Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  “I realize that, which is why I’m severing our liaison. I was hoping to wed you, but I’m not a fool. I won’t pine away for what will never be.” He drew away from her and went to the door, eager to be off to his meeting with her brother. “You need to go home now, and please don’t return.”

  “You can’t be serious.” She looked shocked and stricken. “These interludes with you are the only thing that brings me any joy.”

  “I know that they are, but they have to end. If you call on me again, the servants will have been instructed not to let you in.”

  “Phillip! Don’t do this to me!”

  “I have to, Anne. It’s for the best.”

  “Phillip!”

  He was torn by her wounded expression, by her visible anguish, and before he could relent, before he could change his mind, he hurried out the door, leapt onto his horse, and trotted away.

  “Mr. Sinclair to see you, Lord Henley,” the butler said. “Will you speak with him?”

  “Why not?”

  Michael poured himself a brandy and drank it down in a swift gulp. He poured another and drank that, too, then he trudged to the sofa and slumped down.

  In four days, he’d be married, but it seemed like a dream—or perhaps a nightmare.

  He understood why Rebecca had come to fetch him to London, why the Duke had sent her, but he couldn’t quit thinking about Fanny. What if he never got over losing her?

  The butler announced Phillip, then closed the door, sequestering them in the quiet parlor. Michael stared at his old friend, the bruise on Michael’s cheek still black and blue from when Phillip had punched him.

  Phillip was angry about Anne’s refusal of marriage, angry about the Duke’s insults, but Michael didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. Absolute detachment was the only way he could keep moving forward.

  Phillip marched over, and he studied Michael’s slovenly dishabille, his inebriated condition.

  “Stand up,” Phillip ordered.

  “Marvelous to see you, too, Phillip.”

  “Stand the hell up!” he hissed.

  “Fuck you.”

  Phillip reached down, grabbed Michael by his shirt, and yanked him to his feet. Michael batted him away, curious if they’d come to blows again, when there wasn’t a single issue worth brawling over. He just wanted to be left in peace.

  “As you’re no doubt aware,” Phillip said, “Frances Carrington is my sister.”

  The declaration only underscored how wrong Michael had been to involve himself with her, but he gleaned no satisfaction from the discovery. He struggled not to let his dismay show.

  “Really? How wonderful for you both.”

  “I am here on her behalf. What defense have you to raise with me?”

  “For what transgression?”

  “I have loved you like a brother,” Phillip insisted, “but I have hated you like a brother, too. Because I have been fond of you, I will give you one chance to explain yourself.”

  “I have no idea what you mean. Go away. You’re annoying me.”

  “When your fiancée drove Fanny from your whore’s house in the country, Fanny had nowhere to go but her sister’s den of iniquity in London. You forced her from one brothel to another.”

  “A brothel! For pity’s sake, Phillip. You’re being melodramatic.”

  “She was alone and afraid and cast on the winds of fate—for the second time—due to your many cruelties.”

  “I begged her to let me make arrangements for her after I wed. She chose not to accept any assistance, and she vanished, leaving no trace of where she went or how I could find her. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Her sister kicked her out,” Phillip bluntly stated. “She’s been living on the streets.”

  Michael’s heart skipped several beats. He couldn’t bear to imagine that Fanny had been in such an awful situation, couldn’t bear to admit that he’d caused her even more harm.

  “She has not. You’re lying.”

  “I’m not,” Phillip asserted, “and I am here because you see: Fanny is increasing.”

  Birds in the trees quit singing. Cart wheels stopped rolling. Clocks ceased to tick.

  “What did you say?”

  “Fanny is pregnant, and she has named you as the father.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  Michael frowned, stunned that he’d voiced such a despicable remark. Why had he? The denial had slipped out before he could bite it down.

  Phillip grew very still, as if he were a hawk that had just sighted his prey.

  “Are you calling Fanny a liar?” Phillip’s tone was very grave, very solemn. “To my face, Michael?”

