Джулиана Маклейн: In My Wildest Fantasies

Her father shifted his cane from one hand to the other. "I cannot thank you enough, Lord Hawthorne. You have been most helpful. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you."

"Just see your lovely daughter home safely, sir."

Rebecca sighed with a strange mixture of joy and sadness. If only Lord Hawthorne knew this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, and that she thought him the most captivating, attractive man in the world. If only he knew that she was wishing this moment did not have to end, and that she would not have to return to her secluded home and her impossibly quiet life with her reclusive father.

"At least join us for dinner here at the inn," her father said.

Yes, please!

"Or a drink at least," he added.

It was not like her father to wish to dine with a guest, for he was not a sociable man, which proved it. Lord Hawthorne did have more charm than was humanly possible, if he was able to turn her father into a convivial person.

"I appreciate the offer," Lord Hawthorne replied. "But I am afraid I must decline. I have a previous engagement."

Her shoulders heaved with disappointment. She wondered where he'd been going before he'd come upon them.

"I see," her father replied. "I hope we have not imposed."

"Not at all."

"Then let me extend an open invitation to you," her father added. "If you are ever near Burford, you must come to Creighton Manor for dinner. It would be a great honor to welcome you."

And that, quite frankly, was a miracle, and the best thing she'd ever heard her father say.

"Thank you, Lord Creighton," he replied. "Likewise, I shall see that you are invited to Pembroke Palace." He bowed to Rebecca. "It was an honor making your acquaintance, both of you. Have a safe trip home and enjoy your stay at the inn." He went to fetch his horse.

Rebecca continued to watch him, wishing she could know him better, and wondering about all the tiny details of his life. What did he like to do when he was not rescuing young maidens in the forest? Did he hunt? Did he enjoy politics? Dinner parties? Was he always this charming?

And had he found a bride yet?

She knew what her father would say to such a silly, romantic notion. You're only seventeen-too young to be thinking of marriage.

But she would not be seventeen forever.

They stood outside the inn while Lord Hawthorne mounted his horse. He turned the great animal around, then touched the brim of his hat. "Safe journey."

"Same to you," her father replied.

He kicked his boot heels and said, "Onward, Asher," then trotted down the hill in the moonlight. Rebecca watched him the whole way until the hoofbeats faded to silence and their brief encounter found a private, profound place in her memory.

She sighed when she considered how this night compared to the empty stillness of her existence back home, but supposed her life would not be so empty now. Not after what had just occurred, because she would have this to dream about and give her hope for the future. Yes, Lord Hawthorne would figure prominently in her dreams for a long time to come.

And soon she would be entering society as a lady-the very next Season if her father permitted it-and it was entirely possible she would encounter Lord Hawthorne again in different circumstances. As a woman.

She quivered with excitement when she imagined it, and surrendered to the fact that she would spend the next year of her life fantasizing about that moment.

Four Years Later April, 1874

On the day Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, returned to Pembroke Palace after a three-year journey abroad, it was raining. In fact, it had been raining in every corner of England for six days straight. Bridges and roads had been washed away, rivers were rising, and the farmers were indoors-the idea of spring planting nothing more than a hazy dream in their heads until the weather passed.

Devon's coach was barely making it up the hill on the steep approach to the palace, for the road was slick with mud and the horses could not gain a proper footing. His driver was shouting and snapping his whip at them, and the sensation of the carriage wheels slipping and sliding put Devon on edge more than he cared to admit.

He gripped the side of the coach and looked out the window. The rain fell harder still. The clouds hung low over the hilltops, thick and heavy, like a pillow coming down upon one's head. He ran a hand over the top of his thigh to his knee and squeezed at the deep, aching sensation of that old wound he preferred to forget, but it was impossible to ignore the pain on a damp day like this.

Springtime in England. How he loathed it. If it weren't for his mother's fiftieth birthday celebration and her flood of letters over the past six months imploring him to come home for the grand masquerade ball, he would still be in America, enjoying his freedom and his comfortable, homeless wandering.

He breathed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment, and cupped his forehead in his hand. He recalled the last letter she had sent, where she had tried so hard to sound cheerful. He knew, however, that there was a great deal she was not telling him about what was going on at home. He had recognized her anxiety in the white spaces between the lines.

Then again, perhaps it was simply the fact that she was coming to the end of another decade of her life and was feeling the weight of her regrets over how her life had unfolded. Or perhaps at this stage in her life, she was bidding farewell to impossible dreams.

He opened his eyes and looked again through the glass, streaked with water and splattered with mud. He desired his mother's happiness, just as he desired Charlotte's, his sister, who had written him dozens of letters as well over the past three years, keeping him informed of her joys and tragedies, always asking when he would return, never mentioning why he had left. She was twenty-three now, and her life, like their mother's, had not unfolded as she'd believed it would.

But life was never predictable. He had learned that before he'd left.

And of course, there was Blake, the brother he was closest to-taking care of everything, as always, amidst everyone's hard luck at home.

As for Vincent and his father…

Devon had not received any letters from either of them, though he had never expected it. Frankly, he would be surprised if they were even home today to welcome him back. Vincent especially.

The coach reached the crest of the hill, and the wheels finally gripped the road and picked up speed. Devon drew in a deep breath, then let it out and leaned closer to the window.

There it was. He could make it out in the distance, even through the wash of rainwater down the grimy glass windowpane, obscuring his view. His home-that imposing, stately palace, materializing in the mist like an enormous dragon with wings spread wide across the land.

Despite the tension he felt in anticipation of seeing Vincent and his father again, he could not deny a sense of awe at the extraordinary grandeur, which was his birthright. Everything seemed breathtaking-the towers and turrets, the thirty-foot stone finials topping the central rooftop like coronets, and the triumphal arch at the entrance gate leading into the massive cobbled court. It was built to extravagant excess on the ruins of an ancient abbey, high upon a hilltop overlooking lush, green parkland studded with aging oaks. Altogether, it was a noble citadel and monument to the great glory of England, dominating the English countryside like a mighty sovereign.

He felt with surprise an unexpected surge of pride and sentimentality suddenly, remembering that this was his childhood home, and there was a time he'd been happy here, when he was younger, when things had been different.