And since she'd arrived here, she'd always felt like the only woman in Devon's life. He had made her feel that way with his attentive behavior and constant flirtations. They had never once discussed his personal life before her arrival here, or what he had been doing in America for three years. It was as if they were living in a bubble. For all she knew, he, too, could have been engaged or even married. Perhaps he was still in love with this woman he had just mentioned, who was now dead. Perhaps she had been the great love of his life and he would always love her.
She felt slightly nauseated at the thought.
Devon sat down beside her on the bench, then spoke with a strange show of pleasure, as if he enjoyed proving how wrong she had been about him.
"The woman I am referring to," he said, "was Vincent's fiancee."
Vincent's fiancee. The nauseous feeling in her stomach swelled. "And she died," Rebecca said.
He nodded.
"Is that why you and he do not get on well?"
"That is an understatement. My brother despises me, and for good reason, which is why I cannot hate him in return, despite his many attempts to make it so."
"What reason does he have to despise you? What happened?"
He looked directly at her and spoke without emotion. "His fiancee, MaryAnn, was in love with me."
She swallowed uncomfortably and squeezed her hands together so tightly, she could feel her nails digging into the skin. "Did this happen before they were engaged, or after?"
He considered the question for a moment. "I only became aware of it after the engagement. I suppose it's a rather complicated story because there was a history between the three of us. MaryAnn's father was a lifelong friend of our father's, and we had known her since childhood, playing games on the estate. Vincent had always fancied her, and I knew it. I also knew she liked to pester me constantly, but I never thought anything of it until much later."
He stopped talking and gazed off in the other direction, as if he were recalling specific moments in time, those moments from childhood that gain clarity from years of reflection.
"How did she die?" Rebecca asked, wanting to steer him back to the point of all this.
"It was a week before their wedding," he said, "and she sent me a letter."
"Declaring her feelings?"
"She told me she could not marry Vincent when I was the one she truly loved and always had. She intended to call off the wedding and asked me to meet her at the treehouse beyond the lake, where we used to play hide-and-seek as children. I rode out there to convince her that she was making a mistake--that she would be better off with Vincent because he loved her and I did not. But it was a lie. I did have feelings for her, terrible passions that consumed me, and I didn't know what would happen when I got to the treehouse and was alone with her."
"What did happen?"
He sighed deeply. "I gave the letter back to her and told her it could never be. She cried and pleaded with me to return her feelings, and I was weak. I took her in my arms."
He bowed his head, and Rebecca sensed it was much worse than that. "Did you make love to her?"
He did not answer for a long time. "Certain things happened that I am not proud of. But when I realized what we were doing, I put a stop to it. She was very distraught and confused, so I attempted to bring her home to my brother."
Rebecca frowned. "Attempted?"
He stood up and walked away from her, but she did not rise. She waited patiently for him to return.
A moment later, he came back and sat down. "She was climbing down the treehouse ladder when she caught her skirts, fell to the ground, and injured her ankle."
"But that was not your fault," Rebecca told him, for she was anticipating the gist of all this.
"I realize that," he said. "I did what I could. I helped her up and carried her down the path and lifted her onto my horse, then we started back to the palace. She was in a great deal of pain and was urging me to hurry while she clung to my neck and cried and told me that she loved me, that I was the most extraordinary man she'd ever known, and that she knew I could take care of her better than anyone, including Vincent." He paused. "They were words that will haunt me until the day I die."
"Why?"
"Because that was the moment I wanted to be free of her. All I wanted was to get her back to the palace and deliver her to my brother, then turn around and disappear. I wanted her to forget me and realize that Vincent was the better man. He loved her and was devoted to her and wanted nothing more than to make her happy every day for the rest of his life, while I never really wanted to marry her. It killed me to think she preferred me, and that I had encouraged her affections. So I took a shortcut. I steered my horse off the path to travel through the woods and over a ridge. I should have known better."
"Why?"
"The hill was slick with mud because of the spring rains, which was not unusual. I knew I was taking a risk, yet I forged ahead, and even when Asher resisted and bucked against my commands, I ordered him on. All I knew was my impatience, my guilt, and my desire to get MaryAnn back to Vincent where she belonged. But Asher lost his footing and neither he nor I could gain control after that. The three of us started sliding backward down the hill, through the muck and slime, while Asher scrambled to stay on his feet. Then we all went down. My foot was tangled in a stirrup, MaryAnn was clutching onto me, and I watched as Asher rolled over her, crushing her body before he rolled over my leg and broke it."
A suffocating sensation squeezed in Rebecca's throat. "It must have been terrifying."
"It was the most horrific moment of my life, but it did not end there. I was knocked unconscious, and when I woke, Asher was lying beside me, bruised and broken, writhing in pain in the mud slick, and MaryAnn was face down, dead. I had to make my way back to the palace with a broken leg to face my father and brother. I was crawling by the time I reached them. I told them where she was, then I lost consciousness."
"Did you tell Vincent why you were with her?"
"No. The fact that she and I were alone in the woods together was enough."
"But did you tell him you tried to discourage her? That you told her to forget you and marry him?"
"After he returned from the ordeal of bringing her body back, yes, but he knew me too well. He saw the guilt in my eyes."
"And your horse?"
"Shot and killed. Vincent did that, too, after he found and read the letter in MaryAnn's pocket, which I had given back to her."
