"It's a fertility stone," Beasley explained, swaying drunkenly. "If you put it under your pillow tonight, it will bring you luck and put a child in your bride's womb the very night her maidenhead is broken."
It was a little late for that, Devon thought.
Beasley chuckled and nudged Devon in the ribs again. "You're an efficient lad, aren't you? I thought you might appreciate the gesture."
Devon raised his eyebrows and picked up the flat stone, turning it over in his hands.
Beasley, who was enjoying himself tremendously, wagged a confident finger. "It's a powerful thing, my boy."
Devon glanced again at his father, who reached for the stone and held it like a treasured family heirloom.
"Beasley, you are a good man to bring this here," he said. "The palace will benefit."
Beasley exploded with laughter. "I think the lad here will be the one to reap the benefits," he said. "It being his wedding night and all that."
Devon took a deep breath, willing himself to ignore the man's playful teasing, for he knew he meant no harm.
"Thank you, Beasley," he said. "I appreciate the thought." He turned to his father and spoke meaningfully. "Though I have never been a superstitious man."
The duke glared at Devon, his brows pulling together with frustration.
Mr. Beasley, in his drunken state, was oblivious to the tension between them. "Neither have I, when it comes right down to it. It's just a bit of fun, my boy. Promise me you'll at least give it a try, and maybe your bride will find it amusing. Show this to her and she'll at least know what to expect." He took hold of the stone and examined the fornicating couple, pointing specifically at the man's monstrous instrument of pleasure. "On the other hand, it might send her screaming from the room."
He slapped Devon on the back and laughed again. "Shall we head back to the reception room? I believe I left my brandy on a windowsill."
"You go on ahead of us," Devon replied. "I require a few minutes alone with my father."
"Ah, yes, father and son must have their moment to look to the future and all that. I'll leave you two to share a drink." He started off toward the door. "Congratulations again, my boy. You've made your family proud."
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Devon set the stone back into the box and lowered the lid.
"I'll have that sent up to your bedchamber," his father said. "And you must use it tonight. I will have your word."
"I will promise no such thing, Father. This is nothing but superstitious nonsense. It has no magic power and I will ask you again to let go of your silly belief in a family curse."
The duke pressed his shoulders back. "I thought you believed."
Devon shook his head. "No. I have been very clear about my opinions on the matter."
"But you did what I asked and chose a bride." He waved a hand toward the window. "Look. The sun is shining today. Surely that is enough to convince you."
"It is a coincidence, nothing more. The sun was bound to shine sooner or later. It could not continue to rain forever."
"But it could," his father argued, "and it would have, if you had not heeded my warnings. But you did, thank God. You did well, marrying that gel today. The sunshine is our reward. You have made me very happy."
"Happy enough to change your will back to the way it was?" Devon asked pointedly.
His father frowned at him. "No."
"But if it is a grandchild you want, I will give you that. I have already proven my willingness to remain here and fulfill my duty to this family by taking a wife. There is no need to force the others into marriages they do not want. At least give them time."
"I told you before, there is no time. The flood will come."
Devon fought to keep his frustration in check. "The only thing that will come will be misery for all your children, if you force them to abide by your ridiculous demands."
He knew the truth of that all too well.
The duke slapped his open palm upon the desk. "They are not ridiculous! And I will not alter my will!"
Devon cupped his forehead in a hand. God help him, talking to his father about this curse was like talking to a brick wall.
He drew in a deep breath and counted to ten, then tried to appeal to his father's compassionate side, if he had one. He certainly hadn't shown any compassion to Devon three years ago when the surgeon was setting his leg.
"This family has seen difficult times, Father. Vincent and Charlotte especially. They deserve happiness."
"Charlotte's cooperation is not required. She can marry tomorrow or never. It makes no difference to me."
Because she is not of your bloodline.
"Then perhaps you do not require Garrett's cooperation either," Devon pointed out, speaking openly for the first time to his father about the twins' true parentage.
His father's face flushed red with shock, but Devon was indifferent to it. The time for sweeping secrets under the palace carpets was over. If there was a chance he could free just one brother, he would take it.
"No," his father said flatly. "That boy needs to learn some responsibility. He is an embarrassment to me, living the way he does, mixing with those people."
"They're poets, Father. They are free thinkers."
"I can't stand the defiance. Especially from him, after I have given him so much."
"You gave him your name and a roof over his head. That is all."
"Well, my name is worth a hell of a lot!" he shouted. "As yours will be when you are duke."
Not yet willing to give up just yet, Devon strode closer to his father and placed a hand on his arm. "I am begging you, Father. Please. Change your will. Don't force your sons into hasty marriages. I will give you the grandchild you want. A whole nursery full of them. You could even consider it a wedding gift to me."
The duke slapped Devon's hand away. "No, no, no, no, no! And I already gave you your gift."
"A silver tea service."
"Brand new. And did you notice the pattern of engravings? They are tiny little oak trees. Hundreds of them on the teapot and creamer and sugar bowl."
His eyes brightened and his voice rang with fascination. Devon's heart sank, for he knew his father's mind was skipping around and toppling off the track. Their discussion about the will was over.
"I've never seen a tea service quite like it," his father said. "Have you? Not that a gentleman takes notice of such things," he said with a chuckle. "It's the woman's domain, to be sure. But I do love a good strong cup of tea." He looked around the room as if he were suddenly confused. "What time is it? Is it teatime?"
