Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  He cleared his throat, rattled by how she’d discomfited him.

  “If you don’t like what I’ve purchased”—he scowled at the thought that she might not—“there’s a seamstress in the village. She’s competent to assist you in selecting other things.”

  “The items you picked will be fine.”

  “The servants are aware that you’re here. Peggy has met everyone. She can introduce you.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “It’s a small house, so there are just a handful of them, but they’re very efficient.”

  She was being very courteous, but he couldn’t shake the impression that she was fuming over what he’d offered to provide. If she wanted to ask for a bigger wardrobe, or discuss the size of her allowance, he was perfectly amenable. Why didn’t she speak up? In the past, she’d never been shy about stating her opinion.

  “I left some cash for you,” he advised, feeling clumsy and inept. “It’s in an envelope in the writing desk in the front parlor. In case you need anything, send a footman into the village to buy it for you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  He paused. “You understand that this is for the best, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I want you to use this period to rest and relax and get back on your feet.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And while you’re here, I’ll be good to you. I swear it. When we’re through, you won’t even remember all the terrible things that have happened.”

  “You’re correct; I won’t.”

  Every comment she uttered seemed sincere, but there was an undercurrent that had him wondering if she was really listening. He was accustomed to women falling all over themselves in their attempts to please him, to do as he’d suggested, and he couldn’t imagine that she might have a different point of view, that she might assume he was being an ass.

  “I’d better be going,” he mumbled. “Will you be all right here alone?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Would you like me to send Peggy to you?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood, dawdling like an imbecile. “Until Wednesday, then.”

  “Until Wednesday.”

  If he hadn’t botched their initial sexual encounter, he might have kissed her goodbye, but any further intimacy would have to wait.

  Without another word, he spun and departed.

  He was experienced in amorous affairs, and he knew how to make love to a female. Fanny had a very passionate nature, and over the coming weeks, he would repeatedly demonstrate how adept he could be at satisfying her. She’d be showered with pleasure until she was outrageously happy, content in her choice to be with him, and he’d revel in every minute of her schooling.

  As his footsteps receded, the house was quiet as an undertaker’s parlor, and Fanny threw an arm over her eyes. What must the servants think of her? How would she ever show her face among them?

  She’d allowed herself to be seduced by him, and up until the very end, she’d enjoyed it, too, when she couldn’t comprehend why. He’d proven over and over that he couldn’t be trusted. Why was she so susceptible to his dubious charms?

  Perhaps she had a depraved aspect to her character of which she’d been unaware. Or perhaps all women—herself included—were prone to carnal misconduct and that was why they were so carefully counseled and chaperoned.

  Whatever the reason, she was appalled by her blatant participation, and she wondered if she shouldn’t just brand a J for Jezebel in the center of her forehead so that everyone would know how much she’d relished her fall from grace.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she murmured, glad that the dear man was no longer alive to see the predicament into which she’d landed herself.

  Burrowing down, she snuggled under the covers, wishing she could go all the way to China. Lord Henley’s scent was in the sheets, the unique aroma of his skin reminding her of what they’d done.

  She’d always hoped to marry, to have a home and children of her own, but now, she never would. For all eternity, she would be alone. With no family, no friends, no husband, no place. She studied the bedchamber, taking in the expensive paintings and ornate furniture, and she started to laugh with a sort of mad misery.

  “Oh Lord, oh Lord, what am I to do?”

  Henley had been so smug in his certainty that she would jump at the chance to ally herself with him. No doubt, he’d entertained a lengthy string of partners who’d been ecstatic to wallow in any salacious behavior he requested.

  There were plenty of such females in the world, her sister Camilla being one of them, but Fanny wasn’t loose. She had never been anything but a vicar’s daughter, a humble, modest, and pleasant person who wanted only the normal things that all women wanted.

  She couldn’t remain where she was. She’d been raised to know right from wrong, to know that men and women shouldn’t fornicate unless they were married. Despite what Lord Henley presumed, Fanny wouldn’t agree to his ridiculous scheme.

  She’d consented in order to have access to Thomas, and he wasn’t even in the area, which set her temper on a slow boil.

  He was most likely still at the Duke’s mansion, so she had to return to the city. She would find a job and a room to let, and she’d begin watching for him. The Wainwrights couldn’t hide him forever.

  From the moment she’d met Henley, she’d acted like a victim. No wonder he treated her like one! With Thomas as his bait, he’d tricked her again, had deceived and misled, and she’d swallowed every lie he’d told.

  Well, those days were over. She wasn’t helpless. She was smart, she was a hard worker, and she could fend for herself.

  He’d left her some money, and she would take it and she wouldn’t feel guilty about the theft. She’d sneak to the village, would purchase a fare on the next mail coach to London. She’d vanish before he was aware that she’d fled.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Peggy bustled in. She was holding Fanny’s laundered clothes, and she had a box, so it looked as if more had arrived. She gaped at Fanny, almost as if she was imagining Fanny might have been murdered in the night.

  “How are you, Miss?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. A tad overwhelmed, but fine.”

