Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  The Duke, too, was worried that a blow was imminent. He kept glancing to the side, as if searching for an escape route.

  “Thomas is your grandson,” Michael seethed, “but you’re too much of an ass to recognize what a gift he is.”

  “A gift? Ha!”

  “I have notified his bankers, lawyers, and estate agent that you’re a thief. You’ll never be allowed within stealing range of his money or property ever again.”

  “Do you actually suppose you can keep me from doing whatever I please?”

  “Yes. You will never see Thomas again. You will never talk to him again. You will never so much as ponder him in your twisted, loathsome head.”

  “And what if I don’t heed you?” the Duke queried. “What will you do?”

  “I will kill you. I’ll kill you for John, as retribution for your many cruelties to his young son. If he’s watching me from Heaven, I’m certain he’ll be thrilled.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” the Duke blustered.

  “Then don’t push me, because in my current state, a bit of patricide sounds like a marvelous idea.”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “I intend to. I only stopped by so I could tell you to your face that I’m never coming back. Fanny once predicted that you’d die old and alone. I’m betting she’ll get her wish.”

  “Well, you’ll be betting wrong, for I won’t be alone. Rebecca will stay with me. Rebecca will always be by my side.”

  The vows were just sinking in—the ‘til death do us part phrase seeming particularly pertinent—and the notion of caring for him as he aged was repulsive.

  At the prospect, she must have appeared stricken, because Michael laughed.

  “Rebecca will be with you? Good luck, Father. You’ll definitely need it.” He reached into his coat to retrieve a piece of paper, and he tossed it on the desk.

  “What is that?” Rebecca inquired.

  “It’s an old letter—from your mother to the Earl of Trent. Phillip gave it to me. Consider it my wedding gift to the two of you.”

  “A letter? Why would my mother write to Charles Sinclair?”

  “Ask the Duke. I’m sure he’ll be happy to explain it to you.”

  The Duke was already scanning the words, and suddenly, he started to shriek, “No...no...no... It can’t be true!”

  “What does she say?” Rebecca demanded to know.

  “Your mother,” Michael gleefully declared, “confesses to having had an affair with Trent. About twenty-one years ago—which would have been the year before you were born.”

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Are you claiming that my mother and Trent...that Trent might have...that I could have been...”

  The possibility was too hideous to voice aloud.

  “Yes, precisely,” Michael said. “You don’t have the birthmark on your wrist, or the green eyes, but your mother seemed very sure, and I suppose the woman involved would know best.” He grinned at the Duke. “Just imagine, Your Grace: Whenever you look at her, you’ll wonder if she’s the daughter of your worst enemy.”

  “Get out!” the Duke raged. “Get out! Get out!”

  “Gladly,” Michael consented.

  He sauntered off, and as the front door was shut behind him, a frightening silence descended. She peeked at the Duke, and he rippled with wild emotions she couldn’t identify.

  “What are you staring at?” he hissed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just dandy.”

  “You seem a tad...distraught.”

  For an eternity, he glared at her, then he commanded, “Go up to my bedchamber.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m ready to consummate my marriage.”

  She gulped. “Now?”

  “Yes. No one’s coming to your stupid party, so I might as well put the time to better use.”

  “Now?” she repeated. “But...but...”

  “Go!” he shouted with such force that the chandelier rattled.

  She whirled around and fled up the stairs.

  “By gad,” Phillip mused, “I think I found them.”

  “Who?”

  Fanny smiled at her brother. After a long, marvelous day, Christmas night was winding to a conclusion. A hot fire burned in the grate, and snowflakes were falling outside. Thomas was asleep on the rug.

  She was tired, too, but pleasantly so.

  Phillip had been reading one of Charles’s old journals, and he pointed to a page in the book that was balanced on his lap.

  “Twin girls, born the same year you were.”

  Sisters! Sisters her own age! At the splendid notion, Fanny’s pulse raced.

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Helen and Harriet Stewart.”

  “Do you know where they’re living?”

  “Not currently, but I guess I’ll have to find out.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “I was hoping you would.” Phillip chuckled quietly. “I’ll let you break the news to them. If they haven’t learned the truth about their ancestry, it can be shocking, so it might be easier coming from you than from me.”

  They’d lapsed into a companionable silence, when Phillip mentioned, “I have something for you. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “What is it?”

  He extracted a small box from his coat and handed it to her. It was wrapped in pretty gold paper and tied with a green ribbon that was the exact color of her eyes.

  “It’s from Michael.”

  “He sent me a gift?”

  “Actually, he left it for you, when he came with Thomas. He said it was something you’d cherished but lost.”

  She gaped at it, unnerved, anxious about what it indicated. Why would he give her a present? Why would he have been thinking of her at all?

  He was who he was, a product of his culture and upbringing. He would never marry without his father’s approval, and he would never have changed for her. It was like expecting a horse to become a duck. A continuing relationship simply hadn’t been possible, and she had to move on, had to stop wondering: what if?

