He placed a hand over the knot in his gut, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. Surely it was a mistake. It could not be true. His bride, his Rebecca, could not have used him for her own purposes, to escape a man she was engaged to marry. And who was this man? Was he the real reason she was not so very innocent? Was it because of him-his hands, his touch? — that she knew what she was doing in the bedroom? And how had a betrothal come to pass? The earl would not say. He had become agitated and felt ill, and had walked out on Devon before answering any of his questions.
Just then, Rebecca threw her head back and laughed at something someone said, so Devon set out to get the answers he needed, steeling himself for the worst as he strode across the room to her.
"My dear wife," he said, "may I have a word with you in private?"
The conversation skidded to a halt, and the smile in her eyes died away while everyone gaped at him. He supposed his tone had been terse, but there it was.
"Of course," she replied, laboring to sound lighthearted when it was clear-at least to him-that she was unnerved. He wondered if she had any idea that her father had been there.
Offering his arm, he escorted her out of the reception room, through the center of the house and out the back doors onto the terrace overlooking the former Italian Gardens. The area was still a sea of muck and overturned rocks. The sky, however, was a perfect blue, and the sun was shining brightly overhead.
"What is it, Devon?" she asked.
He was not in the mood to dance around the subject or even broach it gently. He only wanted to know the truth, and to hear it from her.
"Your father was here," he said, taking note of her sharp gasp. "We had a most enlightening conversation in the library before he left the palace, exceedingly agitated and in a hurry."
Her lips fell open. "Just my father? No one else?"
Devon strove to keep his breathing under control while he wrestled with the strange complexity of his emotions. He was angry, to be sure. What man wouldn't be? His bride had been engaged to another man and she had hidden it from him, while she'd cleverly wrapped him around her delicate ring finger in less than a week.
He felt something else, too, however, which was not anger exactly. There was a burning in his gut over the fact that there was another man somewhere in the world who had a prior claim upon her. A man who still, at this very moment, believed she belonged to him and would be his wife. He was probably out searching for her, because he was not yet aware that Devon had put a ring on her finger that very morning.
He thought of the diary suddenly, and wondered if she had read it to this man, too. A muscle in his jaw clenched.
"You were expecting your betrothed," he said at last. "Why didn't you tell me about that, Rebecca?"
"Because there was nothing to tell," she insisted. "And he was not my betrothed. At least not in my mind. He never proposed to me, and even if he had, I would have turned him down in no uncertain terms."
Her plain anger assuaged some of his, so he strove to at least listen to what she had to say before he crushed all feeling for her, which is what he wanted to do. He wanted this escape-this diversion from the tender affection he had never wanted to feel, because God help him, this was the slipping and tripping he had feared would come.
But he would keep his footing this time, damn it. He would not fall backward and go sliding down that long, slippery slope.
"Your father sees it differently," he said. "He told me that this gentleman understood you were to be his wife. Who is he? What's his name?"
"What does it matter?" she asked.
"His name, Rebecca."
Her eyes clouded over with indignation as she ground out the words. "Rushton. Maximillian Rushton. And my father made those arrangements without ever consulting me. But I was not about to be shepherded into my future like a meek little lamb. I have a mind and a will of my own, you know."
"That's quite obvious," he said. "So you took matters into your own hands, disobeyed your father, and came here instead. Under your terms."
"Exactly."
"So this is what I have to look forward to," he said. "A headstrong, willful wife who will do whatever she pleases? A woman who will use any tactic necessary to get what she wants?"
"What do you mean?"
"The diary, Rebecca. You used it to lure me into your bed, didn't you? To trap me."
She gave a choked cry of protest. "No, that is not true."
He turned away and strode to the balustrade, where he stood for a long moment looking at the statue of Venus while he fought to contain his temper.
"I cannot deny," he said with a note of bitter sarcasm, "that I must at least admire your spirit. That is what drew me to you in the first place, I suppose-that fire in your eyes. Which is probably what drew him to you as well." He turned to face her. "What bothers me is the fact that you came here to secretly use me for protection from another man's intentions, without ever telling me. I do not appreciate being used and manipulated."
"I did not manipulate you."
"No?" Antagonism lit in his veins. "What would you call it then? You came to the ball looking irresistible, flirting up a storm, and on the third day of your visit, began quoting from an erotic diary. It was enough to make any man lose control of his senses and cross the line. All the while, you had an ulterior motive which you did not disclose to me."
"May I remind you," she said heatedly, "that you had an ulterior motive as well. Your father was pressuring you to find a wife."
"But there is the difference, you see. I told you. That moment in particular would have been the perfect opportunity for you to confess your true motivation to me. I would have liked to know I might have to defend my actions to a man who will no doubt believe I acted dishonorably and stole something from him."
He realized suddenly it was the second time in his life he had stolen another man's fiancee, and neither time had it been his conscious intention to do so. On both occasions, he had been the object of a spirited woman's desires, and his passions had overwhelmed his intellect.
At least this time, he had not known there was another man. He had not known he was doing anything dishonorable.
But what was worse-dishonor or stupidity?
She blanched-her anger fading somewhat to reveal a hint of anxiety. Over what? he wondered. That he would turn her out? He could hardly do that now, could he, after speaking vows before God a short time ago. Not to mention the fact that she could already be carrying his child in her womb.
"I wanted to tell you," she implored. "Truly I did. I thought about it many times, but I was afraid you would withdraw your offer if you knew. And when the marriage was within my grasp, I just couldn't do anything to jeopardize it. I didn't want to lose you."
He scoffed. "To lose your safe haven, you mean. Your protection from him."
"It wasn't just that," she said. "Everything I said to you over the past week has been true. I wanted you, Devon, with every breath in my body and soul. I've been dreaming about you since the night we met in the woods four years ago. I fell in love with you then."
He almost wanted to laugh. "You fell in love with a fantasy, and you've been living in one ever since, sheltered in your father's house, reading another woman's diary. You don't know anything about me if you think I am your hero. I was not looking to be anyone's protector. I do not need another burden of responsibility, especially when it involves a woman's safekeeping. I simply needed a future duchess."
"But you are a hero," she said, sounding almost perplexed to hear otherwise. "You are the future Duke of Pembroke. You are powerful and honorable. That's more clear to me than anything."