  “I’m having a bath brought up.”

  “Thank you. I’d like one.”

  “It’ll be nice and hot.” She deposited her load on a chair, then located Fanny’s robe and assisted her in putting it on.

  “Do the servants know why I’m here?” Fanny inquired. “Have they been informed of my position?”

  Peggy blushed and spun away. “Yes, Miss, but I wouldn’t fret over it. They’re well-trained, and they recognize that Lord Henley fancies you. They won’t think less of you for it.”

  “How many other women has he invited here over the years?”

  “If he’s had any prior guests, I haven’t been told about it.”

  From Peggy’s pained expression, it was obvious that the number was quite high. The bounder!

  Fanny’s fury surged, but she tamped it down and climbed from the bed, blanching with embarrassment as they both noticed the blood on the sheets. Peggy was horrified, but she struggled to conceal her reaction.

  “I’ll have the maids up in a bit,” she said cheerily, “and we’ll have them washed in a snap.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Fanny went over to the window and stared outside, assessing the lane that wound through the trees.

  “How far is it into the village?” she queried.

  “Not far. Perhaps a thirty-minute walk.”

  “Is it down this road that I see?”

  “Yes.”

  “And which way is Henley Hall?”

  “In the opposite direction, Miss.”

  Good, Fanny thought. There’d be no chance of bumping into him as she slipped away.

  “I’d like to take a walk later this morning.”

  “It’s a lovely day for it, Miss. Let’s get you in the
tub.”

  Fanny stole a last glance outside, then followed Peggy, eager to hurry and dress so she could depart as quickly as possible.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Where is he?”

  “They claim they aren’t sure, milady.”

  Rebecca rose and advanced on her footman. She’d sent him to the Duke’s house to inquire after Michael, only to discover that they wouldn’t disclose his whereabouts. It was the ultimate insult. HHer jaws were clenched so tightly she was surprised she didn’t crack a tooth.

  “Did you speak with the Duke as I commanded you?”

  “His Grace was still abed, but I managed a conversation with Lady Anne.”

  “And...?”

  “She asked me to give you this note.”

  He offered it, and she snatched it away.

  “You’re excused.”

  The imbecile slithered out, and Rebecca broke the seal and scanned the words.

  “What does she say?” Her father chimed in from his perch on a sofa by the hearth. He was already drinking, and it was only eleven o’clock in the morning.

  “Michael left days ago. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going or when he’d be back.”

  “How awfully rude.”

  “She thinks he might be making arrangements for Miss Carrington.”

  “For whom?”

  “That horrid waif who barged into my engagement party.”

  “Why would he bother with her?”

  “Why, indeed?” Rebecca fumed.

  She went over to the fireplace, and she grabbed a figurine off the mantle and flung it against the marble chimney. It shattered with a satisfying crash.

  “Honestly, Rebecca, must you have a tantrum as if you were a spoiled toddler?”

  “My wedding is in eight weeks!” she seethed. “Eight weeks!”

  “You needn’t remind me.”

  “The Wainwrights were the ones who insisted we hurry. They were the ones who wanted a limited betrothal and a fast finish. Haven’t I compromised on every detail?”

  “You’ve been a veritable saint.”

  “I’m having fewer parties, smaller balls, and less celebration.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “We set such an early date that there’s hardly any opportunity for people to make a fuss over us, yet he tots off with another woman as if he has no responsibility to me.”

  “He’s a wretch; I always said so. But then, so was his brother. So is his father. It runs in the family. If you want to be a duchess someday, you’d best get used to it.”

  “Never!” Rebecca vowed. “I will never get used to it!”

  “What about the fête Lady Belmont is hosting for the two of you on Wednesday? Will he be there?”

  “How would I know?” Rebecca threw up her hands in disgust. “And how about Lady Rosewood’s soiree on Saturday? Am I to stand in the receiving line by myself, making excuses about where he is?”

  The prior evening, Michael had missed a supper to which they’d accepted an invitation, and Rebecca hadn’t had a clue that he wasn’t coming. He hadn’t contacted her or sent an explanation. She’d learned of the snub directly before the meal when he’d failed to arrive and the hostess had anxiously inquired if they should start without him.

  Rebecca had breezily instructed her to proceed, and she’d had to simper and chat through the whole mortifying affair as if nothing was wrong while every shrew in attendance was snickering behind her fan.

  For that humiliation alone, she would kill him a dozen times over.

  She picked up a vase and pitched it as she had the figurine. It crashed, too, breaking into even tinier pieces.

  “I will give him exactly one week to return,” she swore. “In seven days, if he’s not in our foyer, on his knees begging for forgiveness, I will go find him and drag him back here myself.”

  “I’d like to see that,” her father mumbled.

  “Trust me: it won’t be pretty.”

  “Where is he?”

  The Duke glared at Rebecca’s father, Harold Talbot. He didn’t like the man, but then, the Duke didn’t like anyone.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bloody liar,” Harold accused.

  “Careful, Harold. I’ll put up with a lot from you, but not that.”