Rebecca listened to all of this with a steady, persistent drumming in her ears. She understood now why Vincent was so bitter about his brother's return, and why today he had been quiet and sullen during the wedding celebrations. She also understood why Devon had left England three years ago and stayed away so long. He had blamed himself for what happened and could not face his family.
"This is all very tragic," she said to him. "I am so sorry it happened to you."
"It didn't just happen to me," he replied. "At least I am alive to talk about it."
"But you cannot blame yourself for MaryAnn's death. It was an accident. It was not your fault she fell from the ladder and hurt her ankle, or that Asher slipped in the mud."
"But it was my decision to take the shortcut when I knew it would be dangerous. All I was thinking about was my own selfish need to get her off of my horse." He looked straight at her. "All the while, she was telling me I was her hero. She was very wrong about that."
Rebecca shifted uneasily on the hard bench.
"I see now why you felt a need to tell me this today, and why you were angry to learn of my situation. You think that is the only reason I am here, to have you as my protector, when you do not want to be responsible for another person's well-being."
His voice was hard like stone. "People have expected that of me all my life, and it is a heavy weight to bear. One I did not ask for. What they don't seem to understand is that I do not have all the answers, and I don't want to be head of the family. I did not ask to be born first."
"But you are head of the family, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you were born first," she told him. "There is just something about you that inspires people's trust and confidence."
"Falsely."
"No. MaryAnn was right. You are an extraordinary man. You are also only human."
He stared at her for a moment, then spoke without tenderness, only single-minded resolve. "Your father seemed very distraught about our marriage," he said, "which makes little sense, considering my rank. One would expect him to be pleased. So is there anything I should know about this man who believes himself to be your future husband? Does he have some hold over your father? Will he be difficult?"
"No hold that I am aware of, but he is not kind," she replied. "He has an intimidating demeanor. I believe that is why my father has always feared him and why he could not refuse his demand to have me as his wife. It is why Father came looking for me today--to drag me home. I'll wager he was very surprised to learn he could not."
Devon's gaze narrowed. "You are my wife now, Rebecca." He rose to his feet. "And this man who has intimidated your father will not intimidate me."
She looked up at him, so tall and masculine before her. There, you see? she wanted to say. And you wonder why people feel safe in your presence.
"I suggest you write to your father right away and ask him if he requires assistance in dealing with this difficult neighbor. If the man does have some control over your father, I would like to know about it."
"So would I." She rose to her feet as well. "I am sorry, Devon, that I did not tell you this before. I did not mean to spoil things. I hope you can forgive me."
There was no warmth in his pale blue eyes. "What's done is done. We are married now."
"But do you forgive me?" she pressed.
He offered his arm. "I suppose I have no choice. We are bound together, till death do us part. We will soldier on."
They were words intended to put this unpleasant conversation behind them, but she knew with despair that their marriage was no longer a union of joy and passion and love. Reality and truth had come crashing down, and it was now, for him, merely another burden and obligation.
And he was probably wishing that he had chosen Lady Letitia instead of her. At least she would not have disappointed him so completely in every way.
Chapter 16
Devon escorted Rebecca back to the reception room in silence, dreading the continuation of the wedding celebrations. He had done enough talking today, and he did not believe he could paste on a smile for the guests. He had managed it before Rebecca's father had arrived, certainly, but did not think he could manage it now. Not after he'd dealt with the fact that Rebecca had come here because she believed he was her hero, and that she'd been engaged to another man and had kept it from him. Not to mention the fact that he had dredged up agonizing memories about MaryAnn and relived that wretched day in the woods.
He was beginning to think his father was right. Perhaps this palace was cursed. It seemed no one here was permitted to be happy. Teased with happiness, yes, but only briefly before that happiness was abruptly snatched away.
He thought suddenly of Lady Letitia's embittered warning. You chose the wrong woman to be your wife. And I will wager my grandmother's diamond tiara that one day, you will live to regret it.
He could not bear to think that she was right, or that he might have made a mistake--that he should have chosen her instead. Despite everything, he did not want to believe that.
They soon arrived back at the reception room. Devon was immediately approached by his father, who came marching across the room with Mr. Beasley, the portly village banker. They were hooting with laughter, jolly as a couple of Christmas fiddlers. Before they reached him, however, the duchess approached also, asking if she could borrow Rebecca for a few minutes to take her and the other ladies to the conservatory to see the orchids.
Naturally Devon agreed, then turned to his father and Mr. Beasley, who was staggering to and fro, clearly in his cups, despite the fact that it was barely past noon.
"My son!" his father said. "A married man at last. Come with us, we have something for you."
With mischievous, mumbling laughter, the two of them led Devon out of the room and across the great hall, through the south corridor and up the stairs to his father's study. They were chortling the entire way, congratulating Devon on his choice of a bride, his rosy future, nudging him in the ribs, and reminding him of his proper husbandly duty that very night. He did his best to be patient and humor them, and not to reveal his grim mood.
They entered the study and closed the door, and Mr. Beasley staggered like a wide, sloshing water barrel across the room to the bookcase behind the desk.
"I brought something for you," he said, lifting down a small box. "It's a wedding gift."
Devon glanced briefly at his father, who watched the box with eager eyes.
Beasley set it down on the desk and lifted the lid. He withdrew a clay plaque with an image impressed upon it. Devon looked more closely to discover a lewd depiction of the sexual act--a man poised behind a woman on her hands and knees, his tremendous erection largely out of scale, the size of a tree trunk. Sharp beams of sunlight rained down upon them.