Her aunt toyed with the fabric of her Trojan costume, adjusting the way everything draped in the front. "He has kept you and your father on his family's guest list all these years, so that is a good sign."
"He probably put us there and promptly forgot about us, since we haven't gone to one single party."
At least now, she understood why she had never been permitted to attend any gatherings. It was why she and her aunt were here, registered at the Pembroke Inn under false names. It was why she had snuck away in the night like a criminal.
Just the thought of it filled her with sickening grief over her father's betrayal, and a genuine fear for her future. She could still hear the impatient tremor in his voice from three days ago. You will not refuse him, Rebecca. He won't stand for it. Nor will I.
She turned to her aunt. "Thank you, Aunt Grace, for helping me. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been willing to take this risk. It means so much to me."
Her aunt touched her cheek. "How could I possibly say no? Your mother was my beloved sister, and when she was alive, we would have done anything for each other. I could not let you be forced into marrying that man. Have you decided which earrings to wear?" Aunt Grace was clearly eager to change the subject, for the hour was growing late. She held both pairs up for Rebecca to consider.
She examined them only briefly. "I like these," she said. "They will bring out the color in my eyes and I will need all the help I can get from behind this mask. Oh, how I wish this was a regular ball, not a masquerade. He won't even be able to see my face."
"I disagree, dear," Aunt Grace said. "There is nothing more appealing to a man than a woman of mystery, and when we arrive, remember what I told you in the coach on the way here. If you wish to entice him, you must be confident and elusive. You cannot be presented to him like a drooling puppy with your tail wagging, or like a young woman who wants something from him. Being the heir to a dukedom, I am sure he encounters women like that every day of his life. You must tease him and lure him in your direction. Make yourself into a golden ring he cannot quite grab hold of, then at the end of the night, you will be the one he will remember. The one he will wish to see again. Then you, my dear, will be safe from Mr. Rushton, for you will have caught yourself the son of a duke."
Rebecca sighed and nodded, even though it was not his station in life that had brought her here after fleeing her home and the prison of her future. It was the very man himself who had haunted her dreams for four difficult years. It was the memory of his touch, his strong and capable hands on her body that wild and dangerous night when she had met someone who was everything a man should be-confident, honorable, heroic.
She longed to see him again with every breath in her body. She wanted him to be the one she would marry, not Mr. Rushton. She wanted to feel passion for her husband, the kind of passion Lydie wrote about in her diary.
Perhaps, if the fates were kind, she would feel that passion tonight, and maybe even secure a happy future. She certainly hoped so, because if she were forced to marry a man she did not love, she might as well give up breathing.
Devon strode out of the palace doors into the cold, hard rain, and raised an umbrella over his head. He crossed the flagstone terrace to look over what had once been the Italian Gardens, but saw only a muddy ruin.
His father had completely destroyed the garden. He had moved the shrubs and hedges. He had dug up bulbs, leaving deep holes and large mounds of earth scattered indiscriminately. All that remained was the large fountain in the center and the beautiful statue of Venus, abandoned, left alone in a devastated wasteland. No wonder Mother had wished him to return.
Gathering his coat collar tighter around his neck and noting the fact that he could see his breath in the damp chill, Devon tightened his grip on the umbrella handle and looked toward the highest point on the property. There, he saw his father with a garden spade, digging another hole.
Devon left the stone terrace and walked up the gravel path, running a hand down his thigh to massage the pain out of his knee. When he finally reached his father, he stood quietly for a moment, watching him.
The duke forced the shovel into the tough ground and tossed the wet earth carelessly behind him. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, and his coat was soaked straight through. He did not seem to care, however. His only concern was the hole in the ground.
Devon cleared his throat. "Father."
The duke continued to dig, so Devon took a step closer and spoke again, louder this time. "Father!"
The duke stopped and turned and stared bewildered at him. "My son!" He dropped the shovel, rushed forward and wrapped his arms around him. "Thank God! You've come home!"
Devon managed to hug his father and hold the umbrella over both their heads, while his emotions fell into turmoil. His father was not the same. He did not seem to recall the terrible fury and anger upon which they had parted three years ago. It was as if it had never happened.
"Yes, Father, I have returned," he said warily. When they stepped apart, Devon held the umbrella over his father's head, not his own. "Blake said you wished to speak to me about something."
"Yes, it's very important."
"Why don't we go inside to talk," he suggested. "It's pouring rain, and you're soaking wet."
"Not yet. I have to save the garden. Everything needs to be right here, exactly where we are standing. On high ground."
Devon looked at the disastrous layout of shrubs and hedges, which had been hastily transplanted with no sense of order or beauty. It was utter chaos, and mud was oozing everywhere.
He hated mud. He hated the look of it, the feel of it, the smell of it.
"Surely this can wait until tomorrow," he suggested. "Guests have already begun to arrive for the ball tonight, and Mother would like to have you with her to greet them. It is her birthday after all."
The duke glanced back at the half dug hole. "But I must finish. I must get that rose bush into the ground before the flood comes."
Devon swallowed uneasily. "There is no flood, Father. This is just a heavy spring rain."
"But there is a curse on us."
Devon stared at his father for a moment. "No, Father. It has been raining all over England. Not just here."
"But it is our fault it is raining." His father continued to stare doggedly at him, shivering in the cold. God in heaven. He was going to catch his death if he carried on like this. He had to be brought inside.
Devon looked down at the rose bush waiting in the cart, then back at his father.
"I'll plant it for you," he heard himself saying, "if you will hold my umbrella and explain to me what you told Blake-how you believe only I can stop this…this curse."
The duke reached a shaky hand out to take the umbrella from him. "Thank you, Devon. You're a good son. The very best."
Devon glanced briefly at his father while he moved to scoop up the heavy rose bush and its jungle of roots, caked in dirt. He carried it to the hole and got down on one knee to set it inside. Then he picked up the shovel and began to fill the hole back in, making sure to cover all the roots.
"I won't keep you guessing any longer," his father said at last. "You must marry right away, Devon, and you must convince all three of your brothers to do the same."
Marry?
Devon stopped patting the mud around the bush and straightened. "I beg your pardon? Did I hear you correctly?"
"Yes. It will stop the curse and therefore stop the rain."
"How the hell will four weddings stop the rain?"
"They just will," his father said simply, sounding completely sane.
Devon stabbed the shovel into the ground with his boot and leaned a wrist upon the handle. Rain pounded onto his shoulders.
"You are not making sense, Father, and I will not succumb to this. I am going to send for Dr. Lambert immediately and insist that he prescribe something for you to take at night that will help you sleep."