  “Rebecca is up in arms.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “With all her clamoring, my household is in an uproar. There’s not a minute’s peace to be had.”

  “Female hysteria can be an irritation. I never tolerate it myself.”

  “Your son is a cad and a nuisance.”

  The Duke rather thought that Michael was too soft, but he wasn’t about to debate the issue with Talbot. He stood.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye!” Harold sputtered. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Yes, except for: Get out of here now, or I’ll ring for the footmen and have them toss you out on the lawn.”

  “Michael is toying with my daughter’s affections.”

  “She has no affections, and we both know it.”

  Harold’s cheeks flushed with fury. “If you imagine I’ll sit by and let him embarrass her to the entire world, I’ll... I’ll...”

  Harold couldn’t conjure a consequence dire enough to sufficiently threaten. Rebecca was desperate to be a duchess, which meant she was desperate for the marriage to occur. If Michael didn’t show up until the vicar was at the altar with prayer book in hand, she would eagerly go through with the ceremony.

  “Look Harold,” the Duke easily fibbed, “there were a few problems at Henley Hall. Michael had to deal with them. Tell Rebecca he’ll be gone two weeks, perhaps three.”

  “You expect me to inform her that he’ll be gone three weeks when the wedding is in eight? You expect me to advise her that he’ll miss three weeks of celebrating the greatest occasion of her life?”

  “It’s the reality of the situation. She’ll have to cope.”

  “Has he no conscience? No shame? For all her pomp and pride, Rebecca is a twenty-year-old girl, who’s been waiting for this moment since she was a baby. How dare he ruin it for her!”

  “I’ll make your feelings very clear when I next speak with him.”

  “You do that.”

  “I’ll have him buy her a big, fat diamond as an apology. An expensive bauble should soothe her ruffled feathers.”

  “You’re a horse’s ass.”

  “And you’re any better? Just because you’ve annoyed me, I ought to write to Michael and notify him that I’ve called the wedding off.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would,” the Duke bluffed, needing the match and Rebecca’s money much more than he wanted Harold to know, “so don’t tempt me. Go away before my patience is completely exhausted.”

  Harold stormed out, hurling over his shoulder, “You haven’t heard the last of me.”

  “I’m trembling in my boots.”

  Once the door slammed behind him, the Duke sank down in his chair, his mind awhirl with speculation.

  Where was the dratted boy? What was he up to?

  Without a word of explanation, he and Fanny Carrington had vanished. They’d sneaked out the back like a pair of thieves in the night before anyone had realized they’d departed.

  Michael might think he was being sly, but the Duke had no doubt as to what was happening. After Miss Carrington had washed and dressed and eaten several meals, she’d turned out to be quite a beautiful girl, and Michael was as randy as any male in the kingdom. How could he resist?

  Ever since Michael had first met her, he’d been glum as a whipped dog, and now that he’d absconded with her, his foul mood made sense. They must have had a brief affair over the summer, and Michael had taken her to his love nest at Henley Hall so that he could pursue the liaison in earnest.

  Usually, the Duke wasn’t concerned about Michael’s mistresses. A man was allowed his vices after all, so there was no reason to harangue him over them, bu
t obviously, this circumstance was more than a mere seduction, and the infatuation was interfering with his obligations.

  The Duke would let Michael have a month to sate his sexual urges. If he hadn’t returned to London by then, the Duke would go to Henley Hall himself and send the little whore packing.

  “Where is he?”

  Anne gazed at Phillip, her stupid pulse fluttering with delight, and there was such a pathetic expression of longing on her face that she spun away so he wouldn’t notice. She walked into the nearest salon, abandoning him in the foyer.

  He followed, irked by her discourtesy.

  “Father says he’s at Henley Hall.”

  “Is he?”

  “I suppose. I’m not sure.”

  She seated herself on a sofa, pretending scant interest in his arrival, though she was actually quivering with excitement.

  Since the evening he’d kissed her, she hadn’t seen him again, and his absence had been like a bothersome toothache. She couldn’t stop pondering him, why he’d done it, why he’d stayed away after he had.

  “The servants tell me that he took Miss Carrington with him.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly have to caution them about gossiping.”

  “Did he?” Phillip snapped.

  “Yes, if you must know.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I already told you: Henley Hall.”

  “So if I rode there, I’d find her?”

  Anne was peeved by his anxiety over Miss Carrington. Anne had chatted with her on numerous occasions, and she was sweet and charming in ways that Anne hadn’t expected.

  The very fetching Miss Carrington made Anne feel old and used up, snobbish and redundant. Anne had compared herself, and found herself lacking, and she was glad Michael had taken the younger woman away.

  “Yes, you’d find her,” Anne curtly retorted. “Why wouldn’t you? Why would Father lie?”

  “If you have to ask yourself that, then you’re even more naïve than I suspected.”

  “We have no commitments to Miss Carrington. If she left of her own accord, or if she left with Michael, it’s none of our affair. It was evident that she’d experienced some difficulties, and if Michael is helping to settle her somewhere, then good for him. He always was a gentleman.”