The Promise

by V J Dunraven

  Artemis suddenly bobbed her head with a warm neigh, swished her tail and danced on the sand impatiently. Only the sight of Apollo—her brother, could elicit that kind of gleeful welcome.

  Richard opened his eyes—and there, bathed in the first rays of sunshine several yards away, Cassie sat atop her great horse Apollo—watching him.

  Cassandra had been dying to ride along the shore. She laughed as Apollo’s hooves sent the water flying high up in the air, showering them both with fat droplets of gritty brine that dried into salty crusts on her clothes and hair.

  Oh, how she missed the glorious sunrise that signaled the beginning of a new day! London had been wonderful with all the splendid soirees and operas, but it was also cold and supercilious. That city was a place where she could never belong. She had done her part with her family, met and visited with the upper echelons of society who praised her engagement to Jeremy, but her affinity belonged to the home of her birth, with its abundant nature and familiar people she loved.

  Home was where her heart would always be. She yearned for it even in the midst of the glittering ton and countless fabulous balls. Home for her was safety and warmth, a treasure full of happy childhood memories with Allayne and Jeremy, and most of all—her beloved Richard.

  Her breath hitched and she blinked her eyes, as she caught sight of a figure on horseback facing the sea in the distance. Had she been so utterly distraught that her mind was playing tricks on her? She reined Apollo to a stop and gazed at the splendid form of the man with dark blond hair, his eyes closed and his face upturned, as if he was in a conversation with the angels in heaven.

  Only one other person aside from her, delighted in riding along the shore at this unearthly hour. Only one revered the legacy of God like this, grateful for the very air he breathed and the earth he lived on. Only one man prayed to the Almighty in such a compelling manner to atone for his sins.

  Apollo’s ears pricked at the sight of his sister Artemis, who danced in excitement at their first encounter in years. Startled, her rider turned, riveting his brilliant blue eyes at her.

  It was him. Richard.

  For a moment they stared at each other, neither saying a word nor making a move to come nearer.

  Then, suddenly, his face lit up with a radiant smile.

  Her heart cartwheeled in her chest and she smiled back in return.

  And just like that, the recollections of the past came pouring in, like a long-lost diary opened once more, its yellowed pages a litany of words and portraits playing in her mind. She was a little girl again, out with her hero at the beach, admiring the break of dawn.

  Richard rode his horse at a canter towards her.

  “Hello, Cassie.” The butterflies in her belly awakened at the sound of his deep, rich voice, pins and needles torturing her nerves and making her hands tremble. He searched her face with blue eyes bright with something she could not quite discern, and yet, she could feel the warmth in them reach out and wrap around her.

  “Hello, Richard,” she managed to answer with a slight quiver in her voice.

  “You’re all grown up,” he said, his mouth tipping at the corners in that achingly familiar smile.

  She lifted her chin and returned his gaze bravely, even if her heart was careening around her ribcage. “Yes,” she whispered with eyes misting not from the salt-tinged air, but from the realization of knowing that he had finally, truly, seen her.

  Chapter 16

  Return to My Betrothed

  Jeremiah Devlin Huntington did not know what he needed.

  After the Carlyles had left for Cornwall, he stayed in London for another three days to imbibe in vice and rid himself of the doldrums. He drank, gambled, slept with not one, but three women, and now the fourth, Lord Wright’s young wife, happily bobbed her pretty head as she knelt between his legs.

  Hell, he had an erection as large as Mount Everest and had ejaculated multiple times like Mount Vesuvius, but why the devil couldn’t he feel any satisfaction from his release? After all the moaning, groaning and rough, uninhibited sex, all he felt was emptiness, akin to a lonely stretch of desert with endless sand dunes, barren and baking under the relentless heat of the glaring sun.

  And Devil take it, but he was restless! He had been brimming with pent-up libido since that goddamned night at the masquerade ball. What he started as a jest had spiraled into a full-blown raging desire, and he had wanted her—Cassie—his partner in crime, the little brat he practically grew up with, the one he was supposedly protecting from lechers like him.

