He thought again of their argument the day of their wedding, and how he had felt when her father had informed him that she'd been engaged to another.
Devon had told her everything about MaryAnn that day. Well, almost everything. He had left certain details out.
He wondered in turn, with a hint of unease, what details he did not know about her former life.
He strode toward her and rested his hands on her hips. "Tell me something. Did he ever touch you?"
Her elegant eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Who?"
"Rushton."
She looked disappointed that he had interrupted what they were about to do by bringing that up again. "Why does it matter?"
"Just tell me."
"Why? What good would it do for you to know something like that? And why do you want to know?"
He realized suddenly that he was now the one digging for information about intimate matters outside of their sexual encounters, and the thought was disturbing to him.
Not, however, as disturbing as the fact that she would not answer the question.
She sighed and climbed onto the bed, completely uninhibited about her nudity, as always. She patted the spot next to her. "Come and lie down with me."
He joined her on the bed. "Tell me, Rebecca. I want to know."
She hesitated, then finally began to explain. "Mr. Rushton used to come to our house and have tea with us. It was always very strange and silent and awkward. He would look at me in a way that made me uncomfortable."
Suddenly agitated, Devon inched closer to her. "Did he ever touch you?" he asked again, more demanding this time.
Her slender throat bobbed with a swallow. "Once."
Devon braced himself for whatever she was about to tell him, and began in advance to subdue the anger he knew would come. "What happened?"
She hesitated again. "It was a year ago. I did not know he had come to visit. I was in the stables after returning from an afternoon ride. He came up behind me, grabbed hold of my skirts, and tore them as he pulled me toward him. He tried to kiss me, but I fought him and scratched his face and ran into the house. I never told Father."
"You should have."
"I don't know that it would have made a difference. Father would never have confronted him, and I did not want to place that burden of guilt on him."
Devon was surprised that his principal reaction was not anger, but his need to reassure her that she was now safe here at Pembroke Palace-that nothing like that would ever happen to her again. He touched his lips to hers.
"Neither he, nor any other, shall ever touch you that way again, Rebecca. If any man does, you shall tell me, and I will not hesitate to confront him. In fact, I will hunt him down tirelessly in order to do so."
She nibbled at his lips. "I thought you did not wish to be my protector."
She was challenging him, meaning to prove that he was wrong to think he was not born to be her hero.
"It is my duty as your husband to protect you."
"Just duty?" she asked, eyeing him intently. "Does it have nothing to do with passion? Jealousy? Love?"
His heart was beginning to pound in his chest. He shifted uncomfortably. "Sometimes we have no choice about the things we must do."
"Do you regret the choices you have made?" she asked, referring, of course, to their marriage.
Growing more and more uneasy with the direction of this conversation, he rolled on top of her. "I regret nothing. But tell me, do you think Rushton will ever try to see you again?"
"Why are we talking about this tonight," she asked, "when you have avoided the subject all week?"
"I don't know. I am always surprised by the things I feel when I am with you."
She wiggled her hips invitingly, beckoning him, pushing against the throbbing tip of his erection. "I doubt he will come here. This is Pembroke Palace, and you are the future duke."
He thrust gently into her heated folds, but paused. "If I were him, I would want matters resolved once and for all-perhaps an apology from you for leaving without a word. I would also want to meet the man who stole my fiancee."
She cupped his buttocks in her hands and pulled him in closer and tighter. "I told you before, I never agreed to be his fiancee. He knows that. He will simply have to let the matter go."
Devon pushed and entered her in a single, deep thrust. She sighed with rapturous delight, while he began to lose sight of life beyond this bed, his raging arousal sliding in and out. She gyrated beneath him, and he quickened his stroke.
Soon, passion obliterated everything else. They made love eagerly, changing positions often, exploring different sensations and responses. In the end, shortly after they both climaxed, they lay flat on their backs with their heads down at the footboard, struggling to catch their breath in the fading firelight.
"That was wonderful," Rebecca said in a breathless sigh of release.
"As it has been every night," he replied.
They lay quietly, exhausted. He was just drifting off to sleep when she spoke.
"Why did you want to know those things about Mr. Rushton? Do you still believe there are things I am keeping from you? Do you suspect there was something more between us?"
"I confess, part of me still wonders."
"There was nothing, Devon. Nothing."
He turned his head to look at her. "And yet, there is something inside of me that feels rage when I imagine you reading that diary aloud to him."
"I never did. You must believe me about that."
He looked at the ceiling again. "I suppose I do. I just hope to God I never meet him. For his sake."
Chapter 19
Maximilian Rushton arrived in Pembroke Village by coach at half-past four on a Tuesday. He entered the Pembroke Inn, complimented the hostess on her gown, and procured the most luxurious room in the establishment. He then ordered a bottle of their finest brandy and retired to his lodgings.
Weary but unwavering in his determination, he poured a glass before he even bothered to remove his coat. He raised it to his lips, took a drink, then set it down upon the table and began to ponder the situation.
He had important plans to carry out now that he was here, and it was crucial that he think everything through with great attention to detail. He could not dwell on his anger. He could not think of his discontent, or how sick he was of this frustrating uphill battle.
It was important that he remember the past and why he was here. He had come so very far in his lifetime, earning his fortune with a keen sense of business, improving his manners and speech, but he had met resistance in recent years. Ever since he acquired the house that bordered Creighton Manor, the obstacles had reached intolerable heights. He had hit one wall after another, which was all the more exasperating, after coming so far.
He could not allow this to go on. Yesterday, at a small village inn, he'd looked at the miniature of his mother, which he kept with him at all times, and was overcome by a rage so severe, he tore his room apart in a fit of temper. Just thinking of it now lit a hot ball of fire in his gut. All he'd ever wanted to do was avenge her death.
And all he wanted now was his due-the final glory, which he deserved. His mother and father deserved it, too.
He thought of the Creighton ballroom suddenly. The present earl did not make use of that room. It stood empty all year round, the crystal chandelier covered in dust, the small number of furnishings hidden under white sheets like ghosts.
The previous earl had used it, of course-that despicable, foul rotter. He was the one who had built the ballroom with funds from the sale of the Rushton home and family business. That man, with the world at his fingertips, had won all that in a card game, and the very next day, had come to collect his winnings. He had tossed the family out onto the dirty streets of West London without a backward glance or a single care as to how they would survive. He did not care that the house had been in the family for four generations, or that Maximilian's mother was expecting a child.