In My Wildest Fantasies

Chapter 13

"I'll wager you never imagined," Blake said to Devon, who was donning his wedding attire shortly after breakfast, "that when you stepped off that steamship from America, you would be married within a week."

Devon looked at his reflection in the mirror while his valet adjusted his sleeves, and felt as if he were looking at someone other than himself-a confident groom, heir to a dukedom, a calm man who had all the pieces of his life under control and was about to marry his future duchess and ensure the continuation of his ancestral line.

Inside, however, he was not so calm. He was far from it, for he was wrestling with the terrible fear that he had fallen completely and hopelessly in love with his bride and had already lost all sense of reality.

There had been moments over the past few days when he'd actually felt happy, and he could not fight the fear that his feet were going to slip and slide out from under him, and he would soon, without warning, begin the agonizing tumble down the hill.

Nevertheless, he spoke to his brother matter-of-factly, not wanting to reveal what he was feeling. "I always knew I would marry eventually."

"And you are doing so now because you found a wonderful woman," Blake put in, seeming as if he were reminding Devon of the bright spot in all of this. His future wife. Rebecca.

He faced his very perceptive brother. "Thank you, Blake. And I should inform you that as soon as we are declared husband and wife, I intend to speak to Father about changing his will back to the way it was. As far as he is concerned, I will have done my duty to this family and he will soon have his heir. There is no need for him to pressure you or Vincent or Garrett. All three of you should be free to choose the women you want, when the time is right."

Blake eyed him carefully. "And you are absolutely certain that this is what you want? To be married today? For your sake, I hope it is."

Devon recalled the unexpected tranquility of sleeping with Rebecca all night in her bed, not to mention the blinding intensity of his sexual urges, completely fulfilled. "I have never wanted a woman as much as I want her." It was the truth.

Blake's shoulders relaxed slightly as he nodded. "She is perfect, Devon. Not the slightest blemish on her character. Everyone thinks so. You chose well."

"Strangely enough, despite all the insanity around this house lately, I believe I did. And I will forever be baffled by what seems to be a miracle at work here." He turned to the mirror again and adjusted his tie.

"What miracle?"

"The fact that no other man has claimed her before now, and that I was the one lucky enough to come upon her and her father in the woods that night years ago." He smiled cautiously at Blake. "I am hesitant to believe it, but perhaps there is not always a mud slick in one's future. Perhaps just occasionally, the path is clear."

For four long years, Rebecca had never dared to truly believe that she would one day stand inside the Pembroke Palace chapel with a bouquet of white roses in her hands, with Devon Sinclair beside her as her groom.

She had dreamed of it, of course, and in her dreams, she always imagined it would be the happiest moment of her life-that she would look into his eyes and marvel at the peace and contentment she would feel inside her heart.

Peace, however, was nowhere near her present emotional state as she stood listening to the vicar's sermon, for since the moment she'd opened her eyes that morning, the only thing she knew was fear. It all seemed impossible to believe, and she was certain the bubble was going to burst at any second-that her father was going to come crashing through the doors, waving his cane and demanding to know what the devil was happening here. Or worse, that Mr. Rushton might rise from one of the pews at the back of the chapel and object to this marriage because he was her rightful groom.

Which he was not. He had never proposed to her directly, and even if he had, she would have refused him. It had been her father's promise, not hers, if that counted for anything.

She honestly did not know if it did. All she knew was that she was twenty-one years old today, and she would marry the man she wanted.

The vicar looked directly into her eyes. "I require and charge you both," he said in a deep voice, "as ye will answer, at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it."

The flowers began to tremble in her hands, and she lowered them slightly.

"And if any man can show any just cause," he continued, looking up at the small congregation, "why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter, forever hold his peace."

The muscles in Rebecca's stomach clenched involuntarily. She shut her eyes, listened to the silence in the chapel, prayed no one would speak. Seconds ticked by like minutes and hours. Someone coughed, and her heart squeezed with dread. She could hear her blood coursing through her veins in a noisy rush.

The vicar began again, terminating at last the long, unbearable silence.

"Devon Geoffrey Fitzgerald Sinclair," he said, turning to her groom, "wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will."

Rebecca blinked in disbelief, then focused upon the vicar's question directed at her. Her answer was the same. "I will."

Then the vicar cleared his throat and summoned the rings. Rebecca inhaled deeply, willing her heartbeat to slow down, otherwise she might faint and drop to the floor right here, and everyone would wonder what in the world was wrong.

The vicar delivered his final blessings, then declared them man and wife.

It was done. She was Devon's. She could hardly believe it.

She gazed up at the vicar with parted lips while he shook Devon's hand. Please, do not let me find myself suddenly back at Creighton Manor, alone and fantasizing by the fire, with my shawl wrapped tightly around my shoulders to keep me warm….

But no, she was not going to wake up. She was awake now. The chapel was real, the vicar was real, and her husband had just taken hold of her hand and was lifting it to his lips.

"You're all mine now," he said with a seductive grin that melted away all her horrendous worries.

They turned around and faced the guests of the house party, who had remained at the palace for an extra day to celebrate the wedding.

Her husband leaned close and dropped a kiss on her temple, and the sweet, simple show of affection-chaste as it was here in the chapel before the vicar-poured relief through her trembling body and sent her heart reeling with anticipation for their future together, and more specifically for the night ahead, when he would come to her bed and consummate the marriage. Again. She could hardly wait.