  What in Lucifer’s name had gotten into him that made him as randy as a goddamned billy-goat? He had not had a single night’s sleep without dreaming of suckling Cassie’s luscious breasts and driving his cock into her soft woman’s flesh. His lust would take over him and every morning the evidence of his desires screamed at him in the wetness blemishing his pristine white sheets.

  Fuck! How was he going to purge himself of this affliction? Drowning himself in alcohol and gambling away a small fortune certainly did not help—nor did fucking debutantes and other men’s wives.

  His amorous craving for Cassie had developed into such an obsession that he felt it necessary to distance himself from her—before he did something outrageously imprudent and forced Allayne into challenging him to a duel.

  Well, he had since spent every hour in London immersing himself in hedonistic pursuits and after three days without respite, he was dreadfully weary, but still horny as hell. And Devil be damned, he did not want anybody else! Somewhere in the back of his lascivious, immoral brain, he had always known that only one person could relieve his carnal physical desires.

  Cassie.

  Only she could fill the void in the arid, desolate land of his existence. Only her nectar could provide him with an oasis to quench his maddening thirst. Only her fertile, supple field would do for him to sow his seed and propagate a flowering garden in the midst of the dry desert.

  Cassie.

  Good God, he must be out of his mind! Since when did he start babbling like a love-struck fool? He was Jeremiah Devlin Huntington, more often referred to as Devil, London’s most notorious rake! He would rather hang himself by his toenails than get leg-shackled—which, by coincidence, if he laid even one finger on her—would most certainly be his fate. That, or a bullet between his eyes—considering the well-known fact that her brother, Allayne, was a perfect shot.

  Goddamnit! How did he get himself into such a deranged predicament? This madness was no longer just a case of physical satisfaction. He had even begun to fantasize about a family and babies. Babies! Those toothless, chubby little creatures who constantly drooled and barfed—with Cassie as the mother—good God!

  Had he gone over the edge and turned into a bedlamite? Well, he must have—considering the elation he felt as he slid his mother’s ring on her finger. He had almost come undone and professed his undying love—which would be a lie because he must have been delusional at the time—but damn and blast, it had felt so fucking right!

  Jesus. What was he going to do? He could not drink, gamble and fornicate enough to help himself—and he certainly could not abstain and become a monk either. Celibacy was not a word included in his vocabulary and castration was simply not an option. He could not run away from her forever—he would go out of his mind.

  Cassie.

  He closed his eyes and imagined her in place of the brunette between his thighs. His breath hitched and he bit his lip as Lady Miranda Wright increased her pace. Bloody hell, the woman was skilled enough to be a courtesan at Madame Le Moreau’s exclusive brothel! She had the sexual appetite of a woman afflicted with nymphomania and if he did not stop her, she would suck him until his cock desiccated and his balls shriveled into raisins, ready to fall off.

  “Enough, Ma Cherie.” He gently eased himself off her hot mouth and wiped his
rod with the bed sheet before he pulled on his trousers.

  “Why the haste, Mon Cher?” She looked up at him in disappointment, licking her swollen lips.

  “I have to leave for Cornwall.” He buttoned his waistcoat and put on his shoes.

  “Why?” She stood up, unmindful of her nakedness.

  He scoured his gaze over her large breasts, letting his eyes drift down to the dark triangle between her legs. If he were not in such an agitated state, he would have ravished her again and again, but as it was, all he could think of was making an escape.

  “I have some unfinished business.” He tore his gaze off her feminine enticements and put on his morning coat.

  “But what about me, Mon Cher?” She sashayed over to him and pressed her breasts onto his chest.

  “You, Cherie, must return to your husband.” He tapped the tip of her nose with a forefinger and gave her a roguish grin, before gently pushing her away.

