The Gentleman's Promise (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Fowlkes, Frances

  A burgundy chaise lounge beckoned to her from a snug corner across the room. The chair was positioned perfectly beneath a large-paned window for a delightful spot to read and nap. As it was, rain pelted the glass whilst a perpetual gray sky darkened the chaise and the entire portion of the room. Thankfully, she wanted a bit of seclusion. She needn’t have anyone coming upon her as she studied sordid illustrations of pleasurable positions—for research purposes, of course.

  With a quick glance behind her shoulder, she settled onto the plush chaise, setting aside the text on trees, and opened the book of Indian lovemaking to revisit the familiar graphics. Immersing herself fully into her study, she failed to hear the approaching footsteps of an intruder.

  “Sarah?”

  She startled, clasping the book shut and shoving it behind the lone embroidered pillow on the chaise. “Yes?”

  Jonathon peered down at her, surprise clearly evident on his handsome features. A solitary brow lifted into his hairline. “What is it you are reading?”

  What the devil was he doing here? Now? He was one for books, yes, but it had to be early morning, not a suitable time for perusing through the library. But then—was that not what she had been doing? Relaxing with a book to soothe her nerves and find a bit of solace amongst the din of an unwelcoming crowd?

  She glanced at the pillow and back at him, embarrassment heating her cheeks. Undoubtedly, she appeared as red as a beet, so bright was her mortification at having him, the very object of her fantasies, discover her with such a licentious bit of literature. She couldn’t very well own to reading a text that was not meant for her unmarried eyes.

  “Why, I’m reading a book,” she said, stumbling through the vague truth. She picked up the volume on trees. “About elderberries and their healing properties. The marquess had a copy I have not yet familiarized myself with.”

  “That is highly unlikely.” He snatched the book from her hands and glanced at the cover.

  “But it is true, I was…well, why are you here?”

  “The same reason as you, I wager. I thought to find a book before the ladies woke for the day and the entertainment was decided. Though it seems I’ve found a lady who does not adhere to common hours.”

  “I could not sleep,” she said. Sarah discreetly shifted to the side to better hide the book lurking behind the hastily placed pillow.

  “Was it your pillow?”

  Sarah stilled. “No,” she said a bit louder than normal conversation, praying he did not see the bit of binding peeking out from the pillow’s tasseled corner. “My pillow was fine. I found my mind full.”

  “So you sought the library to fill it…more?” His gaze slid to her hand and where it rested against the pillow. She could barely breathe, for fear he would discover her secret. While she normally craved Jonathon’s company, she now wished him to leave. She had to return the Indian text to its proper place and quit the library before anyone else came upon her. Once again, she’d been a fool to think her actions would go unnoticed. “The library is where I go to seek solace. Reading is a comfort.”

  He nodded, glancing once again at her hand. Fear had her paralyzed. She didn’t dare move to draw further attention to her hidden indulgence. Despite the rapid beating of her heart, she said in her calmest voice, “Are you confident in our signals for today’s game of whist?”

  “I am,” he said slowly. He sat on the edge of the chaise, settling himself against her feet. Sarah made to sit up, but he touched a hand to her ankle. “Did you know I’ve always admired your ankles?”

  “M-my ankles?” she said. What had brought upon his observation? His fingers trailed over her stockinged ankles, increasing her heart rate.

  “They are quite lovely and hidden far too often.” His gaze flicked to hers. “Much like the truth.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His fingers lingered on her ankle before he lifted the book on trees. “Come now, Sarah. We are well acquainted enough to know when the other is hiding something. Why not confess to your choice of literature? I know this to be a ruse,” he said, waving the book on trees. “And your real choice to be hiding behind the pillow. When have I ever criticized your taste in books? I would never do you the dishonor of disparaging your selection. If you’re reading a Gothic novel or a…a book of Lord Byron’s poems, I will not think less of you.”

