The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  “Is…Is Lady Nisdale also to join you for your ride this morning?”

  “No, m’lord! I believe it will only be Lady Wentworth and myself.”

  He nodded once, and she felt his relief. He studied, for a moment, the shortening shadows along the edges of the meadow, and then looked back at her.

  “I am happy that you accepted Lady Wentworth’s invitation,” he said gently. “In the years that she has been a neighbor here at Solgrave, I have yet to see or hear of her seeking out anyone’s company…until now, that is.”

  Rebecca remembered her friend’s reserve the day before. “She does appear quite unhappy…though I have a difficult time believing Lady Nisdale’s visit will alleviate the problem. The two appear to be so different!”

  An icy frown stole over the earl’s features. “You are absolutely correct in your observations.”

  Rebecca glanced down the path and still saw no sign of her friend. She wanted Millicent to arrive, but at the same time she prized these private moments in his company. She considered bringing up another topic that had been gnawing away at her—her concern about the lack of rapport between the earl and Jamey.

  Last night, after joining the father and son in the dining room, she had been genuinely disturbed by the show of indifference that still was so pronounced between them. Jamey had yet—so far as she knew—to speak a word in Lord Stanmore’s presence. Even when asked a question by Rebecca, the boy simply nodded or shook his head. Rebecca knew she had taught him better behavior than what had been displayed at the dinner table, and, following him to his room, she had spoken to him in length about the unacceptability of his conduct toward his father.

  But Jamey was not even ten, and Lord Stanmore’s cool silence had certainly been no better than the son’s.

  What else could she expect, though, since the two had spent so little time in each other’s company since their arrival at Solgrave?

  “I am returning to London today.”

  Her disappointment must have shown immediately, for a smile stole over his face. He reached over and took her hand. Though she found she could not bring herself to shake off the touch, Rebecca wished he would use some of that allure in winning over the affections of his son.

  “An urgent message arrived late last night. My presence is required, it seems, in London. But I shall not be away more than two days at the most.”

  Rebecca swallowed her personal feelings regarding his absence and instead tried to focus on the more important matters. “When you return, m’lord, will you be able to spare a day perhaps?”

  His dark gaze was deep, bottomless, drawing her in. She shivered with excitement as he slowly lifted her fingers and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. “I can spare much more than a day.”

  “Dare I ask…two hours a day…for the entire length of your stay at Solgrave, then?”

  “Why do I have a feeling that you are planning something?”

  She withdrew her hand and hid it in the folds of the skirt. “You do not sound very trusting, m’lord.”

  The sound of his laughter reverberating in the yard brought a smile to her lips. “What are you after, Rebecca?”

  “Not much. Only two hours a day of your lordship’s time!”

  “What for?”

  “Instruction.”

  “What kind of instruction? Better yet…” His voice dropped low. “…which of us is to do this ‘instructing’?”

  “You are teasing me, m’lord.” She looked down at his high topped boots, at the dark buckskin breeches that molded to his muscular legs. Her gaze hurried past his narrow waist to the short black jacket that hugged his impressive wide shoulders. She had thought to charm and fool him and have him agree without knowing the details—but as the warmth spread through her, she found it was she herself who was charmed.

  “You keep this up, and I’ll cancel my trip to London.” He leaned toward her until his voice was a husky whisper in her ear. “And I will see to it that you and I are locked up in my bedchambers for a fortnight…at least. And what do you think of that proposition, Rebecca?”

  If the mail coach from London had been bearing down on her, Rebecca could not have moved an inch. Stunned, unable to breathe even, she felt the molten heat flow through her, scorching her from the inside.

  “I…I…”

  Stanmore’s fingers caressed her cheek. It took great control not to lean into his touch.

  “No pressure,” he whispered. “You will tell me when you are ready.”

  The arrival of his groom from the stables caused him to withdraw his hand. She glanced at the beautiful brown mare, saddled and ready.

  Stanmore pulled on his gloves. “Where do you plan to meet Lady Wentworth?”

  “Here! We were to meet by the stables here. But m’lord, you haven’t answered my earlier question. About your time? Those two hours a day?”

  “One hour.”

  She watched him loop the reins over his horse’s head. “A moment ago, you were threatening me with lengthy confinement. Now you are being exceedingly frugal with your time.”

  He climbed up onto his horse. “I am known to be a generous man…so long as the terms of the negotiations are set forth openly and honestly.”

  She frowned up into his handsome face. “I have been open about my request from the first day. But your lack of interest in the topic has forced me to pursue a different approach.”

  “I’ve provided everything for the lad that you’ve requested.”

  “Not everything, m’lord,” Rebecca replied doggedly as a darkening temper clouded his brow. “James needs you. He needs your attention…your interest…far more than he needs any of the comforts Solgrave provides.”

  The steed impatiently pawed the hard ground, but Stanmore’s firm hand kept him in check.

  “Are these his words, Mrs. Ford, or yours?”

  “It does not matter whose words they are. I know him better than anyone in the world. You forget, I have raised him as my own.”

