In My Wildest Fantasies

Chapter 5

By some miracle of God, the rain stayed away that evening, the downpour stopping approximately one hour before the guests from the village began to arrive. The cool air carried the fresh fragrance of early spring, reminding everyone of the brightness that normally touched their spirits and stirred their hearts at this time of year.

Everyone except for Devon, of course, for spring was the season he hated most of all. Not to mention the fact that he had just been told he must marry immediately or be disinherited, and he was now waiting to be presented to a young lady his father had already picked out. All in all, it had not been a good day.

While he wandered around the perimeter of the ballroom, dressed in the costume his mother had arranged for him-a highwayman's black cape and mask-he wished he had arrived the day before and had at least been given a chance to absorb what was happening and to accept this fate being forced upon him. Or perhaps find a way around it.

Right now, all he seemed able to do was look around the room at all the young English girls and their mothers, eyeing him with the same hungry purpose-to be the next Duchess of Pembroke.

It was hardly an aphrodisiac, when what he really needed right now was some plain and simple sexual attraction. A flirtation. The promise of pleasure. A bit of a challenge, perhaps. Maybe even a hint of seduction. Was it too much to ask, to be attracted to a potential bride?

If he was committed to finding one, of course. Which he was not.

Just then-surely by some second miracle of God-a woman waltzed by him, passing by so fast, he felt a slight breeze ruffle his cape. Her hair caught his eye-flame red, one single lock trailing thick and wavy down her back. She was dressed as a Roman, or a Trojan…Helen of Troy perhaps? He turned and watched her circle the room with her partner, Dr. Lambert's son, who resided in the village.

But who was the woman? He did not recall her being announced, though he might have been outside taking some fresh air at the time. To avoid complete and utter suffocation inside.

His mother approached. "Devon, I've been looking for you. Where have you been?" She brought two women with her. A mother and daughter, ravenous with high hopes, no doubt.

"Good evening, Mother," he said. "I was outside on the terrace, enjoying the air and marveling at the notion that one could do so without becoming thoroughly drenched." He smiled courteously.

"Oh, yes," his mother said, "how we all appreciate this welcome respite from the rain." She turned to Devon and gestured to the others. "Allow me, if you will, to present the Duchess of Swinburne and her daughter, Lady Letitia. They came all the way from Cornwall to join us this week. Ladies, this is my son, Lord Hawthorne."

And this was the young lady his father had selected-a striking beauty to be sure. He bowed. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance," he said. "I hope this weather did not make your travels unduly difficult."

Her Grace, a small, plump woman with dimples, brown hair, and round spectacles, shook her head. "Not at all, Lord Hawthorne. Nothing could keep us from your mother's birthday celebrations, not even weather such as this."

Devon turned his attention to the dazzling daughter, who was not small like her mother, but tall and slender with shiny black hair and a flawless ivory complexion. She was dressed as a fairy with wings, gazing at him with interest. "May I compliment you on your costume, Lady Letitia? It is most becoming."

Her eyes, from beneath her sparkling white mask, revealed her pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you, Lord Hawthorne. You are most kind."

His mother then engaged the duchess and her daughter in a conversation about orchids. While they discussed the pretty flower, he let his gaze wander discreetly until it came to rest on Helen of Troy again, who had been returned to her chaperone and was now standing with her back to him. This allowed him the opportunity to admire the curve of her hips and backside.

Her hair-that striking, shocking red hair-stirred his masculine senses, for he was consciously aware of the fact that although it was swept up in an intricate twist, that long, curling lock he'd noticed before fell to a sharp point at the precise juncture between the center of her lower back and her bottom. He liked the shape of that bottom, to be sure. It was very easy to imagine her standing there completely nude.

He could not contemplate such ideas further, however, for Helen of Troy turned to be presented to someone, and he was struck by an odd familiarity.

Good God, he had met this woman before. But where? When? If he had, it would have been a long time ago, before he'd left for America. In London perhaps? If only he could place her. If only she weren't wearing that mask.

She turned to face him and her gaze traveled about the room, just as his had a moment ago, as if she were looking specifically for someone. Then her eyes found his. He wished again that she were not wearing a mask because he would dearly love to see her whole face. Not that he had any doubts about her beauty. Her lips were full, her skin creamy white, her nose tiny and straight. And that hair-Lord that hair. It was her crowning glory. What he wouldn't give to comb his fingers through it and see it splayed out on a pillow.

She reached up and fiddled with an earring, never taking her eyes off him as she did so, and he felt another stirring, this time in his groin when she confidently wet her lips with her tongue.

He liked confident women. Women who were capable and could handle themselves in any situation.

"Devon?" his mother said, and he realized he had not been listening. "Were you sorry to leave America?" She was repeating a question the duchess had asked.

Devon politely answered, then gazed at Lady Letitia, who smiled at him again.

He wondered if she might have a fiery spark like Helen of Troy, then sought to discover it for himself. "Will you do me the honor, Lady Letitia?"

"I would be delighted," she replied as she took his proffered hand.

He led her onto the floor for a country dance, and she engaged him in polite conversation throughout the steps, offering one-or-two-word answers to his questions. She then asked a question of her own concerning the weather, which was now a subject thoroughly exhausted. He replied courteously, however, reminding himself that this was the nature of casual discourse, and in that regard she was displaying her perfect manners.

There was not much to think about while he danced and spoke to her, so he found himself glancing away every so often in the direction of the red-haired woman who made no secret of the fact that she was watching him as well.