  Her heart swelled. His candor and implicit trust in her was one of the things she loved most about him. That he would not condemn her for her oddities or interests made her love him all the more. She was attracted to him physically, yes, but his heart and kindness affixed him permanently on her heart.

  Did he harbor similar affections for her? Ones that went beyond their friendship and into the realm of…of love?

  “I-I-I—” she stuttered, unable to speak through the barrier of her emotions.

  He leaned toward her, further incapacitating her. She could hardly breathe through it all, his nearness numbing her brain and inhibiting all functions. He experienced no such diversions and easily plucked the book out from its hiding spot.

  “What are you reading today?” he asked, as he perused the cover. “A bit of Yeats?” His eyes widened as he opened the book to the chapter on graphically detailed pleasure positions.

  She was going to die of abject humiliation. She was certain of it. Mortification would kill her. Now.

  “This isn’t Yeats,” he whispered. His gaze lifted from the pages and bored into hers. “How much of this have you read?”

  She glanced down at her hands, which she clasped together. “All of it. This is not my first reading.”

  He let out a breath. “Does anyone else…know?”

  “That I read ancient Indian texts?” she asked, still avoiding his gaze. “You are the first to discover my unusual reading selections.”

  “Sarah…” He touched his fingers to her ankle, wrapping them around her and squeezing. “Look at me.”

  “So you can lecture me on my indecent behavior?”

  “So I can ask if you have any questions.” His hand remained on her ankle, warming her skin through her stocking.

  Her gaze lifted. “You are not disappointed in me?”

  A low chuckled rumbled in his chest. “On the contrary. I’m very interested in your thoughts on the subject.”

  “And were I to share them?” she asked. “Would you think less of me?”

  “Never.”

  The word washed over her, melting her. “Even if I…I were to tell you I enjoyed reading the book and do not regret learning from its pages?”

  He leaned closer, his gaze steadfast on hers. “Not even were you to tell me you wished to study the contents further.”

  She shifted so that she could position herself closer to him. “H-have you researched its text?”

  “On occasion.”

  Her mouth went dry as a low heat flickered to life between her legs. She wanted his hand to trail upward over her calf, no longer content with its placement on her ankle. Swallowing, she forced herself to concentrate on their conversation and not on the placement of his fingers. “And what are your thoughts on its teachings?” she asked.

  “I find them worth pursuing. With the right person.” His steady piercing gaze told her who that person was: her. Her beating heart felt as if it would burst.

  Were she to lean forward a bit more, she could enlighten herself to the experiences promised when giving in to her desire. His lips were but inches from hers.

  Never mind her discovery would be his doom. She would taint his name and prevent his achievements—all for a taste of reciprocated affection.

  For she did not doubt, at least in this moment, that he wished to kiss her as much as she did him. Inhaling, she pitched closer—and stalled at the sound of laughter.

  Jonathon sat upright, removing his hand from her ankle and tucking the book into his jacket. “It seems we are no longer alone.”

  Sarah set to smoothing her skirts and stood. “Who is it?”

 
; “A servant girl. Set upon by one of the young lords. Mr. De la Pole, most likely. I shall return your…book to the shelves and make certain no one has noticed its absence.”

  “Upper level, top shelf, high left corner.” She motioned toward the general vicinity from which she’d found the book.

  She curtsied and hurried off, making her way through the books and praying to God in heaven she could focus more on whist than on how very close she had come to kissing Mr. Jonathon Annesley.

  …

  Sarah ought to have been glad the unrelenting cold persisted and the damp gray mist that seemed to have taken residence at Barrington Park continued to enshroud the manor in its dismal grip. With gales of wind snapping branches against the windows, and sheets of sleet pouring down from the heavens, the weather was considered unsuitable for the pups to run, and the men were forced to stay indoors and be entertained by the ever gracious Lady Vincent. Thus affording Jonathon the perfect opportunity to suggest a game of whist, which Lady Vincent had agreed to without a moment’s hesitation. She even chose Mr. De la Pole as her partner, as he had predicted. With him insisting on Sarah as his selection, the other partners were drawn, the tables arranged, and the game begun.

