Promised

by Leah Garriott

  His thumb stilled a moment before resuming its caress. “Most of the women Northam attracts are ridiculous creatures who try to entrap him by beating him at his own game. They’re hollow shells of respectability, pretty faces, for the most part, but not much more. He allows them to flatter him for a few days before disposing of them. But you were different. And—” He stopped, his hand tightening around mine as he shifted subtly closer. “Once Northam realized what he had, he would never have let you go.”

  Gregory’s words tugged at me, evoking emotions I had promised never to feel again, a hope that things could be different—that my future didn’t have to be one of loneliness and shame.

  Yet his explanation still wasn’t complete. I turned so I could gauge the truth of his words in his eyes. “Even that, though, isn’t enough for what you did. You’re a man of title, fortune, good looks, and sense, yet you engaged yourself to a woman you didn’t know, who openly confessed she wasn’t interested in you.”

  He stared at me, a frown of indecision momentarily tugging at his features. “I did. But the reasons with which I set forth are no longer the reasons that keep me continuing to seek out your company.”

  “Then why not tell me what they were?”

  “Why not ask what they are now?” he asked quietly.

  Yes, that is what I should be asking. Because that was what really mattered, wasn’t it? Wasn’t the past just the past?

  And yet, the past mattered. It made us who we were. And the present, whatever was going on between us—I couldn’t trust it unless I knew the past.

  This dance between us, the back and forth, the looks and silences—I couldn’t do it. Not when heartache was the only outcome. I dropped the stick and his hand fell away from mine.

  “Perhaps we should return,” he said after a few moments of silence.

  We turned and headed toward the formal garden at the back of the house. We’d made it halfway to the door when he stopped. “Please do not throw yourself away on my cousin.”

  I ran my fingers across a white flower. “You cannot truly wish to unite yourself with me. I bring you no advantages.”

  “And you cannot truly wish to live a life of misery. Northam will only hurt you further.”

  I lifted my gaze to his. “And you’re promising me you won’t?”

  “I can promise to try not to.” He stepped nearer. “Don’t give up on something because of someone else’s deception. Not all men are like Mr. Rosthorn.”

  No. Some men were like Gregory, nonsensical and able to capture a woman’s heart against her will. “How am I to believe this when you won’t tell me why this began?”

  He plucked a rose off a bush and twirled it in his fingers. “I admit my actions could be considered drastic.” He sighed before focusing on me as though to assess my reaction. “It was the only way to finally put an end to Northam’s games.”

  This was not the response I had expected. “How does your engagement to me have anything to do with your cousin’s habits?”

  Gregory hesitated, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  We searched each other’s expressions for a moment before he said, “Margaret, I—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “I apologize, Miss Brinton. You were right to correct me. I should never have taken such liberties in addressing you so casually.” He held the flower out to me. When I reached to take it, his fingers wrapped around mine. He stepped closer. “Only, I cannot bear to call you anything so formal. I don’t want to be distant and formal with you.”

  We stood, inches apart, and I felt that even if all in the world turned wrong, as long as he had me I would be safe.

  “Ah, Miss Brinton, Lord Williams.” Mr. Lundall’s all-too-familiar voice cut through the moment. I instinctively stepped closer to Gregory, realizing too late that I was leaning against his chest. I stepped away, yet Mr. Lundall frowned as he made his way toward us; he had obviously observed us.

  “I hope I am not too late to join in your morning walk,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, we were just returning to the house,” Gregory said. He rubbed his thumb over my fingers again. I yanked my hand out of his grasp.

  Mr. Lundall’s eyes narrowed at Gregory. “Miss Brinton, I was hoping to enjoy a quick, private word with you.”

  Not again. “I apologize, Mr. Lundall, but I wouldn’t wish to be late for breakfast. Perhaps at a later time?”

  “It will only take a minute.”

  “Yes, but the air is uncomfortably chilled. After breakfast the air will have warmed.”

  He didn’t look convinced but held his arm out to me anyway. “Very well. Please allow me to escort you in.”

  I resisted the temptation to look at Gregory. “There is really no need for such formality.”

  “I would consider it a great honor, Miss Brinton.” Mr. Lundall bounced his elbow up and down, emphasizing its presence.

  I sighed and took his proffered arm. “Thank you.”

  As Gregory passed my seat to take his own at the table, he placed the flower next to my plate. My gaze wandered to it more than I would have liked. Everything Gregory had said felt like the truth, yet he was still hiding something, and it seemed important. But how important was it? Was it worth sacrificing whatever attraction lay between us, whatever future lay before us, simply because he wouldn’t tell me? What if I were to set aside my misgivings and just see where allowing myself to care for him led?

  Gregory and my father left the breakfast table and I tried not to watch Gregory as they disappeared out the door. When Lady Williams rose, I glanced around. It would be only Mr. Lundall and me left at the table. I would not be cornered in the breakfast room with the servants listening to Mr. Lundall propose yet again. I hurried after Lady Williams, leaving Gregory’s flower on the table.

  Mr. Lundall rushed up to me. “Our walk? We have little time, for I have requested my chaise to be at the door at noon.”