He could not count the number of times their eyes met across the crowded floor, nor could he deny the pleasure he gleaned from it. And he was all for pleasure tonight, looking for a diversion from all his responsibilities.

The dance came to an end, and he escorted Lady Letitia back to her mother. His own mother was now with Charlotte on the other side of the room, so he excused himself and immediately set off in their direction.

He reached them and lowered his voice. "Do either of you know that woman with the red hair? See there, she is speaking to Sir Charles."

His sister and mother both looked in the direction he implied.

"Do you mean Helen of Troy?" Charlotte asked. "Why, that is the Earl of Creighton's daughter, Lady Rebecca. She is here with her aunt, Lady Saxby. We were all surprised she attended this evening. It's the first time she has accepted one of our many invitations, which we've been sending to her father for years. Though I cannot, for the life of me, remember why."

Devon listened to all of this with astonishment and remembrance, for his ravishing Helen of Troy was none other than Lady Rebecca Newland, the young girl from that very intriguing night on the old coach road years ago. He recalled it well. She and her father had been stranded, and he'd pulled her out of a bog.

She had been dressed in black that day and had seemed older and more experienced than her years. He remembered lifting her down from his horse. Ah, yes…He would never forget that soft, lush bosom sliding down his chest.

He would also never forget how frustrated he had been to learn she was too young to touch, because there had been something about her eyes and the sumptuous sound of her voice that aroused him. He remembered the exact way her lips had puckered when she spoke, and the way she looked at him with a very obvious sexual curiosity.

And here she was, standing across a ballroom. A woman now. A confident, coquettish woman with enough sexual charisma to stop a train. How old would she be? Twenty-one? Why was she not yet someone's wife? Were the men of England blind? Perhaps she was too much for them. The thought made him smile.

"Is her father here?" he asked.

"No, just her aunt," Charlotte replied. "Evidently, her father is somewhere in India."

"Which is very surprising," his mother added, "considering the earl's reputation. He's been described as a bit of a hermit. I once heard he chases visitors off his property with a pack of dogs, but I'm sure that is overblown gossip. Look at his daughter. She is lovely, is she not? How could she blossom so beautifully under such depressing circumstances?"

"I met her father, once," Devon told them. "They were stranded on the road near here, and I offered assistance. The earl possessed a serious nature, to be sure, but he was nevertheless gracious and invited me to his home, so you are right, Mother, that must be gossip."

He was completely aware that he'd been watching Lady Rebecca the entire time he was conversing with Charlotte and his mother, and saw no reason to put off the inevitable. "I would like a proper introduction," he said, though it seemed silly after how intimate they had been so long ago. But she might not remember him, and a ballroom had its rules. "If you would be so kind, Mother."

"Certainly," she replied, starting off in that direction. "She is indeed a prestigious young lady, Devon. Despite her father's odd reputation, his title is very old, and it descends in the female line, which will make her a peeress in her own right one day, for she is an only child."

"How nice for her," he replied.

His mother sighed with frustration. "What did you think of Lady Letitia, then? Your father was adamant that you meet her this evening."

"A lovely girl as well."

"She made her debut last Season, and has an exquisite singing voice. She is Swinburne's eldest daughter, and has already turned down two marriage proposals. Mind you, these came from gentlemen who were quite beneath her, from what I understand, but you, Devon…Oh, your father would be overjoyed if…"

Devon leaned close to his mother's ear. "Let us not put the cart before the horse. Despite Father's demands, I am not ready to be matched up with a bride just yet. I only arrived at Pembroke this morning. Let me at least catch my breath and get my bearings."

"My apologies, Devon."

She led him around the edges of the ballroom until they reached Lady Rebecca and her aunt, then made the appropriate introductions. "Allow me to present Lady Saxby, and her niece, Lady Rebecca Newland, whose father is the Earl of Creighton. Ladies, my son, Lord Hawthorne."

Now that he was closer, he could see the rich green color of her eyes behind the sparkling mask, and remembered again how striking he had thought them to be that night years ago in the forest.

"It is an honor, Lady Saxby." He bowed to her, then turned to Helen of Troy. "But Lady Rebecca, we have met before, years ago. Do you recall?"

Those moist, cherry-red lips puckered into an alluring smile. "Of course I recall, Lord Hawthorne. My father and I were stranded in the woods not far from here, and you offered your assistance. How could I forget?"

Everyone in the room seemed to disappear for a moment, while he and Lady Rebecca gazed openly at one another, as if there were no secrets or pretenses between them. There was a spark of attraction, potent and exhilarating. It had been pulsing between them since their eyes had met across the room earlier that evening, and neither was about to deny it.

God, he loved how direct and forthcoming she was. He wasn't in the mood to dance around the obvious. He had desired pleasure and excitement tonight, and, by God, here it was without pointless preamble.

His mother stammered slightly. "Was…Was your journey…I beg your pardon, Lady Saxby, was it a difficult trip from Gloucester, with the recent rains?"

He regretted that his mother was uncomfortable with his blatant flirtation right under her nose, but there it was. The evening had hit a high note, to be sure, and thank God for that.

Lady Saxby described the condition of the roads while he and the lovely Lady Rebecca continued to openly observe each other. What was going through her mind right now? He would dearly love to know. What a wonderful flirt she was.

And twenty-one. Thank God for the passing of time.

At last the right moment presented itself. There was a break in his mother's conversation with Lady Saxby, and he was able to request a spot on her niece's card. As it happened, she was free for the next one, a Strauss waltz, which began right away.

He held out a gloved hand, and Lady Rebecca's eyes glimmered enticingly as she took hold.