Rebecca hesitated while she considered how to satisfy her aunt's curiosities, without confessing the shocking, wicked and depraved details. She had behaved inexcusably in the gallery because she could not restrain her out-of-control desires, and now she was troubled by Lady Letitia's warnings.
She leaned closer and whispered. "He asked me to call him Devon."
Her aunt placed both hands over her heart. "Gracious me. That is as good as a proposal."
"Let us not be overly optimistic, Aunt Grace."
"But he is a gentleman. Surely he would not trifle with your affections in such a way. I am certain his feelings have become engaged."
"I shall go to sleep hoping," Rebecca said.
Grace smiled and hugged her. "You are a gem, darling. Everything is going to work out just the way you want it to. I am certain of it."
With that, they said goodnight, but Rebecca remained in the corridor for a moment, watching her aunt enter her own bedchamber next door.
She hoped she had not made a mistake, surrendering to her passions so openly with Lord Hawthorne and giving in to every erotic suggestion he made. Now he wanted to come to her bedchamber personally and borrow her scandalous diary, which she had never shown to anyone. He was actually going to read it and know all the things she had fantasized about over the past four years. It was beyond scandalous-far worse than being simply pushy.
Just thinking about such things, however, caused something to quiver and pulse inside her, and she realized that even if she was handing over the whole cottage and sheep herd to Devon without so much as a shilling in return, she couldn't possibly turn back now. She'd already said yes to his every request, and he would be knocking at her door in an hour. She could only hope it would lead to a proposal, but it was a risky game she was playing.
With a sigh, she put her hand on the doorknob and turned it, wondering further about the logistics of this. Should she dress for bed or remain in her formal evening gown until he came and left? She couldn't imagine answering the door in her dressing gown. That would only add to the appalling list of sinful improprieties this evening.
She supposed, if she wanted to redeem herself, she could just hand him the diary though a crack in the door, then quickly shut it in his face.
Quietly crossing the threshold, she entered her dark bedchamber, but left the door open for some light while she moved to the lamp on the bedside table. She found the matches and struck one, then removed the glass chimney and touched the flame to the wick. The room took on a golden glow, and she replaced the chimney on the lantern and looked toward the large armoire, where she kept the diary hidden inside her valise.
"Did you forget where you put it?" a masculine voice asked, causing her to gasp and whirl around to face the bed.
There he lay, stretched out at his ease with one long leg crossed over the other, his arms pulled back behind his head. He had taken off his dinner jacket, which was tossed over the footboard.
She laid a hand over her thumping heart. "Good Lord! What is the matter with you, scaring me like that? And how did you get up here so fast?"
"I know every secret passageway in this house like the back of my hand."
"There are secret passageways?"
He pointed at a life-size portrait of an ancestor on the wall. It was slightly ajar. "I came in through there."
She studied it curiously, then hurried to shut the bedchamber door before someone walked by and discovered him laid out like a pleasure god on her bed. "Keep your voice down," she said. "And you promised to wait an hour."
"I was bored."
"You were randy, more like it, wanting to see what's in that diary."
She shut the door and faced him. He leaned up on an elbow. "You have me pegged. But let me hear you say 'randy' again."
His teasing tone sent a tremor of excitement through her. Oh, she was doomed.
"Randy. Now please get off my bed."
He sighed with resignation, then swung his legs to the floor, but continued to sit with his hands curled around the edge of the mattress. "Do you know that you are the most exciting woman I have met in a very long time?"
"More exciting than Lady Letitia?" she boldly asked.
His eyes darkened with desire. "Far more."
It was exactly what she wanted to hear, but now was not the time to be bringing up another woman.
"I asked you nicely to get up," she reminded him, determined to at least try and behave respectably, even though she'd already chopped and burned and utterly annihilated that bridge behind her.
He smirked, then stood up and spread his hands wide. "There. How's that?"
"Better. Now go over there." She pointed to the fireplace on the opposite side of the room.
"Don't you trust me?"
"Frankly, no."
He chuckled and sauntered to the hearth, while she went to the armoire.
"It's damp in here," he said. "Allow me to light a fire for you."
"Thank you."
She knelt and reached into the lining of her valise for the old diary, then rose to her feet and turned to watch him lay out the kindling and strike a match. He was crouching down, his shoulders broad, his torso narrow, his buttocks muscular beneath his formal black trousers, stretched taut.
Holding the diary at her side, she suddenly understood why Lydie had needed to write about her lover and her passions on each glorious page of her diary. She hadn't wanted to forget what it felt like.
Rebecca was tempted to start a diary of her own. Surely, with this man as her subject, it would be a masterpiece. For her eyes only, of course.
He picked up the poker and shifted the logs around, drawing out the flames, sending sparks snapping and floating up into the black chimney, then he straightened and wiped his hands together. He turned to face her, gesturing toward the book she held at her side. "Is that it?"
"Yes," she said.
"May I look at it?"
Her heart began to pound as she held it out. For some reason when they had agreed to this earlier, she had imagined he would take the diary back to his own room and read it in private-for it was, needless to say, a very private kind of book. But she now understood that he intended to read it here.
He moved across the thick oval carpet and took it from her, keeping his gaze locked on hers the entire time until he turned and moved away, back toward the fireplace where the light was better.
He opened the book and read the first page.
Rebecca remained where she was, speechless and paralyzed, as if she were sharing her own diary with someone, for no one else had ever read this treasure she had kept hidden away since the day she'd found it.
Devon stood in front of the fire for a few minutes, then he slowly lowered himself into the wing chair and continued to read.
Eventually Rebecca moved to the bed and sat down. The only noises in the room were the sparks snapping in the fireplace, the mantel clock ticking, and the sound of pages turning.
She removed her earrings and necklace and set them on the bedside table, then sat quietly, trying to stay calm while she watched Devon read.
A short time later, he closed the book and looked at her. "This is indeed compelling reading, Rebecca. I think I should stop."
"Does it make you feel guilty, because it's someone else's private thoughts?" she asked. "I certainly felt that way at first."
"It's not that." He rose to his feet and came to stand before her. "May I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"When you read this book, do you fantasize about doing all the things Lydie does?"
Heaven help her, she wanted him to know. She'd always wanted him to know. "Yes."
"Do you ever fantasize about it with me?"