  All was going as planned. All save for the physical reaction her body seemed to be having to Olivia’s older brother and the distraction it afforded. His very nearness evoked a quickened heart rate and a deep stirring in her belly. Her nerves were already stretched thin in anticipation of the marchioness’s attack on her person. She didn’t need any more diversion or anxiety.

  Jonathon had only her best interest at heart. He always had. Her mind knew this. She had long accepted him as her friend. Her body decided otherwise, reacting to him as though he were not her friend, but a love interest. Her stomach fluttered. She glanced down at the cards in her hand. Even her fingers had grown clammy. It had to be the game and the fear of being caught at cheating.

  Her cold, perspiring hands had nothing whatsoever to do with the idea she might have fallen for Mr. Jonathon Annesley.

  While her mind decried the ridiculousness of the notion, her body seemed to think it a viable option. She could deny many things. She could not refute the way his crooked grin sent her heart aflutter, or how, when he had led her to the whist table, his familiar scent caused her knees to weaken and her pulse to race.

  He could never be hers. Not when her reputation threatened his. That he had offered to restore the luster to her name was beyond any expectation she may have harbored, even such a small link threatened votes. And yet, Jonathon had persisted in assisting her. He was her champion—and had captured her heart in the process, which would never do.

  After this party, he would seek the hand of an influential peer’s daughter, perhaps even the daughter of the Prime Minister himself, and she would accept whatever offer came her way, because it was certain to be the only one she would receive. An offer made out of desperation and greed rather than love.

  Sarah took a deep breath. She could not be troubled by such thoughts, not when she needed to concentrate on the thirteen cards in her hand so she might earn an inkling of approval from the Marchioness Vincent.

  Sarah eyed the six of hearts Lady Vincent laid down as the trump, and stifled a groan.

  Things were not going as planned. At all.

  Of the thirteen cards, five were of the highest ranking cards of the trump suit. While winning the first two rounds had been a part of their strategy, so was purposely losing the last few. The red hearts in her hand were ridiculously in her favor, ensuring not one round of success, but multiple.

  What was she to do now? Sarah nibbled on her lip. The odds of being dealt such a hand were exceptionally high—she had a better chance of marrying a duke than she did of having these particular cards. She lifted her gaze from the cards to Jonathon. His unusually green eyes peered back.

  Was he waiting for a sign? For her to touch a loosened curl she had insisted the maid leave at her neck to signal a bad hand? Sarah tentatively brought a finger to the coil nearest her ear and wound the soft strand around her flesh.

  Jonathon’s eyes darkened.

  “Your play, Mr. Annesley,” said Lady Vincent.

  He blinked once, his gaze lowering to his hands. He took his time, his fingers thrumming on the soft green felt covering the top of the table.

  Sarah bit the inside of her cheek. What would it feel like to have those fingers run over her flesh, engaged in one of the sixty-four sexual acts in the ancient Sanskirt reference literature? To have them thrum over her pulse as it beat out an erratic rhythm…were his fingers tapping out a message? She hadn’t thought they had agreed upon the motion as any particular signal, but she might have overlooked it in her distracted state last evening…and now.

  Lady Vincent arched a dark brow. “Might I remind you of the rules of play, Mr. Annesley?”

  He smiled, his even white teeth glinting. “I believe I remember the basics.” He plucked out a card and set down the ten of diamonds.

  A trickle of perspiration chilled the back of her neck.

  Lady Vincent’s thin lips lifted. “Excellent start,” she purred. “Diamonds are a lady’s best accessory.” She placed a queen of diamonds on the table and turned to Sarah. “Do you agree, Lady Sarah?”

  Sarah licked her lips. “I fear a man may wear them better, especially in his crown.” Gingerly, she set down a king of the same suit. She flicked her gaze from Jonathon to Lady Vincent, whose lips thinned.

