"Your sister is very beautiful," she said, as she watched Charlotte move to the center of the room with the young man. There was genuine affection in her eyes. "She has your mother's coloring."
She certainly did not have their father's.
"I will tell her you said so," Devon replied. "But before I do, will you do me the honor?" He held out a hand.
"I would be delighted." Her green eyes held a hopeful, encouraging gleam that no other eyes could rival.
Indeed, she was making a first-rate impression on everyone, including him. Unlike Lady Letitia, she was a pleasant infusion of fresh air and warm sunshine, wholesome and unselfish and without a cartload of problems trailing along behind her. He was not only attracted to her, but felt some affection toward her as well. Practically speaking, she would be a good choice for a wife.
He glanced briefly at Lady Letitia again as he passed her by. It was highly unlikely she could ever win his esteem or fire his passions the way Rebecca did. But that fact alone gave him pause, so much so, he almost fumbled his steps.
He supposed-when one considered his jaded outlook on love and marriage-Lady Letitia would be a good choice as well, in a completely different way. With her, it would be easy to become a husband, yet change very little about the way he lived. He could remain detached.
With that in mind, he decided he would do well to keep his options open.
Chapter 8
The following evening, Rebecca dressed in a formal off-the-shoulder gown of deep blue satin with sapphire jewels and long white gloves, and sat with Aunt Grace in the music room, waiting for the classical quartette to begin playing.
Quietly, she gazed around the room-at the musicians with their instruments and music stands in front of them, at the shiny parquet floor beneath her feet, and finally up at the dazzling brass chandelier over her head. It was quiet in the room except for a few hushed murmurs of conversation toward the back.
"I must admit something, Aunt Grace," she said. "I feel rather dishonest under these circumstances. I came here because I want Lord Hawthorne as my husband, yet I wish to escape another man I do not wish to marry. That, above all, is what has brought me here so hastily. I wish I could simply tell him the truth about my life."
Her aunt clasped her hand. "You simply cannot ask a man to marry you in order to do you a favor. He must want to marry you, preferably because he loves you. And if he does, it will be his greatest desire to protect you from every unpleasant thing in the world, whether it is Mr. Rushton or a bumblebee flying around your bonnet. That is when you will be able to tell him everything, dearest, and he will embrace every challenge you represent."
"Let us hope it will come to that."
She checked over her shoulder and saw Lord Hawthorne enter the room with his sister, Lady Charlotte.
"There he is," her aunt said, "and I must say, he is looking very handsome. Good gracious."
Tonight he wore a fine black evening jacket with white waistcoat and tie, and his dark, wavy hair was slicked back, gleaming in the lamplight. The style accentuated the strong, rugged lines of his face.
He met Rebecca's gaze and inclined his head at her. She smiled in return, then faced front again, struggling to overcome the uncontrollable beat of her heart when the evening had only just begun.
"Oh, Aunt Grace, who am I trying to deceive?" she said. "I want to marry him for love and a grand passion, nothing else. I want the fairy tale with my charming, handsome hero. Mr. Rushton does not even exist for me now that I am here."
Her aunt leaned close and whispered, "I assure you, my dear, Mr. Rushton does exist, and he could be searching for you at this very moment. For that reason, it is imperative that you do what you must to secure the man you really want. A man who can protect you."
"Do what I must…"
"Yes," her aunt plainly replied, flicking open her fan and fluttering it in front of her face. "You saw what Lady Letitia resorted to in the conservatory yesterday."
"Are you suggesting I should pretend to swoon? I couldn't, Aunt Grace. I would feel like a fool."
"That is not what I am talking about. You know what I mean, do you not?" She raised an eyebrow.
Thanks to Lydie's most illustrative diary, Rebecca had a feeling she knew exactly what her aunt was referring to.
"You must touch his arm once with your closed fan when you are speaking to him," Aunt Grace whispered.
Touch his arm with her fan. "That is all?"
"What do you mean, that is all? It is a very bold maneuver."
If that was what most women considered bold, Rebecca was definitely out of touch with what went on in society. Clearly, she had been reading too much lately about sin and debauchery and the pleasures of the flesh. It was a very wicked pastime. She should stop, she really should.
She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Hawthorne, and felt that familiar stirring of desire, warm and intoxicating, heady and erotic…
Clicking open her fan, she sighed, because she knew the minute she returned to her room, she would be dashing to her bed and reaching very quickly for that wonderfully wicked diary, for more instructions on how to proceed. And if there was to be any swooning in her immediate future, it would be completely legitimate.
Devon entered the music room with his sister, Charlotte, and immediately spotted Lady Rebecca already seated with her aunt in the front row. She turned around and clicked open her fan, met his gaze over the top of it and smiled at him with her eyes while she fluttered it.
God help him, that russet hair and green eyes set his impulses fluttering as well, and he became instantly uncomfortable with the fact that despite his desire to remain detached and practical-minded, he was becoming more and more inclined to charge forth blindly and impulsively in order to ensure she would be his. He wasn't in danger of falling in love, was he?
No, it could not be that. He simply had a duty to fulfill and promises to keep, and he was trying to make the best of it by focusing on his physical attraction to a woman who might one day be his duchess and provide the dukedom with an heir.
He certainly had no reservations about succumbing to that part of his duty.
Taking seats near the front on the opposite side of the room, he and Charlotte conversed about the quartette and the evening ahead. His sister leaned forward slightly in her chair.
"I see Lady Rebecca is here. Oh, she is lovely, I must say-so pleasant and sincere and agreeable. And what I wouldn't give for hair like that. She is so different from every other woman in the room, and so very becoming. Don't you think?"
Devon leaned forward as well and admired the loose sweep of Rebecca's hair over the back of her slender neck, and the graceful line of her soft, creamy shoulders. "Your own hair is exquisite, Charlotte. You take after Mother, who has always been regarded as a great beauty."
They both looked toward the back of the room where their mother was greeting the guests. Their father, the duke, entered and pumped the hands of all the gentlemen standing at the back, then went and spoke to Lady Letitia and her mother.
"Well, I certainly don't take after him," Charlotte said with more than a little resignation.
"Neither you nor Garrett do," he said. "But look on the bright side. At least you haven't inherited his propensity to believe in curses. I, on the other hand, might one day believe the palace is being overtaken by leprechauns."
He was not surprised when Lady Letitia and the Duchess of Swinburne approached and claimed the seats beside him. The young lady began to immediately go on about the quartette, and how she had heard them play once before. As soon as the music began, she prattled on with a dozen insignificant little criticisms, implying of course that she could do better.