  “I do not forget anything, and in this case you are mistaken. Regardless of the fine example of hard work and self-sacrifice that you have provided all these years, James was borne to Elizabeth. All the good intentions on your part will not hold sway over his breeding. It is her blood that runs in his veins. With it he has inherited her weakness and selfishness and arrogance.”

  “I disagree!” Rebecca was astonished by the raw emotion she saw in the earl’s face, but forged on anyway. “Elizabeth…your wife…she was none of…”

  She caught herself. How could she defend a woman whom she had supposedly never known?

  “I mean…James has his own character.”

  “I have noticed.”

  “But you must give him a chance. What harm would come from spending an hour or two a day in his company?”

  She feared what his answer might be. His cold gaze was already fixed on the road leading out of Solgrave. The groom, who had been holding her horse, was now standing a short distance away from them, discreetly checking the hooves of the mare.

  A battle was raging inside Rebecca’s head. She liked Lord Stanmore. She admired him. She desired him. In truth, she was caught in some invisible web and was quickly becoming too blind to care about the consequences. And yet she knew she could never surrender herself to a man who harbored such bitterness toward his own son.

  “One hour!” he said curtly. “Tell the boy he will have to rise early. Our designated hour will be planned for the morning, prior to his lessons with Mr. Clarke.”

  “Thank you, m’lord.”

  Her soft whisper drew his gaze for a final farewell. What she saw in that look caused her heart to jump in her chest.

  “Safe journey. We shall be waiting for you.”

  As he spurred his horse toward St. Albans and London, Rebecca prayed that this journey of hers might be only slightly less perilous.

  ***

  The young maidservant carefully slid the sealed letter into the pocket of her apron before sli
pping out of Lady Wentworth’s bedchamber.

  Melbury Hall was still fairly quiet. The master, drinking late last night and playing cards with the guest, was still abed. Hurrying down the corridor until she reached the master’s chambers, the girl held her breath and trod quietly past, keeping her eyes on the door leading to the servant’s stairs at the far end of the carpeted hallway. Violet didn’t want to think about what else had been going on, aside from the card playing. She would just keep her mind on her task.

  Lord, how she hated the times when her mistress’s presence was required in the country.

  She hurried on. Jonah would be hauling ashes out of the kitchen ovens now, as he did at this time every morning. The young woman needed to pass her mistress’s letter on to the slave before he left. She didn’t know very much about the quiet man herself, but she knew Lady Wentworth trusted him completely. Jonah would deliver her mistress’s letter to its recipient this very morning…without fail.

  Violet didn’t see the guest until the woman suddenly appeared out of the shadows, blocking her path. The maidservant gasped out loud and immediately shrank against the wall.

  “Why the hurry? So out of breath!”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Caught me unawares, you did.” The servant dropped a curtsy and kept her gaze riveted to the floor. “Hope you slept well, m’lady!”

  “You just came out of Lady Wentworth’s room. How is your mistress faring this morning?”

  The woman’s concern struck Vi as little odd, coming as it was from someone who had just left the squire’s bed. The servant gave a quick glance at the woman. Her hair, bound up in a high scarf, tilted precariously to one side. She wore a robe of fine silk loosely tied at the waist. It did very little to hide the naked body beneath it.

  “She is feeling a bit better, m’lady.”

  “Did you bring her any breakfast?”

  “Nay, m’lady. Her ladyship had…” Violet backed away nervously as the guest took a step toward her. Her back bumped against the wall. “…Her…her ladyship had no appetite.”

  “Then why did she call for you?”

  The young woman thought of the letter tucked into her apron pocket and intentionally hid her hands behind her back. “She…she wanted me to…to tell cook not to send a tray up.”

  “Of course.” A sardonic smile blossomed on Lady Nisdale’s full lips. The guest reached out and touched a loose blond curl that had escaped the servant’s cap. “What is your name, girl?”

  “Vi, ma’am.”

  “Very well, Violet. And how old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” she croaked nervously.

  “You have lovely skin.” Lady Nisdale let her finger trail down caressingly over the maidservant’s cheek. Violet tried to turn her face away, but the woman’s quick grip on her chin held her in place against the wall. “You are a very pretty girl, Vi. How long have you been in the service of Lady Wentworth?”

  “I…I started…Just a few months, m’lady.”

  “Not long enough to know the rules of this household, I see,” Lady Nisdale cooed, keeping a grip on Violet’s face. The guest moved closer, and the young servant cringed as she felt the pressure of the other woman’s breasts against her own. “Many in this household think of me as a new guest, but I’ll share a little secret with you.”

  Vi swallowed hard and pressed her back hard against the wall.

  “I’ve known your master longer than you think. Longer than his wife. Longer than his present steward. Longer than almost everyone.” Lady Nisdale’s hand released Vi’s chin and again ran her fingertips over the skin of her cheek, her neck. “And it is because of my long…friendship with the squire that I can warn you of something. Everyone and everything falls into two groups in his sight.”

  The guest continued to gently caress the girl’s neck, and Violet fought back the bile rising in her throat.

  “The first group consists of those who are loyal to him—those who are trustworthy and keep him informed of everything that goes on. And the other group…”

  She lowered her hand and took hold of one of the maidservant’s firm breasts. The servant gasped in shock and tried to push her away, but Louisa pressed her weight against the girl’s body, squeezing harder. Vi stopped struggling, feeling the world crushing down upon her.

