Even now she felt her jaw clenching as she remembered the incident.

For her father's part in this…Well, she could only conclude that his pain was what had made him irritable these past few years-so irritable that he seemed to resent her very presence in the house, despite the fact that she was the only person in the world who still endeavored to cling to the tattered remnants of her affection for him.

She often asked herself why she continued to cling to them with so little return of affection, and the answer, she supposed, was simple. Because he was her father, and he was not well. She wanted to be a good and dutiful daughter, to be patient and understanding about his cantankerous moods. She did what she could for him. She wanted him to be comfortable. She genuinely did not want him to be alone in his discomfort, for there was a time, many years ago, when they had been close.

But now, because of this mad promise he had made to Mr. Rushton with no concern for her wishes, everything was different. His actions had chipped away at her compassion. Now, all she could do was accept that his isolation from the world had caused him to lose all sense of reality. He had not stepped outside his home in over a year, and therefore could not comprehend that there was life beyond the borders of his estate. He could not even fathom that there were other men in England she could marry. When she had suggested it, he had insisted her duty was there, near the estate-to him and the Creighton title, for it was one of the few earldoms that descended through the female line.

She laid her costume out on the bed, and thought about how difficult it had been to deliberately defy him by leaving without a word. A daughter was supposed to obey her father. She knew that.

But to marry Mr. Rushton?

She sighed. Perhaps in some ways, she should be grateful for this call to arms, for she had been living far too long in the thin, dwindling realm of her optimism, clinging to her dreams and bright hopes for the future, even when her life had become unbearable, while she had remained at his side.

She had never had a proper debut or a magical first Season like other young women her age, nor had she accepted a single invitation to anything outside the vicinity of her father's estate. A few country fairs and dances under the chaperonage of an elderly female neighbor were the most she had experienced.

Looking back on all of it now-from a very different and desperate vantage point-she wondered if she had accepted that life for so long because she had been living in a world of dreams, and experiencing passion through someone else's diary-the mysterious Lydie. Perhaps she might have fought harder for her independence if things had been different, if she'd never found that diary to keep her dreams alive-dreams of a particular gentleman who had left England for America three years ago.

Perhaps his absence was the very thing that had allowed her to be content in her small world, because she knew someday he would return, and she was perfectly willing to wait for the kind of relentless passion she had been reading and dreaming about. The kind of passion she had known once before for herself on a deserted country road not far from the inn.

Well, the waiting was over at least, she thought, struggling to regain her wounded optimism as she sat down in front of the mirror and watched her aunt sweep her wavy red hair into a knot on top of her head, then pull a single lock free to trail down her back. Lord Hawthorne had come home. He had arrived just in time for his mother's fiftieth birthday celebration ball, and just in time to give Rebecca hope again. She, with her aunt as chaperone, would be in attendance at that ball, because Rebecca needed him. Urgently.

"Do you think he will remember me?" she asked, working hard to sound relaxed and nonchalant as she looked at her aunt's reflection in the mirror.

She was going to the ball dressed as Helen of Troy, and had chosen the costume with the express purpose of attracting his attention. Helen's beauty had launched a thousand ships, after all.

"I don't know, dear," her aunt replied as she pinned Rebecca's costume more snugly over her shoulder. "He's been gone for so long."

Rebecca wet her lips and nodded, trying not to feel too disappointed.

Her aunt smiled at her in the mirror. "Oh, what am I thinking? In the past four years, how often could he have come to the rescue of a beautiful red-haired damsel in distress in a runaway coach, whose driver had fallen down drunk from his seat?"

Rebecca tried to smile. "You are right, Aunt Grace. Surely he remembers that night, but what I want to know is-will he remember me, or more importantly, will he treat me differently, now that I am older? I was only seventeen then. I am almost twenty-one now."

Six days shy of her twenty-first birthday, to be exact. And six days short of her majority.

Her aunt toyed with the fabric of her Trojan costume, adjusting the way everything draped in the front. "He has kept you and your father on his family's guest list all these years, so that is a good sign."

"He probably put us there and promptly forgot about us, since we haven't gone to one single party."

At least now, she understood why she had never been permitted to attend any gatherings. It was why she and her aunt were here, registered at the Pembroke Inn under false names. It was why she had snuck away in the night like a criminal.

Just the thought of it filled her with sickening grief over her father's betrayal, and a genuine fear for her future. She could still hear the impatient tremor in his voice from three days ago. You will not refuse him, Rebecca. He won't stand for it. Nor will I.

She turned to her aunt. "Thank you, Aunt Grace, for helping me. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been willing to take this risk. It means so much to me."

Her aunt touched her cheek. "How could I possibly say no? Your mother was my beloved sister, and when she was alive, we would have done anything for each other. I could not let you be forced into marrying that man. Have you decided which earrings to wear?" Aunt Grace was clearly eager to change the subject, for the hour was growing late. She held both pairs up for Rebecca to consider.

She examined them only briefly. "I like these," she said. "They will bring out the color in my eyes and I will need all the help I can get from behind this mask. Oh, how I wish this was a regular ball, not a masquerade. He won't even be able to see my face."

"I disagree, dear," Aunt Grace said. "There is nothing more appealing to a man than a woman of mystery, and when we arrive, remember what I told you in the coach on the way here. If you wish to entice him, you must be confident and elusive. You cannot be presented to him like a drooling puppy with your tail wagging, or like a young woman who wants something from him. Being the heir to a dukedom, I am sure he encounters women like that every day of his life. You must tease him and lure him in your direction. Make yourself into a golden ring he cannot quite grab hold of, then at the end of the night, you will be the one he will remember. The one he will wish to see again. Then you, my dear, will be safe from Mr. Rushton, for you will have caught yourself the son of a duke."

Rebecca sighed and nodded, even though it was not his station in life that had brought her here after fleeing her home and the prison of her future. It was the very man himself who had haunted her dreams for four difficult years. It was the memory of his touch, his strong and capable hands on her body that wild and dangerous night when she had met someone who was everything a man should be-confident, honorable, heroic.

She longed to see him again with every breath in her body. She wanted him to be the one she would marry, not Mr. Rushton. She wanted to feel passion for her husband, the kind of passion Lydie wrote about in her diary.

Perhaps, if the fates were kind, she would feel that passion tonight, and maybe even secure a happy future. She certainly hoped so, because if she were forced to marry a man she did not love, she might as well give up breathing.

Devon strode out of the palace doors into the cold, hard rain, and raised an umbrella over his head. He crossed the flagstone terrace to look over what had once been the Italian Gardens, but saw only a muddy ruin.

His father had completely destroyed the garden. He had moved the shrubs and hedges. He had dug up bulbs, leaving deep holes and large mounds of earth scattered indiscriminately. All that remained was the large fountain in the center and the beautiful statue of Venus, abandoned, left alone in a devastated wasteland. No wonder Mother had wished him to return.

Gathering his coat collar tighter around his neck and noting the fact that he could see his breath in the damp chill, Devon tightened his grip on the umbrella handle and looked toward the highest point on the property. There, he saw his father with a garden spade, digging another hole.

Devon left the stone terrace and walked up the gravel path, running a hand down his thigh to massage the pain out of his knee. When he finally reached his father, he stood quietly for a moment, watching him.

The duke forced the shovel into the tough ground and tossed the wet earth carelessly behind him. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, and his coat was soaked straight through. He did not seem to care, however. His only concern was the hole in the ground.

Devon cleared his throat. "Father."

The duke continued to dig, so Devon took a step closer and spoke again, louder this time. "Father!"