by Cheryl Holt
Michael knocked on the door at precisely two o’clock as he’d promised Fanny he would.
He glanced at the sagging roof, the weed-strewn yard, the crumbling chimney, and he grimaced with disgust. How could someone he viewed as so remarkable survive in such squalid conditions?
Before arriving in the country, he’d envisioned Fanny as an ugly old crone, or an avaricious shrew. Instead, he’d found a sweet and engaging young woman who attracted him in ways he had no business considering.
From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d been intrigued by the prospect of a liaison. Part of her appeal, he knew, was due to the fact that she was very beautiful, and he was a typical male with low principles and an even lower ability to restrain himself in his carnal affairs.
Why not seduce her? Her life was bleak, her problems formidable, and he was a handsome, experienced gentleman from the city. She could certainly use a bit of excitement to lighten her dreary existence. Would she welcome an advance? Should he initiate one?
The notion of commencing an intimate association with her was tempting. His prior sexual partners had been a mix of camp whores while he was in the army in Spain and loose flirts of the ton when he was in England. Fanny Carrington was so different from all of them, and he couldn’t move beyond the possibility that something wonderful could happen if he involved himself with her.
But should he?
The very idea that he would question his behavior was incredibly strange, and his hesitation had thrown his entire plan into chaos.
He’d meant to show up on her stoop, to bluster and threaten and toss around some cash, then leave with Thomas. By all accounts, Camilla Carrington would relinquish him in a thrice, but Fanny loved Thomas and would be devastated if he was taken from her.
To Michael’s surprise, he was torn about his motives while knowing that in the end, Thomas had to be brought to London—even if it broke Fanny’s heart.
Footsteps sounded inside, and he braced, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t mentally prepared himself to meet Thomas, the only son of the brother he’d cherished.
The door opened, and as he came face to face with his nephew, his breath hitched in his lungs. An image flashed of John at exactly the same age, and Michael suffered a powerful rush of affection that caught him completely off guard.
“Hello, sir,” Thomas said with impeccable manners. “Are you Mr. Waverly?”
“Yes...yes I am,” Michael replied.
“Won’t you come in? My Aunt Fanny is expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
Michael entered the dark, dim space. There was one room, crammed with furniture that provided evidence of a more affluent period. Although it was a warm May day, the interior of the house was very cold, and no candle was lit to stave off the gloom.
As his eyes acclimated, he saw a woman, whom he presumed to be Camilla Carrington, slouched in a chair in the corner. She didn’t rise or exhibit any interest in him.
“Who’s there, Thomas?” she snapped.
“It’s our new neighbor, Mother,” Thomas explained. “It’s Mr. Waverly.”
In a gesture that charmed Michael, Thomas slipped his small hand into Michael’s much larger one and dragged him over to Carrington.
“Mr. Waverly,” Thomas said, “this is my mother, Miss Camilla Carrington.”
“How do you do?” Michael blandly said, but he received no response from Carrington.
“He and Aunt Fanny are going walking,” Thomas supplied.
Still, Carrington didn’t bother to stir, but she studied Michael in a cryptic fashion. Michael didn’t think they’d previously met, and if they had, it would have been a fleeting introduction a decade earlier that he no longer recalled.
Michael resembled John very much, though, so there was a good chance that Carrington might guess his identity in spite of a prior lack of acquaintance, but if she did recognize him, she gave no outward sign.
He studied her just as methodically, and instantly, he disliked her. Her rude, slothful demeanor reminded him of why it was imperative that Thomas be extricated from her influence and control. He had to harden himself, had to push aside his tender feelings for Fanny, but as he was struggling to regroup, Fanny appeared on the stairs, and her arrival brightened the dismal abode as completely as if someone had opened the shutters.
She was winsome and beguiling, and she displayed a confidence and poise far beyond her years. He was fascinated by her wholesome manner, by how she comported herself under trying circumstances, by how she persevered in such a mature and dignified way.
As usual, she was attired in her green muslin dress, and it occurred to him that perhaps she didn’t have another. The insight disturbed him and, oddly, made him yearn to buy her a new wardrobe.
“Aunt Fanny,” Thomas happily chattered, “Mr. Waverly is here!”
“I see that.” She smiled and came toward them.
Thomas released Michael’s hand and grabbed Fanny’s, instead. He pulled her down to him, and he whispered, but not softly enough to hide his comment.
“When I answered the door, I said everything you told me to say. I didn’t forget a single word.”
“You are a perfect little gentleman.”
Fanny chuckled and stood, and she winked at Michael.
Camilla scoffed. “Bloody right, he’s a little gentleman. His grandfather’s a bloody duke.”
She assessed Michael, checking to see if she’d shocked him with her vulgar language, or if she’d astonished him by claiming an exalted connection. He kept his expression carefully blank, declining to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Camilla,” Fanny scolded, “please don’t start. Mr. Waverly is our guest.”
“Been to London lately, Mr. Waverly?” Camilla’s tone implied that she knew who he was, but she didn’t reveal the information to Fanny, and he was curious as to why not.