  “And you?” she asked scathingly, clearly showing her displeasure with a pout as he headed for the door.

  “I must return to my betrothed.” He blew her a kiss before he let himself out, closing the door behind him with a click.

  Chapter 17

  Suppositions

  Cassandra Carlyle dismounted from her horse, Apollo, and handed the reins to one of the Grandstone Park stable boys.

  “Mornin’ Miss Carlyle.” the lad inclined his head with a tip of his hat.

  “Good morning, Peter.” Cassandra beamed warmly at him. “Don’t let him eat everything in sight.” She patted Apollo’s flank. “He’s too fat for his own good.”

  Apollo whined and kicked the dirt, giving her a horse’s version of a disapproving look.

  “I won’t, Miss Carlyle,” Peter replied, as she turned towards the Duke’s house with a wave.

  Cassandra greeted the gardeners going about their work, stopping to chat with old Ron, the head groundskeeper who had been at Grandstone Park for as long as she could remember, before continuing on her way. She knew every single person who worked for the Duke, from the lowly scullery maids, to the many stewards who managed the vast ducal properties. In fact, she thought with a chuckle, she knew everyone who worked for all three neighboring estates, since almost all of the servants had some familial connection to each other.

  Cassandra walked happily past the beautiful manicured gardens to the wide path leading to the double entrance doors of the manor. She had a lot to smile about these days. Her early mornings spent with Richard at the beach had been glorious—just like old times. They raced along the coastline, sat on the sand as the sun rose in the horizon, and talked about everything they missed while they were apart. Oh, how she loved spending time with him! Richard may have changed into a sophisticated man of the world over the years, but deep inside, he was still the sweet fifteen-year-old boy she remembered.

  She climbed up the marble steps and lifted the brass knocker on the door, knocking it vigorously against the brass plate carved with the ducal coat of arms. Today was her customary day to visit Richard’s father, the Duke of Grandstone.

  Gordon, the Grandstone Park butler, opened the door.

  “How is he, Gordy?” she asked as they crossed the foyer.

  “He seems to be in better spirits, Miss Carlyle. Lord Sunderland’s presence has cheered him up considerably.” He glanced at her as they reached the foot of the winding marble staircase.

  She smiled fondly at the butler. “I’ll show myself to his rooms, Gordy. You need not escort me.”

  “As you wish, Miss. He is expecting you.” Gordon half-turned to leave, then hesitated. “By the by, Miss, allow me to express felicitations in behalf of the staff on your recent engagement to Lord Waterford. And if I may say so, we are relieved that you and Lord Sunderland are friends again.”

  “Thank you, Gordy. Lord Sunderland and I will never cease to be friends,” Cassandra replied with feigned delight, the butler’s remark reminding her of the fact that she was betrothed—how could she let that slip from her mind? She stared at the enormous diamond ring surrounded by rubies on her finger and her heart sank.

  “That is good to hear, Miss Carlyle.” Gordon bowed with a smile before walking away.

  Cassandra went up the steps to the second floor and turned towards the right wing where the Duke’s chambers were located. As she strolled along the carpeted corridor, she passed a room with the door opened halfway, the brightness of the afternoon sun streaming through the massive glass windows unadorned with draperies. She had never seen what was in that room before, so she paused out of curiosity and poked her head through the doorway.

  The scent of turpentine assailed her nostrils as she gaped at the size of the spacious rectangular room. It had wood floors and was devoid of furnishings, save for two chairs by the window and a table laden with pots of paint, brushes, palettes, rags and a variety of liquids in sealed bottles. Propped against the opposite wall facing the windows were numerous paintings of different sizes. Some sat on easels, displayed around the room.

  The temptation to go in and look was irresistible. She glanced up and down the hallway to see if anyone was around, but the entire second floor was deserted. After another moment of hesitation, she finally gave in and carefully slipped through the door, tiptoeing quietly towards the artwork.