  “The other group…” Lady Nisdale continued in a voice of satin. “…consists of those who disobey him. And those are the ones that the good squire punishes. He is a good master, is he not, Vi?”

  “Aye, m’lady,” the girl whimpered, not looking up.

  “Is he not correct in punishing the disobedient…the disloyal?”

  “Aye, ma’am,” she whispered, beginning to cry silently.

  “You heard of the lashing of the two slaves yesterday, I am certain. And you surely saw your mistress’s face this morning.” The guest brushed away the tears running down the servant’s face and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “And what you saw is nothing compared to the bruises the wife has here.” She squeezed the girl’s breast hard. “And other places. Have you ever been touched…in those other places, Vi?”

  The servant’s tears turned to a soft sob as she shook her head. “Please, m’lady. I’m a good girl. Please let me go.”

  “That’s all very well that you’re a good girl, Vi. Your master will be delighted to know that you are a virgin. Perhaps I shall take you into him right now, in fact. He and I could start the day off quite pleasurably enjoying your plump little body.”

  “Please, m’lady!” Violet begged, continuing to shake her head. “Please!”

  “Let me ask you again, Vi. What did your mistress want you for so early this fine morning?”

  The girl’s blue eyes rounded with fear. She looked down the hallway as a movement caught her eye.

  “Vi…Squire Wentworth is known to be quite…hmm, quite manly in the mornings. Large and manly.” Louisa pressed her hand against the juncture of the girl’s legs. “He could very well tear you in half with his thick shaft. And all I need to do is drag you to his bed.”

  “A letter!” the girl sobbed. “It was a letter. You can have it.”

  Lady Nisdale pulled back slightly and let the girl reach into the apron and draw out a sealed letter.

  “Not a word,” Louisa threatened, taking the girl’s chin in one hand and the letter in the other. “To anyone.”

  With tears coursing down her face, the maidservant slipped around Louisa and ran in terror down the hall. In a moment she had disappeared down the servants’ stairs.

  Without waiting another instant, Louisa broke the seal and scanned the contents of the letter. A polite salutation to Mrs. Ford, followed by fictitious excuses why Millicent could not attend a previously planned meeting with the other woman. A vague promise of writing again and rescheduling their morning ride, possibly next week. Nothing of significance, Louisa thought angrily as she glanced over the end of the correspondence. Nothing more than she already knew or could have guessed.

  But there had to be more, Louisa thought, her temper beginning to rise. Something had passed between the two women. They shared a secret, she was certain. Something significant enough that they would arrange this private ride this morning. Just as Louisa was ready to crumple the letter in frustration, her gaze fell on the last line before the signature.

  Our dear Mrs. Stockdale would have reproved of this hasty postponement…

  Louisa stared again. Our dear Mrs. Stockdale. Mrs. Stockdale. Our Mrs. Stockdale!

  Scanning the letter again, a smile broke across Louisa’s face.

  He was standing in the open door of his bedchamber when she looked up, and she made no effort to hide the paper.

  “What do you have?”

  “A letter. How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough to watch your rather enticing way of dealing with servants. I am disappointed, though, that you did not bring her to me. The thought of the three of us is indeed arousing, my pet.”

  “There is al
ways tomorrow,” she murmured, undoing the belt of her robe and gliding toward him. “But you shall need all of your vigor for me this morning, for I shall have to take leave of you for the day. You do want to enjoy these again before I go, do you not?”

  Wentworth’s gaze moved from the exposed breasts to the triangle of blond curls to the letter she was holding too casually in one hand.

  “Give it to me.”

  “There is nothing in it.” She handed him the letter without a protest. As he glanced over it, she slipped an arm around him and felt for him through his night shirt. His manhood was already thick and hardening, rising quickly to her touch.

  “This woman…this Mrs. Ford,” he asked. “Is she the one you two met yesterday at the rector’s?”

  “She is,” Louisa cooed, pushing him inside the bedchamber and closing the door behind them.

  “Did you know anything about this ride they were going on this morning?”

  “Not a thing.” She tried to guide him toward the bed, but he planted his feet in the middle of the room and stared again at the letter.

  “She is a mouse…not much better than your wife.” Louisa whispered against his neck. Throw it away. We have better things to do.”

  Taking hold of the shirt, she tore it open, smiling at his surprise. With a coy look, she began to trail her lips down over his bare chest until she was on her knees.

  Suddenly impatient, Wentworth grasped Louisa’s hair—scarf and all—and dragged her mouth roughly to his waiting shaft. Feeling her wet mouth closing around him, he dropped the letter to the ground and let out a satisfied groan.

  “Who is Mrs. Stockdale?” she asked, drawing back a bit and eyeing him as if she were about to devour him.

  “Who?” He looked down at her wet lips, at the tongue already teasing the tip of his manhood. “Stockdale…some old hag in Oxford. Runs a school there. Academy for girls. Millicent went there. Teaches them how to be ‘ladies.’ But you, my pet, would have been expelled the first day.”