  “Good play,” said Mr. De la Pole. “But I’m afraid it was not good enough. A man may wear diamonds better, but an ace is worth more.” He set down the solitary diamond with a flourish.

  “Good show, Mr. De la Pole,” Lady Vincent cried. “Our first trick has been made.”

  With the win, he set down another card. Jonathon followed with a low card in the same suit. Giving the marchioness one of his trademark grins, he added, “I must say, Lady Vincent, you are a ray of sunshine on this bleak morning.”

  “I see what you are on about, dear man, trying to charm me into distraction,” said Lady Vincent, a smug smile on her lips. “Well, it will not work. I know your secret.”

  “Oh, and what is that?” he asked, his voice far calmer than Sarah’s nerves, which threatened to snap at any moment.

  Lady Vincent wagged a finger at Jonathon. “You are as cunning as the devil, Annesley. I know it, and Mr. De la Pole knows it.” She nodded toward her partner across from the table. He played and took the trick once more.

  “Yes, and as equally elusive as the devil,” Mr. De la Pole uttered. He set down another card.

  Sarah eyed Mr. De la Pole, but his gaze remained fixed on the cards.

  “And with a silver tongue,” added Lady Vincent, seemingly unaware of De la Pole’s taunt. “Countered, of course, with a handsome face.” The elder glanced at her cards. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  Jonathon’s face was more than handsome. With his square jaw, full lips, and sloping nose, he reminded her of a Grecian god sculpted by a master’s hand. One would have to be blind not to find his features pleasing.

  “Your sources do me credit,” Jonathon said, his gaze catching hers.

  Her cheeks heating with admiration, Sarah glanced down at her hand once more.

  “Yes, quite unlike Mr. De la Pole’s,” Lady Vincent continued. She selected her card and set it on the table. “I wonder, just who did you the dishonor of relaying untruths about jockeys?”

  De la Pole flushed. “One I will not revisit in the future.”

  A sardonic smile lit Jonathon’s mouth. He ran his fingers over the cards.

  Sarah stared at his hand, transfixed. Such a subtle motion had been their agreed upon signal for verification, but she had not done anything for him to verify. Indeed, it was no longer her turn to lay down. Had she misread his signal while she had admired his face?

  “How is your elder brother, De la Pole? Last I heard he had taken ill,” Jonathon continued.

  “He continues
to ail,” De la Pole said.

  While quiet, and soft spoken when he had a mind to speak, the eldest De la Pole was a kind-hearted man who had danced with Sarah once or twice when the women had outnumbered the men—before her incident. “I am sorry to hear that. Had I known, I would have sent something,” she said.

  “Yes,” Lady Vincent said with a placating tone. “But let us hope it is not one of your teas, dear. Lady Isabella had an unattractive rash on her face for weeks after your little charade.”

  Sarah discarded and took a deep breath, willing her nerves to calm. The woman was horrible, once again throwing her past in her face. The marchioness had not seen the way the other women had run from the earl, dismissing him out of hand, or how crestfallen her sister, Henrietta, had been when she believed her home in jeopardy, at risk of falling into the hands of one of those women. “I did provide her a calming salve to take away the sting after…after I apologized for my unseemly behavior.”

  “Too little, too late, my dear. She was unable to make the soiree her mother had so dutifully arranged for her younger cousin’s birthday. Her cousin made a match Lady Isabella was certain to have owned, had she only been in attendance.”

  The jibe stung. Had she really prevented Lady Isabella from obtaining her happiness? Lady Isabella had been searching for a husband for near four seasons. Last she heard, the poor girl was about to be shelved. And Sarah was, in part, guilty of the woman’s fate. A thread of despair wove through her chest. She’d have to make it up to Lady Isabella. The salve had not been enough, though it was one of Henrietta’s better creations. It had even faded the scars etched on her husband the Earl of Amhurst’s face.