"But you must," she insisted. "There is a very simple explanation. You see, I…Oh, this is all very strange to be talking about. I found an old diary a few years ago, not long after we met that night in the woods, and every entry is about…" She hesitated.
"What we just did?"
"Yes, and other things."
He nodded his head. "Ah, the mystery is solved."
"Do you believe me?"
"I think so. But where in the world did you find such a diary?"
"Under a loose floorboard in my father's stable," she replied. "It was written in 1828 and was covered in dust, so it had obviously been there for quite some time."
"Do you know who it belonged to?"
"No, only that her first name was Lydie. She describes her love affair with a young man named Jess. I think he might have been a servant who worked for my grandfather."
He ran a finger lightly over her cheek. "I must say, that sounds like very compelling reading. Do you have it with you?"
"It's in my room."
In her room. Indeed.
"Might I borrow it?" he asked.
"Definitely not," she said. "It's dreadfully wicked. You would be shocked. Horrified."
He grinned again at her charming innocence. "I think I can manage the upset."
Her lips pursed with shameless chagrin. "We are behaving very badly, my lord."
"Without question. And please, call me Devon," he said, knowing that to encourage the use of their given names was yet another clear indication of his intentions.
"And I hope you will call me Rebecca," she replied, indicating her intentions as well. She slowly blinked up at him, and the effect was pure seduction. "But how should I give the diary to you?" she asked. "I don't want anyone else to see it."
"I'll come to your room tonight and pick it up."
She raised an eyebrow. "I may lack experience, but I do know that that would be highly improper."
"And this wasn't?" he reminded her with a chuckle. "Trust me, darling, it will be our little secret. No one will know."
She glanced around the gallery, as if to make sure they were not being watched. "All right," she whispered. "But wait at least an hour after I retire."
"Whatever you say." He pressed his lips to hers again and willed his tremendous erection to diminish-at least for the time being. "I am going to want more of you," he said.
"And I, you," she replied, resting her hands on his forearms. "But I do hope you believe that I've never done anything like this before. I don't want you to have the wrong impression of me."
"I have the exact impression I wish to have," he assured her, as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, realizing all at once that he was not only attracted to her sexually, but quite enamored with her as well, which was not what he'd had in mind when he imagined choosing a bride in such a rush, for he was not a romantic. He was a realist, and he had certainly never imagined desiring a woman who would remember a simple rescue years earlier, and view him in an idealistic fashion. As if he were some kind of hero.
He had experienced such a thing before with disastrous consequences, and it had shaped him into the man he was today-a man who was exceedingly cautious with women and their emotions. A man who did not seek romantic, all-consuming love.
No, he had never wanted to be the sun, the moon, and stars to a wife, yet for some reason he could not seem to kick free of the wave that was carrying him into his future. It was all happening so fast, and after what just occurred, after the liberties he had taken with her and the things he had said and implied-and what might very well happen later tonight when he visited her room-this would all have to be decided upon and arranged quickly. There could be no turning back. No escape.
He had, for better or worse, closed the window on his options.
Chapter 9
The instant Rebecca entered the drawing room with Devon at her side, Lady Letitia fixed her scalding eyes on them both and pursed her lips.
Devon escorted Rebecca back to her aunt, who asked about the artwork they had viewed, but when he turned to go and mingle with the other guests, he nearly stepped on Lady Letitia's toes, for she had approached him from behind.
"Lord Hawthorne, I would be pleased to entertain your guests now. I have already selected a piece of music I think you will enjoy, and my mother has offered to accompany me on the piano."
She looked past Devon's shoulder to glance smugly at Rebecca.
"That would be splendid," he replied. "Please, take your places whenever you are ready."
She strode to the piano, and her mother joined her. The guests found places to sit, while Devon moved to the fireplace and leaned an elbow upon the mantel. Lady Letitia looked to him for a signal, and he nodded to begin.
She sang the timeless classic, "Home, Sweet Home," showing off an insistent vibrato in her voice and furrowing her brow with a dramatic outpouring of emotion.
Letitia curtsied deeply when she finished, and the applause began. "Thank you so much. You are so kind." She cupped her hands together in front of her and gestured toward Devon at the mantel, suggesting he deserved applause as well, for arranging her performance.
He shook his head at the generous show of appreciation and directed everyone's attention back to Lady Letitia, who thanked them all again.
Not long afterward, the young woman found Rebecca alone on the sofa. She sat on the edge of the cushion with her spine as stiff and straight as a hot iron poker. "Do you not have any talents to display?" she asked, eyeing Rebecca with scrutiny over the rim of her wine glass.
"How could anyone possibly follow your brilliant performance this evening, Lady Letitia?"
They sat in silence, looking around at everyone else, not at each other, until Lady Letitia spoke in a low voice. "In case you are wondering, I saw you go off with Lord Hawthorne earlier, and I fear I would be a very bad friend if I did not inform you that you are making quite a spectacle of yourself."
Rebecca's heart began to pound a little faster. "How so?"
"By being too pushy. I don't know how young ladies are brought up where you come from, Lady Rebecca, but here in polite society-which you obviously know very little about-behavior like that can get a lady into trouble."
Rebecca frowned. "I was not pushy. He invited me to view his family portraits, but I hardly need to explain myself to you."
Letitia wet her lips, and finally met Rebecca's gaze. "I really wish you would leave."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said I wish you would leave. You were not invited to this party, and you are getting in the way."
"In the way of what?"
Letitia lifted her chin and spoke in a low voice again. "Of my future."
Rebecca openly scoffed. "And the whole world revolves around your wishes and desires, does it?"
"I am the one the Duke of Pembroke chose to be the next duchess. That is why we came all this way through the putrid rain and muck. You are dreaming if you think you can walk in here and turn Lord Hawthorne's head. You are nothing but an unsophisticated country girl." She stood. "Lord Hawthorne might be willing to amuse himself with you in a dimly lit gallery," she added in an angry whisper, "but he knows what his father wants. He will never propose."
With that, she turned and strode to the piano to entertain the guests with another merry tune.
Rebecca remained in her seat with a sick knot in her belly, while she glanced uneasily around the room.
"All is well?" Grace asked, probing discreetly for information about what had occurred between Rebecca and Devon in the gallery, and why Rebecca had suddenly lost interest in the party and wished to retire.
"Everything is fine," she replied.
Her aunt did not seem willing to accept such a vague answer. "Exactly how fine, darling? You mustn't leave me wondering, or I won't be able to sleep tonight. What happened while you were in the gallery?"