  “Of course.”

  I dragged my feet through the entry. As we exited the front door, we came upon Gregory speaking with Miss Perrin. A servant arranged an easel a few feet away, and a lady who must have been Miss Perrin’s chaperone sat on a bench near the house, a book in her lap.

  Gregory and Miss Perrin turned at our approach.

  “Miss Perrin, how good to see you again,” I said.

  “And you.” Her cheeks colored. “Mr. Lundall, I did not know you were still here.”

  Mr. Lundall bowed and kissed her hand. “I am leaving in half an hour.”

  “So soon?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He turned to me. “Shall we?”

  I sighed. “Very well.”

  “Just a moment, Miss Brinton,” Gregory said. “Miss Perrin has come to paint a scene of the river. Would you be interested in joining her?”

  “Oh.” Of course Miss Perrin was an accomplished artist. And of course I was not. “Um. . . .”

  “Miss Brinton,” Mr. Lundall interrupted, “I did not know you were an artist. Which is a shame, because I am a vast lover of art.”

  “Perhaps you will stay and attend to our progress?” Miss Perrin suggested rather hopefully.

  The servant appeared with another easel, and Mr. Lundall straightened his shoulders. “I say, man, put that right here.” The servant set the easel in the appointed place.

  “No, not there.” Mr. Lundall took a few steps to the side. “Here.”

  The man did as he was bid.

  Mr. Lundall surveyed the location, then shook his head. “Over here, I think.” He strode thirty feet away. “Yes, here. This is perfect.”

  The man glanced at Gregory, who nodded, so the easel was once more placed where Mr. Lundall had indicated. Mr. Lundall shifted from side to side before nodding his head. “Yes, this is the perfect spot.”

  “Oh, I
have never painted from that location,” Miss Perrin exclaimed. Turning to me, she asked, “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I replied.

  She smiled and hurried to Mr. Lundall.

  “It appears Mr. Lundall has an admirer,” Gregory said.

  She certainly did seem to enjoy Mr. Lundall’s company. And Gregory certainly did not seem to be interested in her, not when he was holding my hand and proclaiming that he did not wish to be formal with me. Yet there was a kind of familiarity between them. And Lady Cox believed an engagement imminent.

  “I have been led to believe—and I am not the only one—that there is perhaps an expectation between the two of you.” I glanced at him to gauge his reaction.

  Gregory’s brows rose in disbelief. “I assure you, Miss Brinton, that despite whatever expectations Lady Cox has, I have no plans regarding Miss Perrin other than allowing her to escape now and then from her mother and stepfather.”

  I turned quickly to hide the silly grin covering my face. Gregory was not interested in Miss Perrin. He was not like Edward after all.

  Yet I shouldn’t be feeling this rush of elation. It shouldn’t matter to me what his plans were.

  A canvas of stretched paper had been placed on the easel before me. Beside it, a small table held a box containing twelve watercolor blocks, an assortment of brushes, and a dish of water. I picked up a brush with a small handle and pretended to study it, though my mind was racing. If Gregory didn’t seek an alliance with Miss Perrin, if he was indeed not like Edward, and if it was not his intent to seek my hand only to teach me a lesson, then perhaps he was exactly as he seemed.

  This was bad. If he was what he seemed, and I allowed that whatever had initially spurred him to ask for my hand was unimportant, then there was nothing to keep my arguments against him from floating away like the boats we’d sailed down the river.

  Except there was. I could not deem that reason as unimportant. He might not be hiding a mistress, but he was still hiding something. And what of my promise? Allowing myself to care for Gregory would lead only to heartache.

  I set the brush down and picked up a thicker one, dipped it into the water, then paused to study the landscape before me. It was probably best to start with the lines of the bank of the river. But with watercolor, did one work from dark colors to light or light colors to dark? I couldn’t remember. If I chose wrong, the painting would be spoiled. Perhaps if I first practiced on the branches of a tree. Surely no one would notice if I practiced a little in the upper corner of the painting. Just to get my bearings.

  I slid my brush across a dark brown block. Glancing once more at the shore, I lifted the brush to the top of the canvas where I thought the branches should go. The canvas was perfectly clean. There wasn’t even a dirty fingerprint on it.

  It was ridiculous to pretend I could paint. I would humiliate myself by even attempting the endeavor. Better to save the paper and paint for Miss Perrin or some other young woman who set her sights on Gregory.

  I spun around to confess my lack of talent. Gregory had stooped down directly behind me as though to see the painting from my angle and, in so doing, became my unintended canvas as my brush stroked his face. He flinched and stood, but too late. A thick brown line streaked his cheek.

  I stepped back. And bumped into the easel, sending it toppling into the table of paints. The whole setup crashed to the ground.

  “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.” I should have rushed to pick up the canvas and rescue the paints, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Gregory. His hand rose to his face, his finger swiping at the mark, smearing it.

  The servant appeared next to us and I again apologized as he began cleaning up my mess. When the easel was righted, I placed the brush on its lip and turned back to Gregory. He had a handkerchief to his face but instead of cleaning the mark off he had smeared it some more.

