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At the time, I noticed they acted strangely.
With hushed tones and averted eyes, but I thought nothing of it.
Simon had always been a closer friend to Anthony than I, so it
wasn't entirely strange that they were having a secret
conversation. Still… I should have known. My mother taught me
better than that. She taught me to be cunning and keenly aware of
everything that went on around me. And her training paid off. I saw
what was going on, but I was too trusting, too… naive in my
friendship with Anthony that I thought nothing of it.

Can you imagine if I had? If I had instantly
known what they were planning? Things would have turned out so
differently, wouldn't they? I had barely met Miss Rebecca;. I
didn't even know her name, but I knew there was something between
us. Something people only have once in a life time.

And she had smiled at me.

That didn't happen to me often and I clung to
it.

If I had known the treachery that would
befall me and Rebecca in a few short hours I would have found her
instantly and declared my intentions. I had an unknown benefactor
whom I had never met providing me with funds. I could have provided
a home for her, a life, a family. I could have loved her for all
the days of her life.

If only I had known.

It is easy to talk of such things in the past
with clarity. The fact remains that I did not know. To me, Anthony
and Simon were just two men chatting at a party. Nothing more.
Nothing less. I soon joined them, noticing that their hushed tones
abruptly stopped when I neared, and a more coherent, social
conversation flooded to my ears.

"So, Dodsworth. What do you think of the
house?" Anthony asked as he shifted from one foot to another. If I
had just looked for the signs…

"It is very nice. The house looks lovely
decorated for Christmas. Thank you very much for inviting me." The
words sounded so stiff coming from my lips. I would not tell him
that I loved his house a thousand times more than mine and I
refused to tell him how much I coveted what he had. What good would
that have done? It would have just made me look like a simpleton, a
loser, and I would not do that to myself.

Anthony nodded and clutched his hands behind
his back. "I know it isn't the biggest and the best in Brighton. We
aren't Lord Langton and his fine home, but I believe we have a good
home here."

He said "we" like he knew he'd get the
mansion someday, and he would. Anthony, being the oldest son, would
inherit it. In the not too distant future, all of that beauty would
be his. I tried not to dwell on it too much, but I couldn't help
it. It wasn't right. I had more brains than him, better looks, a
more interesting future, and here he would get this beautiful home
to present to a wife and what did I have? I had my mother's house
and up until then it had been enough. Now, I wanted more. I needed
more so people like Anthony Wexley would keep his big mouth
shut.

I cleared my throat because I knew I had to
be formal and cordial even though I didn't particularly want to be.
"For a house its size, it is very cozy." I said, backhandedness
included. From the look on his face, I knew my comment had the
desired effect.

He glared at me for the briefest of seconds,
and the fire which roared behind me reflected in his eyes. He was
not accustomed to me speaking out of turn or even informally. We
were friends, but I had never let my guard down around him. I had
never let him see the true me. There was a reason for that, a
reason I didn't even know I had until I think back on it now. I
wanted his admiration. I wanted him to like me. I loved him that
much. I concealed my true self because I feared if I didn't, he
would decide we couldn't be friends anymore. Little did I know what
a traitor he'd be no matter what I did. If only I could go back in
time and talk to my younger self. I would have so much to tell him.
So many life stories. So much pain could have been avoided.

Mine.

Yours.

Everybody's.

I don't remember in
detail the day I married. I don't remember my daughter's
conception. I don't recall the first time I held her in my arms.
But I remember every detail of the night I met Rebecca.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring
at Anthony and waiting for him to speak. Hartwell stood at his side
and hadn't spoken a word since I'd walked up. I paid him no never
mind because, honestly, why would I? He meant nothing to me then.
He means even less now.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Hartwell's
gaze drift up the stairs so, being curious, mine followed. As I
said, I remember every detail.

Rebecca stood at the top of the stairs, her
red velvet cloak had been removed to show a snow white dress with
intricate red details. It was long sleeved which was
understandable, based on the weather. The fabric hugged her bosom
tightly then erupted in what my designers call an empire waist. A
red velvet belt hugged her under her breasts. She looked like an
angel and even more so when she glided down the stairs.

Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful
woman. Ever. I'm not being cruel or biased, for it is a fact.
Rebecca Eaton was the most beautiful woman God ever created on this
cold, dead world. Her hair was the color of the sun, a warm blond.
A trait her daughter carries, unfortunately. Her eyes, oh my, her
eyes! They were dark and seductive. When she looked at me, it
appeared she could see into my soul.

I wanted her to see it. I wanted her to see
how much she meant to me. How much I wanted to get to know her.

And when she smiled, I will tell you the
truth, my heart stopped in my chest. I could not breathe for the
briefest of moments, and it felt as though my chest would explode.
You may think me foolish to say such things over a woman I had not
yet been introduced to, but you must know that the Lord works in
mysterious ways. I was drawn to Rebecca and she to me, for she
couldn't keep her eyes off me. Though strange that she didn't look
me directly in the eye, I took it for what it was — her being shy —
being a fragile girl who needed to be taught the ways of the
world.

I wanted to teach her.