  What if he’d loved her enough to throw off the restrictions that ruled his life? What if he’d chosen her instead of duty and obligation? What if he’d wed for love and affection rather than wealth and station?

  There was no explanation that made sense, and it was fruitless to agonize over questions that had no answers.

  She tugged on the ribbon and tore away the paper, and as she peered inside, the sight was so surprising, that it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing.

  “Oh, my Lord,” she breathed. “It’s my mother’s wedding ring.”

  “Really?”

  “I had to sell it years ago, when our situation was very dire.”

  “I can’t picture him finding it for you.”

  “Neither can I. It was the worst time for me...the very worst time.”

  “You told him about it?”

  “Yes, but I can’t believe he remembered. Did he say how he retrieved it? Or why?”

  “No. He just asked me to give it to you. He said he thought you’d like to have it back.”

  “Oh, yes...oh, yes...”

  She slipped it onto her finger, and she studied it, desperate to unravel the precious gesture.

  Why had he done it? Was it merely a method of apologizing for past sins? Or was it a more personal comment? And if so, what message was he trying to convey?

  “So...” Phillip tentatively ventured, “you’re pleased?”

  “I’m very, very pleased.”

  Fanny smiled, feigning calm, but her mind reeled.

  What did it mean? What did it mean?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Michael walked down the lane from the Dower House, and as he approached the main entrance to Henley Hall, he was amazed and inordinately thrilled to see Phillip’s carriage parked out front.

  He’d thought
Phillip had gone to Italy on his honeymoon, and he was tickled to find his friend still in England. Apparently, Michael had been sufficiently forgiven that Phillip would deign to visit. Perhaps Anne was with him, too.

  The brisk February wind whipped at his coat, and he increased his pace, anxious to be inside. For weeks, he’d been fussing with the boys he’d rescued in Cornwall, had been occupied with getting them calmed and situated, and he’d relish the chance—for a change—to socialize with adults.

  He raced into the foyer, smiling for what seemed the first time in an eternity. As he shed his winter garments and proceeded toward the front parlor, he was absurdly eager for the pending meeting.

  He opened the door and hurried in, but immediately, he stumbled to a halt when he encountered not only Phillip, as he’d expected, but Thomas, too. Michael was so stunned that he could hardly believe his eyes. In light of their horrid parting, he had doubted that he’d ever see his nephew again.

  “Thomas?” he sputtered, as if the boy were an apparition.

  “Hello, Uncle Michael.”

  Michael studied him, relieved to note that he appeared content and at ease, that he resembled the child he’d previously been before Rebecca and the Duke had gotten hold of him.

  His improved condition confirmed Michael’s decision to give Thomas back to Fanny. She’d swiftly reversed the ill effects of Thomas’s brief stint with the Wainwright side of his family.

  “This is a marvelous surprise,” Michael said, elated when Phillip reached out and clasped his hand.

  “Hello, Michael.”

  “Is Anne with you?”

  “She’s upstairs, resting. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, no, of course not. Is she all right?”

  “She’s tired from the journey.”

  Thomas leaned forward and whispered, “She’s having a baby.”

  “A...baby!”

  “I’m not supposed to know.”

  Michael grinned. “I’m delighted, Phillip. Just delighted.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s a bit of a shock.”

  “That would be putting it mildly. I’m going to be a father, a fact which I’m convinced will send the earth spinning off its axis. I’m still trembling with alarm.”

  Michael chuckled and collapsed onto the nearest sofa, and he gestured to the one opposite. Phillip and Thomas sat across from him.

  “What brings you all this way on such a cold winter afternoon—besides to share the news that I’m to be an uncle again? Are you planning to stay for awhile? I would love the company.”

  “Actually,” Phillip replied, “this trip was Thomas’s idea, and he has something he wishes to tell you.”

  Phillip raised a brow, which piqued Michael’s curiosity. Michael straightened and faced his nephew.

  “My goodness, this sounds serious.”

  “It is,” Thomas said, and he stood.

  He seemed so dignified in his blue coat, short pants, and shined shoes. With his dark hair slicked back, his blue eyes staring so intently, it was difficult to look at him and not be battered by memories of John at the same age.

  “Uncle Phillip and I have been talking,” Thomas started.

  “About what?”

  “We’ve been discussing Miss Frances Carrington.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes, and we feel that we should speak to you about her.”

  At hearing him mention Fanny, Michael was extremely uncomfortable. There wasn’t an hour in the day where he didn’t reminisce about her, about the terrible things he’d done, and what might have been if he wasn’t such a despicable, undependable ass.

  He glanced over at Phillip, wondering what was coming, but Phillip’s expression was inscrutable.

  “What is it you would like to say?” Michael inquired.

  “My Grandpa Carrington died a long time ago, so Uncle Phillip and I are her male relatives.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So we have to watch out for her. We have to determine what’s best.”

  “And what have you determined?”

  “She’s going to have a baby, too, so she needs to get married.” He paused, then added, “We think she should get married to you. Would you like to ask her?”

  Michael peeked over at Phillip again, and his friend merely shrugged.