  Michael was too shocked and ashamed to respond. His pulse was pounding, his knees weak, and he staggered as if Phillip had delivered another physical blow.

  Fanny! Having his child! What if it was a boy? What if she gave birth to his first-born son?

  Michael would never see the baby, would never be with her as she lovingly raised him. He wanted to rage, he wanted to weep, he wanted to kill someone with his bare hands.

  “I have nothing further to say,” Michael pathetically declared, “except that I’m sorry. For everything.”

  “Will you marry her? Will you rectify the damage you have done?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m marrying Rebecca in four days, and you know it.”

  “Will you renounce Rebecca? Will you wed my sister instead? Will you give your name to the child you’ve sired with her?”

  “Of course I won’t. I can’t. Your father’s mischief with the Duke has sealed my fate.”

  “Is that your final reply?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you leave me no alternative.”

  Before Michael recognized what Phillip intended, Phillip retrieved a leather glove from his coat and slapped Michael across the cheek with it.

  “I’ll meet you at dawn,” Phillip said, “at Marley Field. I prefer pistols, but if you’d rather have swords, so be it.”

  “Pistols? Swords? Have you gone stark raving mad? I won’t duel over her.”

  Phillip kept on as if Michael hadn’t spoken. “I will have my seconds contact you to arrange the details. We can use my father’s surgeon.”

  “Listen to me, Phillip: I won’t do this.”

  “And why won’t you? If you’re about to say that she’s not worth it, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Michael cringed, feeling petty and foolish and disgraced. “I wouldn’t say anything of the sort, but I won’t fight over her. Neither of us can win such a battle.”

  Phillip stepped in so that they were toe to toe, fury wafting off him in waves.

  “I will wait a half hour for you to arrive. If you don’t, I will return to town and proceed directly to Rebecca’s. I shall inform her that your ex-mistress is increasing. I imagine the news will bring an interesting twist to your matrimonial celebrations.”

  “She knows all about Fanny,” Michael bluffed. “She won’t be surprised in the least.”

  “Then I shall visit every club in London. I will tell every man I see that you have ruined my sister and you are too spineless to give me the satisfaction I am due.”

  “Be careful what you say,” Michael seethed, his own temper flaring at having his character maligned. “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”

  “I’ll see you at dawn,” Phillip retorted with a frightening inevitability. “At Marley Field. Don’t be late.”

  He nodded with a grim resolve, then he spun and left. Michael lurched to the sofa and sank down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The instant her carriage rattled to a halt, Rebecca leapt to the ground and raced up the Duke’s front steps. Though it was five o’clock on an icy winter morning, a lamp glowed in the window, and smoke billowed from a chimney. Someone would be awake to answer her summons.

  She hadn’t been home yet, was still attired in her ball gown and wrapped in a heavy sable cloak. The p
rior night had been a humiliating round of solitary appearances at various fêtes, as she’d smile and voiced excuses for Michael’s absence.

  No one believed her lies, but she didn’t care. In forty-eight hours, it would be her wedding day, and she was determined to get there, if she had to drag Michael to the altar kicking and screaming.

  She banged on the door, shouting for help, and shortly, a sleepy footman poked his head out. Pushing past him, she hustled into the foyer.

  “Is Lord Henley here?”

  “He’s abed, Lady Rebecca.”

  “Go check to be certain. Hurry!”

  The young man was agog, terrified at the notion of entering the viscount’s bedchamber. “I really couldn’t, milady.”

  “Oh for pity’s sake,” she groaned. “How about the Duke? Rouse him for me. At once!”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  She began hollering, “Your Grace! Your Grace! It’s Rebecca Talbot! I must speak with you!”

  A housemaid rushed toward them, wondering at the racket.

  “Will you fetch the Duke for me?” Rebecca asked her, and she pointed at the footman. “This idiot insists he can’t.”

  The girl stood, dithering with dismay when, to Rebecca’s surprise, footsteps sounded on the stairs. She glanced up to see Michael coming down.