“No, I haven’t been there in ages.”
“Pity,” she sarcastically cooed. “I might have asked you if you’d ever met my boy’s father. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? John Wainright? He’s Clarendon’s oldest son and heir.”
“I’m not acquainted with the family, I’m afraid. They’d be quite a bit above my social station.”
“Would they now? How do you suppose John is doing?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
At the peculiar banter, Fanny scowled and took Michael’s arm, leading him outside.
“We’re going, Camilla,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t hurry on my account,” Camilla pouted. “I’ll just sit here and entertain myself. It’s not as if anyone ever calls on me.”
Thomas followed them onto the stoop, a forlorn look on his face. He kept nervously glancing at the cottage. Fanny was nervous, too, and Michael was torn between his desire to be alone with Fanny and his desire to rescue Thomas from his mother’s clutches.
Fanny went to Thomas and knelt by him so they could have another whispered conversation.
“Must you go?” he asked. “Mother is in such a foul mood.”
“You’ll be fine. Why don’t you play in the yard until I return?”
“She said I couldn’t, but I hate to stay inside with her when she’s angry.”
“No. You go play.” Fanny rose, her distress apparent. “I won’t be away long. I promise.”
She spun away and rushed out to the lane without a goodbye. Michael murmured a hasty farewell to Thomas, then raced after her. When he caught up with her, he strolled by her side, not certain of what to say. They were silent, the only sounds the chirping of the birds in the trees and the click of their heels on the ground. She was very upset, her cheeks red with chagrin.
“I’m sorry,” she ultimately mumbled.
“Why would you be sorry?”
“We didn’t always live like this. Oh, what must you think of me? I’m so embarrassed.”
She stumbled to a halt and covered her eyes with her hands,
trying not to cry, and he couldn’t abide her woe. Before he could give himself opportunity to reconsider, he folded his arms around her and cradled her to his chest.
She didn’t protest the liberty he’d taken, and like the cad he was, he snuggled her closer, rubbing her back, calming her as one might a young child who’d had a bad dream.
“Hush,” he soothed, “it will be all right.”
“Thomas is such a wonderful boy, but she’s so bitterly unhappy. I don’t know what’s to become of us.”
The admission hit him like a blow, and it was on the tip of his tongue to make pledges he couldn’t keep, to offer arrangements he wasn’t prepared to extend. He clamped down on all the foolish remarks that were begging to be uttered.
“Where is Thomas’s father?” he inquired, feeling like a scoundrel, but probing for answers he was dying to receive. “Is it this John Wainwright your sister mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“Why hasn’t he helped you?”
“They were never wed, and he had no interest in her or his son. He seduced her when she was a girl, and she refuses to believe that he never cared about her.”
“Did you ever contact him?”
“On a dozen occasions or more. My father wrote. I wrote. Wainwright never replied to a single letter. We were fine until my father passed away, but now that we’ve lost his support, our circumstances are very grim.”
Michael took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
He couldn’t unravel the truth of the situation. John had been an honorable man. If Fanny had corresponded with him about their dire straits, he would have assisted them.
Why hadn’t he responded to their pleas? And if he was so unconcerned, why had he left the bulk of his estate to Thomas?
It made no sense.
“Why don’t you go directly to Thomas’s grandfather?” Michael queried. “Your sister said he’s a duke. Surely he’d aid you.”
“He’s a notorious fiend,” she vehemently stated. “He has a reputation for philandering that’s a hundred times worse than his son’s. His habits are obscene, and he’s extremely cruel. He’s horrid to everyone, and he’s generally loathed.”
“How do you know all this?”
“The neighbors told us. They delighted in tormenting Camilla and shaming my parents.”
“Maybe he’s not the monster he’s been painted.”
“He is, he is,” she insisted. “He’s been threatening legal proceedings to take Thomas. Can you imagine that sweet boy forced to live with people who have no morals or conscience? My poor father was a vicar. He’s probably turning over in his grave at the very idea.”
Michael wanted to defend his family, but unfortunately, the Duke was every bit as awful as she’d claimed, so he focused instead on how perfectly she fit in his arms, on how marvelous it felt to hold her.
He kissed the top of her head, then her temple, and he was thrilled that she didn’t pull away. She remained snuggled to him, her pert breasts crushed to his chest, her thighs tangled with his own.
He dipped lower and kissed her cheek.
“Don’t be sad,” he said. “I can’t bear it when you are.”
She peered up at him, her poignant, enticing eyes having captured the hues of the forest so that they were a vibrant green. Her golden hair reflected the afternoon sun. With tears damp on her lashes, her expression bleak with dismay, she was beautiful and vulnerable and captivating, and his heart did a little flip-flop.
Just then, had she been shrewd enough—or greedy enough—to seek his favor, he might have done anything for her.
He bent down and kissed her on the mouth, a soft brush of his lips to hers, and at the fleeting contact, his pulse raced. He was almost giddy with joy, like a young lad with his first girl, and the strident reaction scared the hell out of him. If he could be so rattled by a mere kiss, of what further sorcery might she be capable?
He was terrified to know.