  The first row of paintings braced against the nearest wall depicted familiar landmarks of various cities in Europe. Further along the same wall, the second grouping portrayed everyday country life in the villages. The third collection displayed in large wooden easels near the windows illustrated the stunning panorama of the waterfront at sunrise.

  Cassie recognized the setting as the same beach bordering the east side of Grandstone Park that she and Richard frequented. She slowly surveyed each painting, admiring the way every piece captured the splendor of daybreak. As she reached the last few, she paused in surprise. There, in front of her, in six large canvasses, were various portraits of a young boy with blonde hair flailing in the wind and a little girl in curly red pigtails.

  She and Richard.

  There could be no mistaking the way they sat on the sand in one of the artworks, mesmerized by the colors of dawn, or the way they rode their horses in another painting, as they raced along the shoreline. Then, there was the portrait of both of them building the huge sandcastle that took hours to construct, only to collapse from the rising tide in an instant.

  Cassie traced her finger over the signature on the lower right hand corner.

  R.C. Radcliffe c.1814. The year Allayne and Richard embarked on a much-awaited grand tour of Europe, months after Napoleon Bonaparte finally succumbed to a devastating defeat in the Battle of Waterloo. The three of them had originally intended to visit the continent after finishing school in the summer of 1811, but the increasing tension in the Peninsula, which subsequently spread to the rest of the continent, had stunted their plans. Undeterred from the lure of adventure, they opted to sail for America instead.

  They stayed in America longer than planned, reveling in the popularity afforded by their aristocratic titles amongst the American elite, which opened many doors to significant moneymaking opportunities. Though business was an odd pursuit for men of their standing, they nonetheless acquired an interest and fascination for financial matters. “Stock and Trade Investments,” Jeremy said when he called on her after their return, explaining the fundamentals of wealth-building through investment portfolios and showing her his brilliant mathematical calculations, till her eyes glazed over and the numbers turned into sheep skipping over fences. Clearly, their visit to the American continent turned out to be most profitable, until it became necessary to leave in the early second quarter of 1812, due to the brewing hostility between the British Empire and the United States of America.

  She had hoped that they would come back home, but they decided to detour to In
dia. With a natural flair for enterprise, they quickly established local sources and imported fine silks, tea and spices for export to England. Her mother almost had an apoplexy upon learning that her son, had turned into a nabob. The Viscountess fretted about what the ton would say behind her back and blamed Viscount Rose for enabling Allayne with unlimited funds. Even Jeremy became chief suspect for bad influence, due to his uncanny shrewdness in all matters pertaining to business.

  Finally, after spending two years securing their commerce in India, they headed back to England in the fall of 1814. She remembered counting the days to their arrival, unable to contain her excitement. However, when the day came, only Jeremy showed up at her door. Allayne stayed in London for another fortnight with Richard, before coming home to Rose Hill and announcing their plans to embark on yet another trip, to Europe, this time around—in middle of the following week.

  The news devastated her. She missed all of them—most especially Richard, whom she had been looking forward to seeing. For some odd reason, he remained in London and did not return with Allayne to see his papa, the Duke of Grandstone. Then, four days before their scheduled departure for Europe, just as Jeremy and Allayne were getting ready to join Richard in London, Jeremy’s father passed away suddenly. Though his friends offered to postpone the tour and attend the wake and funeral, he refused, convincing Allayne to skip the interment and proceed to the big city with Richard as planned, and board the ship without him.

  Cassandra strolled towards the rest of the paintings. Each piece was dated between the years 1814 to 1817. Almost three long years—the length of time Richard and Allayne spent in Europe. Allayne mentioned in his letters that he ventured in the lucrative buying and selling of valuable artworks from the continent, while Richard studied Art under the tutelage of an Italian master. Jeremy never followed them in their adventure. He remained in Cornwall to assume his father’s title as Marquess of Waterford and see to his financial affairs—a process he declined to discuss.