And she was so pleased that the danger had passed.

Devon sat next to Rebecca in the formal dining room, where the table had been laid out with grace and flourish for their impromptu wedding breakfast. The room smelled of fresh flowers and champagne, the sun was shining through the windows, making tiny rainbows through the raindrops still clinging to things, and all the guests were buoyant and cheerful, chatting amongst themselves.

It was a perfect morning, all the more so because of the sun's unexpected appearance, which lifted everyone's spirits-no one more than Devon's father, the duke, who was so happy, his smile seemed glued to his face.

Shortly after the raspberry tarts were served, the duke rose from his seat at the high table and raised his glass. "Attention everyone! Hush now! Hush!"

Devon noticed an errant splotch of sugary red glaze on his father's chin, as well as a vacant look in his eyes, and glanced uneasily at Blake.

"It is my pleasure," the duke said, "to thank you all for coming to the palace for the duchess's fiftieth birthday celebrations. How impossible it seems that time could pass so quickly and she could be that old." He paused a moment and stared up at the chandelier over their heads, as if perplexed by the notion, then his eyes brightened and he continued. "And how timely the celebrations have been, because now you-my merry guests-have been fortunate enough to stay on for the hasty nuptials of my eldest son and heir to my title." He pointed a finger around the table, addressing a few of the ladies in particular. "And in case any of you are whispering-which I'm sure you are-there is no babe simmering in the stewing pot, at least not that I am aware of. It has all happened much too quickly for those kinds of shenanigans."

There was a shocked response from the table and a few disapproving murmurs, which went completely unnoticed by the duke.

"In that regard," he continued, "I am exceedingly pleased with my son's selection of a bride, for the gel does have an impressive form for child bearing, does she not?" The question was met with silence and stunned expressions. "So raise your glasses, if you will! To the bride's hips!"

While he tipped his glass up in the air and downed the entire contents in a single mouthful, the hush in the room slowly trickled into a reserved and somewhat confused murmur.

Blake immediately rose to his feet and lifted his glass as well. "Thank you, Father. And may I also convey my deepest congratulations to my brother, Lord Hawthorne, for he has found himself the loveliest of brides-Rebecca Newland, now Lady Hawthorne-a generous woman whom he was fortunate enough to meet four years ago. Their engagement was well worth waiting for. To Lady Hawthorne."

The more refined toast seemed to placate the guests, who nodded and agreed and raised their glasses to toast Rebecca, who bore it all with an easy stride. She even smiled up at Devon with amusement.

Later, after the wedding cake had been served, the guests milled about in the gilt drawing room, offering up their congratulations and sipping champagne.

Vincent approached Devon and Rebecca. "Congratulations," he said. "I hope you will be happy."

"Thank you, Vincent," she replied.

He bowed again, and turned to leave.

Devon followed him to the door. "Vincent, wait. Where are you going?"

"To London, where else?"

"Don't go yet."

His brother stopped just outside the drawing room and faced him. "What's to keep me here except for your toasts and revelry? No, I have other plans. I'm off to find a bride."

Devon strode forward. "I intend to speak to Father about that. I mean to approach him today when he is optimistic and convince him to change his will back to the way it was, so that you and Blake and Garrett will have your freedom. There is no need for all of us to be shackled by his demands."

Vincent gestured toward the reception room and laughed. "You're shackled now, are you? By that exquisite creature? I'm sorry, but you'll get no sympathy from me."

"That is not what I meant," Devon said.

Vincent eyed him shrewdly. "Oh, but I think it was. We all know your opinions on marriage. If it weren't for Father's will threatening your inheritance, you'd be a bachelor until your dying day. I'm surprised you even went through with this."

"Rebecca has changed my opinions on marriage," Devon informed him, "so do not mention it again. I intend to make a success of it. And you are hardly one to point the finger, Vincent. With your reputation lately, most would say the same of you, that you enjoy your bachelorhood."

"Only lately," Vincent stated. "There was a time when I wanted nothing more than the so-called shackles of marriage." He started off across the great hall. "It didn't work out, though, did it? So I suppose I'll just have to try again. Let us hope I won't be disappointed this time."

Devon watched his brother climb the staircase. "I will speak to Father," he said. "And I will send word if he comes around."

"No need," Vincent replied. "I don't need your help. I just want my inheritance, so I can live my own life, somewhere far away from here."

Devon watched his brother until he was out of sight, then turned to discover Blake staring at him from the doorway of the reception room.

"I presume you heard that," Devon said. "He doesn't need my help."

Blake approached and patted him on the back. "Maybe he doesn't, but I think I can speak for Garrett and certainly for myself. If you still want to be helpful and speak to Father, we're behind you all the way."

"Not itching to be shackled just yet?" he asked.

"Not even close," Blake replied. "But that is not why I am here. There appears to be a gentleman in the library who wishes to speak to you."

"Did you tell him I am in the middle of my wedding celebrations?"

"Yes. I invited him to join us in fact, but he did not wish to intrude. He nevertheless insisted on speaking with you. Alone."

"Who is it?" Devon asked.

Blake stopped and drew in a deep breath. "I'm afraid it is none other than your new father-in-law, Lord Creighton. And I must warn you, Devon. He looks rather pale for a man recently returned from India."