Devon worked hard to let go of his frustration. "No, Father. We just had breakfast. The wedding breakfast. Remember?"
"Oh, yes, yes. Your bride is lovely, I dare say." He ran a finger under his nose and his eyes darted about for a moment. "But who is pruning my rosebush? I don't want it pruned."
Devon realized he was becoming accustomed to the challenge of keeping up with his father's thought processes. "No one is pruning it, Father."
"But it's getting smaller."
Devon watched his father stare with concern at the sunny window.
He spoke in a gentle, reassuring voice. "Your rosebush is doing fine. It just looks smaller because you moved it to a larger space."
"I moved it?"
"Yes. A week ago. The day I returned home. Remember?"
The duke's expression became strained, revealing the intensity of his concentration, then at last he raised his chin. "Oh, yes."
A quiet wave of sadness and regret moved through Devon, distracting him from his irritability over what had happened with Rebecca. He moved to take his father's arm.
"Let us go now," he said. "It's time to return to the reception, and when we get there, we'll get you a cup of tea. A nice strong one, just the way you like it."
They walked out of the study together. "You are a good son, Devon. I don't know what any of us would do without you. We'd never manage."
"You would manage just fine," he assured him, wondering for the first time if they really would.
Rebecca strolled around the conservatory with the duchess and the other ladies, working hard to hide her troubles from them, while they examined the rare orchids and the many indigenous plants and flowers. It was a well-known fact that the duke had a passion for horticulture, and his commitment was more than evident in this enormous, lush, green, sweet-smelling conservatory.
"But what of the Italian Gardens?" Aunt Grace asked, as they wandered leisurely around the bubbling stone fountain.
"Yes, what does he intend to do with the garden?" Mrs. Quinlan asked. "It must be something marvelous. A complete transformation I expect."
The duchess strolled ahead of them. "It's his well-guarded secret, I'm afraid. But I believe he means to..." She paused, as if taking the time to choose her words with great care. "I believe he means to take England by storm."
The ladies expressed their fascination with bright smiles and flattering comments.
"If anyone can accomplish that," Mrs. Quinlan said, "it is your husband, the duke. He is a true genius when it comes to the beauty of flowers and all things that come from the ground."
"His mind is indeed a mystery to me," Her Grace replied.
While the ladies moved on, Rebecca took her time bringing up the rear, strolling at her own pace to look at the plants and flowers, for she needed time to think about what had happened that morning.
Not only was she devastated that her husband was displeased with her and she had lost his trust, but she could not stop thinking about her father. He had not wished to see her that morning. Was he so very angry with her for her defiance? Were they now permanently estranged?
She stopped and touched the leaves of a red ginger plant. With a painful rush of grief, she recalled the many dark nights as a child when she had been frightened by the wind outside rattling her windowpanes. She would call out to her father, and he would always come. He would tuck her back into bed and sit in the chair by the window until she fell asleep again. Sometimes she would wake up in the morning, and he would still be there, curled up and snoring.
She'd been a little girl without a mother, but she had never felt abandoned. She had loved her father dearly in those days, and now her heart ached over what had become of their relationship. He had changed so much over the years. His illness and pain had caused him to recoil inside himself. He had become a stranger to her.
She worried suddenly about him having to face Mr. Rushton and deliver the news that she was married to another man. Mr. Rushton would not be pleased, that was certain. But surely, once he learned that she had married the Marquess of Hawthorne, he would withdraw and leave her father alone, for he could never imagine he was any match for her new husband.
Or perhaps it would play out differently. Perhaps, knowing that he was now connected to a very powerful family, her father would find the courage to show some grit and stand up to Mr. Rushton. How she longed for him to be a man of strength and integrity--for his own sake and happiness, as well as hers, for he still had to live near that horrible man.
"Rebecca," the duchess said, stopping ahead to wait for her.
Rebecca realized she had fallen behind the others, who were already making their way past the jungle of Mediterranean palms and up the stone steps that led out of the conservatory and back to the main part of the house.
"Are you all right?" the duchess asked. "You seem distracted."
Rebecca's first instinct was to smile brightly and say she was fine, but as soon as she looked into her mother-in-law's eyes, she found herself quite unable to lie.
The duchess linked her arm through Rebecca's. "Come and walk with me," she said. "I think it's time we got to know each other better."
They walked to the door at the opposite end of the conservatory which led outside to the South Garden and the Arboretum beyond. "Let's walk to the maze," she suggested. "With all the rain, you haven't had a chance to see it yet, have you?"
"I've seen very little of the estate, Your Grace. But I'm looking forward to exploring, as I enjoy the outdoors."
"Devon does as well. You are a good match."
Rebecca was quiet for a moment. "I hope so."
"You're having doubts?" the duchess asked, though it seemed she already knew the answer and had even been anticipating it.
"I confess I am."
They walked down a stone path toward a rose arbor. "Was it something that my son said or did?" the duchess asked. "Or is it just a general feeling in your heart which you cannot explain?"
Rebecca sighed. "It is both, but I suppose this kind of thing is to be expected, considering how quickly we were wed. Perhaps we should have taken more time to get to know each other."
Her mother-in-law squeezed her arm. "May I ask, did he put pressure on you to marry quickly?"
"No. If anything, I was the one in a hurry."
They stopped on the path and faced each other. "I am surprised," the duchess said.