She drew away, her look half-accusing, half-enchanted.
“Oh...” she breathed. “Oh my...”
They stared and stared, a thousand unspoken comments swirling between them, but she didn’t order him to desist, didn’t stomp off. He reached out, cradling her face, and with slight pressure, he urged her to him and kissed her again.
He was very gentle, letting her learn the way. At the start, it was a tad clumsy, but she quickly acclimated, joining in as fervently as if they’d been lovers for years.
Gradually, he hugged her tighter, a palm on her back to keep her close. He didn’t do much else, didn’t fondle a breast or stroke a buttock. He simply kissed her, then kissed her some more.
He was used to consorting with whores—both highborn and low—and usually, he paid for his sexual services, so there was rarely a reason to linger over the preliminaries. As a result, he seldom delayed in his ardor. But with Fanny, there was no rush, and the pleasure was sweeter for the restraint. He felt as if he had all the time in the world, as if he could kiss her forever and never grow weary.
He kept on until her lips were ripe and swollen, until her body was tense with a yearning he was sure she didn’t understand. For his own part, his anatomy was screaming at him to hurry, to push matters to the next level, to take more from her than she should ever give him.
Finally, she was the one who came to her senses and called a halt. She wrenched away, and the accusing look had returned, but it was speculative, too, as if she’d surprised herself with her eager participation.
They stared again, then he stepped to her, but she extended a hand, warding him off.
“Please, stop” she implored. “You make me dizzy with your attentions.”
“I’m not sorry, and I won’t apologize.”
She blushed a fetching shade of pink. “I’m not experienced enough to be certain, but I think you’re very good at kissing.”
He shrugged. “I won’t deny it.”
“Are you in the habit of kissing women you scarcely know?”
“If they’re pretty.”
He smiled, and she blushed again.
“Are you claiming I’m pretty?” She said it like a dare, like a challenge.
“Very pretty,” he murmured.
As if it were preposterous, she scoffed at the notion. Didn’t she comprehend how spectacular she was?
“You don’t have any honest intentions toward me, do you?”
He frowned. “Why would you ask me that?”
“I’m not positive what it’s like in London, but here in the country, when a girl dallies in the forest with a man as I just have, marriage is expected soon after.”
“It was just a kiss. You shouldn’t read too much into it.”
“But are you the type who makes promises afterward? Are you the type who offers things he doesn’t mean?”
“Probably.”
Her gaze narrowed, as if she was viewing him in a new and unflattering light. “If we continued on, you’d never marry me, would you?”
On hearing the question, he nearly choked with laughter. What a bizarre conversation! As if matrimony should pop up as a topic, merely because they’d kissed!
Oddly, he regretted giving her the only answer he could.
“No, I’d never marry you.”
“Why? Because I’m poor? Or because my sister is loose and disgraced?”
“Neither of those. They’re irrelevant to me.”
She blanched with horror. “You’re already married!”
“No.”
“Are you engaged?”
“No.” It was the truth, and it wasn’t. He wasn’t betrothed to Rebecca, but he would be shortly—or to someone just like her.
“I see,” she mumbled, but she really didn’t.
She peered at the ground, appearing very young, very disappointed, as she struggled to identify what other excuse he could possibly have, but if he’d had a whole year, he couldn’t have enumerated all the reasons he would never consider her as a bride.
“Thi
s has nothing to do with you personally,” he said.
“It has everything to do with me. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“All right, I won’t. Now I am sorry, and I apologize.”
He stepped nearer, close enough so that the tips of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. She glowered up at him, wounded and offended and so very lovely.
On noting his perplexed expression, she said, “I’ve embarrassed you.”
“No.”
“You must find me provincial and absurd.”
“I don’t at all. If I’d thought you ridiculous, I’d never have called on you.”
“Just once in my life, I’d like to be special to someone. It saddens me that it can’t be you.”
“I think you’re very fine.”
“Do you know what it’s been like to remain here after Camilla’s troubles?”
“I can imagine.”
“No, you can’t. When my mother died last year, I had to sell her wedding ring to buy us food.”
“How awful for you.”
“This isn’t the city—where females are free to revel in any scandalous behavior that tickles their fancy. Have you heard what they say about me in the village? They say I’m exactly like Camilla. Is that why you’d never have me? Did you hear something appalling from the neighbors?”
“I’ve spoken to no one.”
She scrutinized him. “I can’t tell if you’re lying.”
“No one has said anything to me,” he insisted, “and I wouldn’t have believed them if they had.”
“For your information, I’m nothing like her.”
“I know you’re not.”
She glanced at the ground again. “I’d like to go home now.”
He studied her petite figure, her bowed head, and he wondered how he’d made a muddle of such a splendid afternoon.
He touched her chin with his thumb, forcing her to look at him, and he traced a finger across her mouth, using every ounce of fortitude he possessed to keep from kissing her again.
“I think you’re very fine,” he repeated like a dolt.
“A lot of good it does me.” She flashed a weary smile. “Could we go?”
He could have argued, but he’d been sufficiently unkind for one day, and he would be even crueler in the future.