  “I didn’t realize you were directly behind me. Here. Let me help.” I held out my hand for the fabric.

  “It’s all right.”

  “You’re only smearing it. Please, stop.”

  He hesitated, uncertain. I snatched the handkerchief from his fingers and dipped it into the now-righted water, which contained only drops. I hoped it was enough.

  I reached back for his face. He flinched away. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I exclaimed.

  “Really, it’s all right. I’ll just step inside—”

  “Gregory, just hold still. It will only take a moment.”

  He stilled, and I realized I’d called him by his name. Out loud.

  How had I let that happen? Without meeting his gaze, I quickly rose onto my tiptoes and, with a few gentle swipes, cleaned the paint from his face. “There. It’s gone.” My next breath was filled with him—his light cologne, the faint saddle oil. I hadn’t realized we’d moved so close. Nor had I realized that my other hand cupped his face, steadying it while I cleaned his cheek. Our faces were mere inches from each other. If I leaned forward ever so slightly, our lips would touch. I raised my gaze from his mouth to his eyes and my breath caught as truth flooded over me.

  All my precautions, all my objections, all my arguments—

  they were for naught.

  I was in love with Gregory.

  Thirty

  I reeled back, remembering too late that the easel had been set up again. Again it crashed to the ground.

  “Sorry,” I said distractedly as the servant set about righting it.

  I couldn’t be in love with Gregory. It was impossible. It was merely loneliness and worry for Alice that had me thinking such ridiculous thoughts.

  I shoved the handkerchief at Gregory, staring at it to avoid looking at his face.

  He seemed to take forever in reaching for it. His fingers brushed my hand, lingering long enough to send a tingle up my arm. A tingle that I rather enjoyed and that left me longing for more.

  I flinched away. “To own the truth, my lord, I do not paint. Please, excuse me.” I walked toward the house, hoping my pace didn’t reveal my retreat for what it was—flight away from him. How had I let this happen? I had promised never to allow my heart to fall in love again.

  I had to get away. Far away.

  “Miss Brinton,” Mr. Lundall called. “Wait.”

  I stopped. I had forgotten all about Mr. Lundall and his desire to speak to me. It would provide a needed distraction until I could regain control of my wayward emotions.

  He rushed to my side as a chaise was brought around front. Mr. Lundall frowned and looked at his timepiece. “It is time already. We are too late for our walk.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved a letter. “Here. This is from your brother. He commissioned me to bring it to you.”

  I took the note, imagining a scenario where Mr. Lundall pestered Daniel for my whereabouts and Daniel, thinking it would be good humor, not only told him where I was but gave him a note as an excuse for Mr. Lundall to visit. He had probably been laughing ever since Mr. Lundall had left to come find me.

  “But, if you’ve spoken with Daniel, you must know about Alice.”

  “I regret that I did not know she was ill, so I did not ask after her. Your brother provided no information. I hope the letter answers all your questions to your satisfaction.”

  “Why did you not give this to me yesterday?” I broke the seal in my eagerness to know the letter’s content.

  “Mr. Lundall,” Miss Perrin said, joining us, her presence forcing me to put the perusal of my letter on hold. “Would you think me terribly unrefined if I begged a ride home? The light isn’t ideal for painting just now, and I believe Miss Bowen is bored.” I glanced at Miss Perrin’s companion; she appeared completely content to sit on that bench until she’d finished her book.

  “I have only this chaise,” Mr. Lundall explained.

  “It is not very far, I assure you. And we are not overly large women.” Sh
e smiled her dazzling smile.

  “It will be uncomfortable, but if you do not mind—”

  “Not at all.”

  “Very well.”

  My father and Lady Williams walked out of the house, and Lady Williams smiled with delight. “Miss Perrin, how good to see you. Won’t you come inside?”

  Miss Perrin shook her head. “You must excuse me, your ladyship, but Mr. Lundall has been so good as to offer me a ride home.”

  “You are leaving, Mr. Lundall?” my father asked.

  “Yes, I am afraid so. The man attending me this morning told me it is to rain tomorrow, so my departure must be today.”

  “It has been such a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Lady Williams said.

  “The pleasure has been all mine.” Mr. Lundall kissed her hand.

  Miss Perrin also said farewell, not seeming at all sorry to go, and Mr. Lundall handed her up. Miss Bowen, disgruntled to have her reading interrupted, was handed up on the other side of the chaise by Gregory.

  After Miss Perrin and Miss Bowen were settled, Mr. Lundall bid me farewell. “I shall see you upon your return. I hope it will be soon.”

  I nodded, also hoping my return would be soon, though I was not eager for him to renew his attentions.

  “Mr. Lundall,” Gregory said, “if you ever find yourself in the neighborhood, you must come visit.”

  “Very kind,” Mr. Lundall replied. He made one more round of goodbyes, then hopped into the chaise and took the reins from the waiting servant.

  The moment Mr. Lundall clicked the horses to a walk, I unfolded the paper. The bearer of this letter is entitled to as many private words with Margaret as needed. P.S. She’s not any better.

  I handed the letter to my father with disgust. Daniel had told us less than Louisa.