  He was dressed for the freezing weather, in wool trousers and boots, a warm coat and hat, and he carried a small case that she prayed didn’t contain dueling pistols.

  “What are you doing here, Rebecca?” he inquired as he marched down.

  “So the rumor is true.”

  “And what rumor is that?”

  “You’re fighting a duel at dawn. With Phillip Sinclair.”

  He neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, but spun to the footman and ordered his horse saddled. The boy scurried away to convey the message to the stables, then Michael strolled to the window and stared out at the dark sky, watching for the animal to arrive.

  Rebecca went over to him and laid her hand on his arm.

  “You can’t do this. You can’t! I won’t let you.”

  He peered over at her, his eyes looking cold and dead. “Is there some reason you think this is any of your business?”

  “We’re marrying in two days! After all you’ve put me through, you will not kill yourself right before the ceremony!”

  He took hold of her hand and tossed it away.

  “Since we returned from the country, I haven’t been in the mood to have this discussion, but it appears there’s no hope for it. Hear me and hear me well, Lady Rebecca: You will not harangue at me over my personal affairs. You will not command me. You will not interfere in anything I choose to do. Am I making myself clear?”

  “I’m told this is about Miss Carrington.”

  He ignored her question and stared out the window again.

  “You will not fight over her,” Rebecca declared. “She swore to me that she would end your liaison, and she has. Her presence in our life is severed. I will not let you shame me like this. Not over her. Not when we’re about to wed.”

  He whipped around. “Be silent!”

  Tears filled her eyes. How had everything gone so wrong? She’d just wanted to marry a Duke’s heir, had just wanted to be a duchess.

  She felt as if she were adrift in the ocean with no anchor and no tiller. Her father was completely incompetent, and she had no other male relatives who could compel Michael to conduct himself as he ought.

  She ran to the stairs and started up, calling, “Your Grace! Your Grace!”

  Not sure where the master suite was located, she continued up, and on the third floor, a footman entered the hall and blocked her way.

  “Begging your pardon, Lady Rebecca, but it’s rather early. May I help you?”

  “Your Grace!” she shouted again. “Clarendon! Where are you? I need you!”

  She was rewarded by a door opening, and the Duke stomped out, belting his robe.

  “For God’s sake, Rebecca, what is all this caterwauling? Can’t a man sleep in peace in his own bed?”

  “Phillip Sinclair has challenged Michael to a duel. It’s to be pistols at dawn.”

  “Michael’s cheek is still blackened from their last quarrel. What the hell could they be arguing about now?”

  “The gossips claim it’s Fanny Carrington.”

  “Fanny...Car...agh!”

  The Duke cut off, as if strangling on the woman’s name. He dashed for the stairs as Anne emerged from her bedchamber in her nightclothes.

  “What is it?” Anne inquired. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s Michael and Phillip Sinclair,” Rebecca explained. “They’re going to duel.”

  Anne gasped. “No!”

  “Michael is downstairs,” Rebecca was saying, “waiting for his horse. You’ve got to stop him!”

  The Duke tromped into the foyer just as Michael reached for the door.

  “Michael!” he snapped, halting him.

  “Good morning, Your Grace. I apologize for my fiancée forcing you to awaken at such an ungodly hour.”

  The Duke stumbled over, anxiously studying the case Michael was carrying. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

  “Michael,” he said, “...son...whatever’s occurred, whatever’s upset you, let’s go into the parlor and talk about it.”

  “I’m late as it is.”

  “Son, please! Listen to me.”

  “Goodbye.” Michael stepped out into the dark, frigid air.

  There was such a finality in his farewell, such a jarring inevitability, that a frisson of fear slithered down Rebecca’s spine. She had the most horrid premonition that he was deliberately planning to get himself killed.

  He didn’t want to live; she was certain of it. Since they’d come back from the country, he’d been so unhappy. He was about to let Phillip Sinclair murder him!

