In My Wildest Fantasies Read Free Page B

past them, toward the back of the coach. "I understand that," he said, "and it would be my pleasure to drive you."
    Rebecca exhaled with relief, then marveled at the strangeness of this day and the miracle of how this extraordinary man seemed to have everything decided before she or her father even realized there was an issue to work out. And her head was still spinning from the wild carriage ride and the most unnerving memory of his touch. She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.
    "That is most kind of you, sir," her father said, while the gentleman tethered his horse to the handrail above the page board. "But we don't wish to inconvenience you. Are you certain it is no bother?"
    The gentleman stroked the horse's muscular neck, then his expression warmed as he bowed slightly at the waist. "As I said, it would be my pleasure. It's a perfect night for a drive."
    She could sense her father's reluctance to accept the offer, as he did not enjoy being beholden to anyone for anything. God forbid that particular person might pay a visit to their isolated house in the country to provide him the opportunity to return the kindness. But under the present circumstances, they did not have much choice unless he would allow Rebecca to drive, and that was most certainly not going to happen.
    Her father straightened his thin shoulders and finally resigned himself to the necessity of accepting the offer. "You are most kind," he said to the gentleman. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Newland, Earl of Creighton, and this is my daughter, Lady Rebecca Newland."
    Introductions at last.
    The gentleman held out his hand to shake her father's. "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Creighton, and a pleasure, Lady Rebecca." He bowed to her, revealing nothing of what had occurred between them earlier. Not a hint of a grin, wicked or otherwise. No mention of the way his hands had worked over her arms and down her neck.
    "I am Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne," he said. "My father is the Duke of Pembroke."
    "Of Pembroke Palace," her father blurted out.
    "That is correct."
    Good Lord, they were in illustrious company indeed, and they were about to employ a marquess, the future Duke of Pembroke, as their coachman.
    "The palace is not far from here," he said. "Just under an hour's ride to the north."
    This was his father's property, all of it, miles and miles of prosperous farmland and thick, lush forests. And he was the Marquess of Hawthorne, and heir to one of the oldest, most prestigious titles in England. Rebecca could barely comprehend it. A thrill rolled up her spine, as thick and compelling as the mist all around them.
    "But what about our driver?" her father asked. "I'm half tempted to leave him here."
    "Father..." Rebecca admonished, glancing down at the ground as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
    Lord Hawthorne smiled. She was so glad she finally knew what to call him.
    "I might be tempted toward the same end myself," he said, "if he were my driver. But have no worries. I'll prop him up beside me, and he'll keep me company when the moon rises." Lord Hawthorne glanced up at the darkening sky. "Which will be very soon, so if you don't mind, I must insist we move on. Allow me?"
    He opened the door to the coach and lowered the step, then straightened and held out his hand to Rebecca. A rush of butterflies invaded her belly at the thrilling notion of touching him again, and when she slowly wrapped her tiny, gloved fingers around his larger ones, she felt the strength of his whole arm and the rock-solid support he offered, which she already knew firsthand. She gathered her heavy wet skirts in her other hand, then met his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. His blue eyes were dazzling, captivating, disarming, and the whole world came to a shuddering halt on its axis.
    She wet her lips and managed to say, "Thank you," in a quiet, ladylike voice. He bowed his head and handed her up.
    Her heart was still racing when she sat down on