beside her.
He said nothing. He merely crossed one leg over the other and listened to the reading.
Lord Faulkner concluded his recital, and while everyone was clapping, Devon leaned a little closer to her. "Are you comfortably settled in?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," she whispered.
The readings were finished, and the other guests rose from their chairs and murmured in conversation. "You did not have a poem you wished to read?" she asked.
His blue eyes swept over her whole face. "I prefer more intimate surroundings for the reading of poetry."
"I see." Her cheeks flushed with color when she realized how breathlessly she had spoken.
Just then, there was a commotion behind them, and Rebecca turned to see Lady Letitia sigh and stagger, then begin to crumple to the stone floor in a billowing heap of silks and satin.
Devon had already pushed past and caught the young woman in his arms just before she hit the ground. He dropped to his knees and lowered her gently.
"Oh, my word!" Letitia's mother fumbled through her reticule and handed him her vinaigrette.
"Thank you." He flipped open the gold case and waved it under Letitia's perfect, tiny, aristocratic nose.
She gasped and blinked up at him, befuddled. "Good gracious, whatever happened?"
"You must have gotten up from your chair too quickly," Devon replied. "Are you all right?"
"Oh," she said with a sigh, touching her forehead with the back of her hand. "I do beg your pardon, Lord Hawthorne. How mortifying."
"Do not trouble yourself," he said. "Just lie still for a moment until you feel strong enough to stand." A footman approached with a glass of water on a tray, which Devon picked up and handed to Lady Letitia.
The others had crowded around them, gaping down at her, and when it was clear she was going to recover, they began to chatter and disburse.
Aunt Grace came to stand beside Rebecca. "That was quite a performance," she whispered.
Rebecca glanced at her aunt. "Do you really think so?"
Grace raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
"You are so kind, Lord Hawthorne," Letitia said, taking his hand in hers while she continued to blink up at him. "How can I ever make it up to you?"