Not like that — though yes, I admit my mind
wandered hastily as to what she looked like under her exceptional
gown. But I also wanted to teach her about the world. About art.
And life. I didn't know much about the world — let me be clear —
but I felt as though I knew more than her. I wanted to share it
with her. I wanted to share everything with her.

Anthony cleared his throat, breaking me from
the trance Rebecca had pulled me into. "Gentlemen, this is Miss
Rebecca Eaton. She is my cousin from Ravenston. Her father is Lord
Eaton, Baron of Crowley."

I barely heard the words from the ringing in
my ears. My heart begged to pump and my lungs ached to breathe, but
I couldn't comply. All I could do was stare at her, gazing at her
eyes, her smile, her lips, which parted in a greeting.

"My lady." Hartwell bowed, and I felt like
boxing his ears. He was being polite, or at least I presumed he
was, but truth be told, I had forgotten all about the other two men
with me. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Same to you, my lord." She smiled
my
smile at him, and I knew I had to intercede.

"My lady. You look lovely this evening." I
bowed a wee over dramatically and was rewarded with a giggle for my
efforts. Miss Rebecca seemed to fancy me — or at least my sense of
humor — as much as I fancied her. Sadly, I lost that many years ago
in my need for justice.

"Thank you, my lord." The greeting caused me
to halt my joyfulness and cringe, hoping she wouldn't see. Of
course, I wasn't a lord.. No, I held no title, but I didn't want
her to know that. I believed if I could just get her to notice me,
see the real me, fall in love with the real me, then she wouldn't
care about titles.

The only issue was the other two men with me.
One knew something even I didn't know at the time. Have I told you
that part of the story yet? No? Ah, well we will get to it soon
enough.

"Miss Rebecca," Anthony greeted in his most
formal of voices. The one he usually reserved for the important
people in the world — or the most important occasions. "This is
Simon Hartwell. His father is the Marquess of Enhurst."

Rebecca smiled politely at Simon. The candles
lit her eyes to appear to make them shine, but they did not. She
looked at him like someone would look at a friend. Nothing more. He
got the wrong idea. He thought she meant more than she did. He had
very different ideas on her very innocent expression.

I felt bad for him, quite honestly, at the
time. His face turned as red as the belt around Miss Rebecca's tiny
body. "It is good to meet you. Wexley here speaks of you often." He
answered and bowed again, a little more stiffly than I had. A
little more formally. A little less whimsically. She didn't giggle
at him. I saw no sign of affection in her countenance and I can see
her as clear as day even as I sit here with you.

It surprised me that Anthony had spoken to
Simon about Rebecca at all. He had never mentioned her to me, and
we were best friends. Oh, he said her name on a couple of
occasions, but only in the retelling of some childhood story. You
see, Rebecca and Anthony grew up together. They played together as
children. They were more like siblings than cousins and he wanted
nothing but the best for his "little sister."

If I stop in
my
retelling, think nothing of it. I will tell this story to you,
finally, so you will understand exactly what has to be done and
why. If it bothers you, I am not sorry for the content of the story
is very dire.

Back to it then…

Anthony introduced Rebecca to Simon, who
looked very uncomfortable in the situation. I, on the other hand,
tried to not let my fear show on my face. I wasn't afraid of
Rebecca, exactly. She was the tiniest thing I had ever seen. I knew
she couldn't harm me. But I feared for my tongue and saying
something out of place or juvenile or clumsy.

"And this…" He nodded in my direction. "Is
Frederick Dodsworth."

I nodded again. The clock ticked so slowly on
the mantle behind me, that I could hear nothing else. People
stirred around me, loud conversations from some of the gentlemen
who had partaken in the alcohol a bit too early — Christmas
tradition and all. But I heard none of it. All I saw was Rebecca
turning her attention towards me. I heard the clock beating in my
ears. I felt the sweat forming on my brow. I could smell the
candles burning. I could taste the iron of the blood that seeped in
my mouth as I bit the side of my cheek, waiting. Hoping. All of my
senses were heightened. Everything. I couldn't speak because I
needed her to say something first.

Would she figure out simply from the
introduction that I wasn't a titled man? No one at university knew.
No one. Not even Simon Hartwell. I had made up some fantastical
story about a dead father who was an Earl. Everyone believed it.
And only one person in the world knew the truth. And that man was
the man standing not two feet from me, who could, at any moment,
let Simon and Rebecca in on the secret. I would still have been
welcomed to the party, of course. Money was money no matter how it
came to be, but I wouldn't be welcomed as a suitable match for
Rebecca.

Like I said, I needed her to fall as hard for
me as I had her before she found out my true lineage… or rather the
version of events my mother told me. Little did I know that the
truth I knew and the truth Anthony knew were two totally different
things.

Just as I felt faint and feared my knees
would buckle from under me, Rebecca smiled at me. Her red lips
seductively pulled me in and I relaxed a bit. I could see nothing
but her face, her beautiful porcelain face, smooth skin, lovely
lips, eyes so full of life and wonder. When she looked at me, I
don't… no woman had ever looked at me that way, like I was
important, like I was special and — I don't know.