  Even if he survived the debacle, how would they interact with her knowing how desperately he loved another woman? Had any marriage in history ever commenced on such a pathetic note?

  The Duke hurried out after him, and he raced over and grabbed Michael’s arm, trying to prevent him from mounting his horse.

  “Michael,” he soothed, his voice wheedling and cajoling, “this is madness. You must calm yourself. You can’t do this reckless thing. I won’t allow it.”

  “He won’t kill me, Your Grace. Don’t worry. I won’t give him the chance.”

  “And what is your other option? You’ll kill him instead? Michael...you’re distraught. You’re making bad decisions.”

  “Actually, I’ve never been more clear.”

  “And why is that? Why don’t you come inside and tell me. If it’s about Miss Carrington, we’ll discuss her and resolve the matter. She wouldn’t want all this...this...drama on her behalf. I’m sure of it.”

  “You have no idea what she might want.”

  Michael pushed his father away and leapt onto his horse. With a kick of his heels, the animal jumped into a canter, and Michael disappeared.

  The eastern sky was beginning to brighten.

  Rebecca, Anne, and the Duke stood there, gaping after him, then the Duke shook off his stupor and stormed inside.

  He was rubbing his forehead, barking orders to the hovering servants. “Lay out my clothes! Have a horse saddled! Send for the constable! My solicitors! A surgeon!”

  He glared at Rebecca, bellowing, “Where is it being held?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There are only three likely spots where they’d be. We’ll have to check them all.”

  “I’ll go to Phillip’s house,” Anne offered. “His servants can probably tell me.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s a good idea,” the Duke muttered, and he vowed, “If anything happens to him, I will have Fanny Carrington hanged.”

  Fanny awoke to the sound of Mrs. Bailey tiptoeing in. The older woman was in her nightgown and mobcap, clutching a candle.

  Fanny lurched up. “What’s wr
ong?”

  “It’s Master Phillip, I’m afraid.”

  “Is he ill? Is he hurt?”

  “There’s been some...trouble. Lady Anne Wainwright is here. Will you see her?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Fanny threw off the covers, grabbed her robe, and flew down the stairs to where Anne waited in the vestibule.

  “Lady Anne, what is it?” Fanny was breathless, trembling.

  “Phillip and Michael have had a terrible quarrel.”

  “About what?”

  “About you.”

  “Me!” Fanny gasped, shocked to her very core.

  “Yes, and there’s to be a duel.”

  “A duel! Why?”

  “Phillip is angry about how Michael treated you when you were...his...” Lady Anne couldn’t politely describe Fanny’s affair with Michael. She settled for, “...when you were in the country with him.”

  Fanny frowned. “But I asked Phillip not to do anything about it. He swore he wouldn’t.”

  “Apparently, he was lying.”

  “Ooh, that impetuous fool!” Fanny’s temper sparked. Men! “I don’t want this from them! I don’t want them fighting over me!”

  “One of Phillip’s footmen knew the location where it’s being held. It’s not far. Would you come with me? Would you try to stop them?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Let me...let me...”

  She turned and sprinted to her room to find that the competent Mrs. Bailey had already retrieved her simplest dress, a warm cloak, gloves and boots. In a few minutes, Fanny raced down again.

  “I have a horse for you,” Lady Anne explained. “Can you ride?”

  “Not very well, but I’ll make do.”

  They sped outside, mounted, and trotted away, with Fanny whispering a prayer that they would arrive in time.

  Anne was an experienced horsewoman who’d been raised in the saddle, and if she’d been by herself, she’d have galloped to Marley Field, but Miss Carrington could barely stay seated. When she’d said she didn’t ride well, she had to have meant she didn’t ride at all.

  The precious seconds ticked by in slow motion, the sky growing lighter and lighter. Finally, Anne saw the low stretch along the river, saw the thick trees and foliage that shielded the spot from the road. They followed the trail through the woods and emerged into the clearing. A small group of men were clustered on the other side.