  “I told you it was Thomas’s idea.”

  “What is your opinion?” Michael inquired.

  “He might be on to something,” Phillip responded, “which is why I agreed to bring him here.”

  Thomas continued, “Uncle Phillip says that you have to pick a certain type of woman to be your bride, but you couldn’t find anyone better than Aunt Fanny. She would be perfect for you.”

  “She would?”

  “Yes. I wrote down all the reasons why. Would you like to hear them?”

  Michael couldn’t refuse. He nodded, and Thomas searched through his coat and retrieved a piece of paper from an inside pocket. He unfolded it and read, “She’s very pretty and very smart. And she’s patient, and she never gets angry, and she never complains about anything. Not even when I spill my milk or track in mud, and she likes children and dogs.”

  “My, my,” Michael pretended to muse, “what an impressive list.”

  “She doesn’t ride horses very well, though, and she’s not a good singer. She tries, but she’s not very good. I figured you should know.”

  “I suppose a man could do without a lot of horse riding and singing.”

  “She’s been awfully sad,” Thomas said, “since she lived here last summer. You weren’t very kind to her.”

  Michael sighed. “No, I wasn’t.”

  Thomas was somber and accusing. “If you told her you were sorry, she’d forgive you. I’m sure of it.”

  How refreshing it would be to view life from a child’s perspective! Thomas assumed a simple apology would wipe away betrayal and treachery and heartbreak.

  Michael wished it were so, wished he could utter the words I’m sorry and repair the damage he’d wrought, but he’d sinned against her so egregiously that atonement would never be possible. There weren’t enough words in the world to excuse his behavior, and he wouldn’t embarrass himself by trying to justify his conduct.

  He rose from the sofa, and he stepped to Thomas and rested his hand on the top of Thomas’s head.

  “You’re a good boy, Thomas. Your father would be proud of the person you’ve turned out to be.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, very proud.”

  Thomas smiled shyly, obviously pleased by the compliment. “What is your answer, Uncle Michael? Will you marry my Aunt Fanny?”

  Thomas gazed up at him, hopeful and expectant and so certain that his remarks had swayed his uncle. Michael couldn’t bear to disappoint him, but he couldn’t explain what he’d done to Fanny. The story was too sordid for his young ears.

  Michael peered over at Phillip, seeking assistance, but Phillip was no help at all. He shrugged again.

  “I’ve always thought you should wed her,” Phillip said. “If you recall, we once fought—quite viciously—over this very issue.”

  Michael snorted in reply, then went to the window, and he leaned against the sill, staring out at the snow-covered park behind the house. His mind reeled as he tried to deduce how to gently decline Thomas’s request, but his rumination was interrupted as his attention was caught by movement on one of the snowy trails. A woman was walking, bundled in a heavy green cloak, a fur hat concealing her identity.

  He focused in, studying her, and his pulse began to race.

  Could it be?

  He whipped around. “Is Fanny with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she know what we’ve been discussing?”

  Both Thomas and Phillip shook their heads, and Phillip said, “She wanted to thank you for retrieving her mother’s wedding ring.”

  “In case you were wondering,” Thomas noted, “she’s not angry with you a
nymore.”

  Thomas was chattering away, probably expounding on Fanny’s positive attributes, but Michael had stopped listening. He stumbled across the room to the French windows that led onto the verandah, and he staggered out, the frigid temperature biting into his skin, but he scarcely noticed.

  Watching her every second, he ran to the stairs and jumped down into the yard, hurrying toward her, and she kept coming, too, approaching until they were toe to toe. He’d planned to murmur a greeting of welcome, but he was as tongue-tied as a green lad with his first girl.

  She tugged off her hat and smiled up at him, her beautiful hair tumbling down her back. Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold, and she looked pretty and young and as wholesome as she’d been that summer day all those months ago. A warm rush of remembered affection swept through him.

  “Hello, Lord Henley,” she said.

  “Call me Michael.”

  “It’s freezing out, and you’ve forgotten your coat.”

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Your home is lovely.”

  “I’m so glad you came.”

  The conversation was the most awkward that had ever been attempted. There were so many comments swirling around inside him, so many things he needed to tell her, that he couldn’t form a single sentence.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she finally stated.

  “For what?”

  “For finding my mother’s ring. How did you?”

  “I was passing through your old village last fall, and...” He trailed off, uncomfortable with what the gesture indicated about his continuing infatuation, and he flushed with embarrassment. “Every person I spoke to knew the vicar’s wife had it.”

  “When I had to sell it, I was crushed.” She raised her hand, the gold band shining on her finger. “This means so much to me.”

  “I suspected it might.”

  “It was just so kind of you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “I have to know something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why did you do it?” She chuckled miserably. “I’ve been driving myself mad with speculating.”

  He supposed he could have made some frivolous declaration about friendship or repayment, but there was only one reason he’d found it for her and that was because he loved her. He’d always loved her, and he’d recognized how much she would cherish the gift. In giving it to her, he’d hoped it would show, in some small way, how often he thought of her, how sorry he was.