"I cannot understand this," he said, squeezing his eyes shut, surprising her with the passionate confession. "This madness. I cannot fight it. I must have you, Rebecca. Completely."
Nor could she understand it, as sensation overwhelmed reason. She could not even begin to contemplate the forces at work in this room. She had been so angry with him earlier for his arrogance and the withdrawal of his gentler affections, and for his lack of forgiveness, when he was as guilty as she.
Yet she still wanted him and would do anything for him. All she knew at this moment was the tremendous power of her impending orgasm, coursing through her nerve endings to the very center of her being. Pleasure assailed her, and she released a muffled scream into her husband's mouth as she felt at the same time the hot gush of his climax pour into her.
He collapsed heavily upon her, and they lay there in the dazzling afternoon light, their desires fulfilled, their bodies damp with perspiration, limp and weak, but magnificently sated.
"I am yours," she whispered in his ear as she ran a finger up and down his smooth, slick back. "I was never Rushton's."
"Don't say his name again," he softly said. "Ever. Just the sound of it infuriates me."
She could barely breathe under the tremendous weight of him. "Nothing would please me more than to never say it again, or hear it. But you must promise me something, too."
He rolled to his side and faced her, waiting in silence for her request.
"You must promise to at least try and forgive me for our unfortunate beginning, as I will forgive you. I want you to love me in return," she said. "If not today-someday."
He rested his head on his arm. "We are still strangers, you know."
"But we won't be forever. Every day will bring us closer if you will let me love you, which you must, because no matter what has happened between us, now that I have found you, I cannot live without you."
He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. "Do not rely on me for your happiness, Rebecca. You must find other things to occupy yourself besides me, because I cannot be responsible for all that."
She sat up. "You are not responsible for my happiness."
"But you just said you cannot live without me."
"It was an expression of love," she told him, "and I warn you, I will say other things like it in the future. I want us to be everything to each other."
He spoke in a calm voice, his gaze steady. "That is not the kind of love I ever imagined myself wanting."
"What other kind is there?" she asked, unable to understand how he could think or feel any other way.
He stared at her for a long time. "I honestly don't know, and I am not sure I wish to find out. It is not a question I wish to explore."
Chapter 18
Every morning for a week, Devon woke to the sound of wind and rain pelting against his window, rattling the panes. The river had risen higher than anyone remembered in fifty years, and he heard from a servant, who had gone into the village the day before, that a bridge had collapsed in the next county and a farmer crossing over it on foot was swept away.
The duke was not taking the news well. He was pacing constantly, whether in the privacy of his own bedchamber or in full view in the drawing rooms. He wandered the corridors, loitered in the gallery, and even skulked about in the servants' wing. Occasionally he would look up at a portrait of an ancestor and apologize in a vague, disturbing way, which the family took note of with concern.
"Do you think we should summon the doctor again?" Blake asked, late one afternoon, while he and Devon were alone in the study, working on estate matters.
Devon was seated at the desk inspecting the ledgers, which he had been spending a lot of time on lately, for it kept his mind off the two things that were a constant concern to him: his father's madness, and the antagonism he still felt regarding his wife's former engagement.
He wished he could let it go, but for some reason he could not. It still incensed him on a daily basis. Every time he looked at her, he thought of that other man who had believed she would be his, and found himself wondering what conversations they'd had in the past, what this man knew of her, and how he had reacted to the news that she was now another man's wife.
"Devon?"
He blinked a few times, then laid down his pen and looked at his brother. "I'm sorry…. Yes?"
"Should we summon the doctor again?" Blake asked, repeating his earlier question.
Devon labored to bring his mind back to the subject at hand. "Dr. Lambert has not been helpful in the past. He would no doubt continue to tell us this behavior is normal, which I suppose it is, if it is simply old age."
"But perhaps he could give Father a tonic or something to ease his mind or help him sleep."
Devon leaned back in his chair. "I am of the opinion that it is time to call on someone new, someone who has some experience with this kind of thing. Someone who does not expect to be named in the will."
"Someone from London?"
"That is what I am thinking." He leaned forward and picked up his pen again. "Didn't Mother work on a hospital benefit last Christmas? Perhaps she would know someone."
"It is worth a try," Blake said.
Just then, the door swung open and hit the wall, and the estate steward, Mr. Jacobs, entered with their father, who strode across the room in a wild frenzy.
"Devon," he said. "Devon…"
Startled by the abrupt interruption and the panic in his father's voice, Devon rose from his chair. "What is it? What has happened?"
Mr. Jacobs inclined his head and spoke in a calm voice. "Good afternoon, Lord Hawthorne. There is some news about the fields to the east."
"News!" the duke shouted. "It is not news, it is the end!"
The steward's gaze darted uneasily to the duke. "I thought you should know, my lord," he said to Devon, "that some of the fields require attention. The drainage ditches are not performing as they should."
Devon glanced at his father, who was having difficulty breathing and was now tugging at his cravat.
"You are here to tell me," Devon said, "that the fields are flooding?"
"Yes, my lord."
Wonderful.
"Do you hear that?" his father said, pointing at the steward. He gazed incredulously at Blake. "What the blazes are you doing here? Why aren't you in London with Vincent looking for a bride? And where is Garrett? Have you reached him yet? Does he know? Why has he not returned?"
"I have posted a letter," Devon assured him, "but it will take some time to reach him, and it will be longer still, before we hear a reply."
"But what are we going to do in the meantime?"
Devon moved out from behind the desk and went to pour a glass of brandy. He handed it to his father. "There is no need to worry. Blake and I will accompany Mr. Jacobs to the east fields now and assess the damage, then find a solution. We will dig new drainage ditches ourselves if we have to. Everything will be fine, Father."
"But that will only buy us time," he replied, sucking back a deep swig of brandy.
Devon placed a comforting hand on his father's shoulder. "Maybe time is all we need."
The duke looked into his eyes and stared blankly, then his breathing calmed. He strode to a chair. "Yes, I'm sure you're right."
Mr. Jacobs watched the duke with further uneasiness, then cleared his throat and spoke to Devon. "My lord? Do you wish to see the fields now?"
"Yes. Blake and I will accompany you. Have a groom ready the horses."
Blake followed him out of the library, but glanced over his shoulder at their father, who was finishing off the brandy in record time.
"Maybe we should skip the horses, Devon, and take a rowboat instead."