Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  “You might hear of me occasionally in the future,” he oddly said.

  “I hope so. It would bring me joy.”

  “I want you to remember that I’m an honorable man. I always try to do what I believe is right.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Let’s get you home.”

  He drew away and helped her into the gig, and he climbed up, too. He had the horse set a leisurely pace. She laced her arm through his and nestled herself to him.

  All too soon, they arrived at the cottage. He lifted her down, and when he would have walked her to the door, she stopped him.

  “Goodbye,” she said.

  “Goodbye.”

  He kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth.

  “Try not to judge me too harshly,” he implored.

  “I won’t,” she vowed, completely perplexed by the request.

  Suddenly, she was desperate to keep him with her, and she nearly clutched at his lapels and begged him not to go. There were so many sentiments she longed to convey, about how much his friendship had meant to her, about how precious her recollections would be, but she couldn’t reveal any of them.

  She was afraid she might burst into tears, and she spun away and ran to the stoop.

  Behind her, he called softly, “Fanny!”

  She didn’t halt, but hurried into the house and shut the door. With every fiber of her being, she yearned for him to come and knock, to plead with her to step outside again, but shortly, the springs of the gig creaked, and the harness jingled as he drove away.

  For many minutes, she stayed braced against the door, her knees weak, her emotions ragged. Already, her life seemed irrevocably altered, the world grayer and more quiet merely because he wasn’t in it. She pushed away and started for the stairs, when Camilla spoke from her chair over by the darkened hearth.

  “How was your little assignation?”

  “It was very pleasant.”

  “Really? Those old witches in the village were civil to you?”

  “Everyone was exceedingly polite,” Fanny fibbed.

  “And how is your handsome swain, Mr. Waverly?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Did he say why he’s been sniffing around? Because I, for one, can’t wait to know the reason.”

  “He isn’t sniffing around. He’s been in the neighborhood on business, but it’s concluded. He’s leaving in the morning.”

  “I’ll just bet he is.” She snorted spitefully. “Something tells me we haven’t heard the last of him. He’ll show up again like a bad penny.”

  When Camilla was in one of her moods, discussion was pointless. Fanny started for the stairs again, but Camilla rose and blocked her way. She assessed Fanny in a rude manner that had Fanny squirming, that had her glancing at her dress to be sure all her buttons were fastened.

  “Dare I hope,” Camilla sneered, “that he tried to take advantage of you?”

  “Camilla!” she scolded.

  “Maybe if you’d ever had a taste of passion, you wouldn’t be such a prim, pious shrew.”

  “I’ve never been awful to you.”

  “You’ve always judged me,” Camilla charged. “You wallow in your virtue like a pig at a trough. It makes me sick.”

  “I’ve had enough. We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re feeling more yourself.”

  Fanny whirled away, but Camilla reached out and grabbed Fanny’s hair, her fist circling the lengthy locks and yanking Fanny to a stop.

  “Why, Miss Fanny,” Camilla mocked, “your hair is undone. Wherever is the ribbon you had on when you left?”

  In Fanny’s rush to be sequestered inside, she’d forgotten that Michael had removed it. At Camilla’s mentioning the loss, Fanny stammered, “It...ah...must have come loose on the ride home.”

  “What a pitiful lie. You can devise a better story than that!”

  “It had to have flown off in the wind.”

  “You can confide in me, Fanny. He has the look of a fellow who knows his way around a bedchamber. Is he any good under the blankets?”

  “You can be so crude.”

  “Yes, I can,” Camilla agreed, “but take some free advice from your big sister: If you’re going to whore around, you ought to be a tad more careful. It’s the dickens getting caught, and the price a woman pays is always much too high.”

  As if she’d uttered the wittiest comment ever, Camilla laughed and laughed, but it sounded like a witch’s cackle, and it sent chills down Fanny’s spine.

  She jerked away and raced up to her room. She stretched out on the lumpy, hard mattress, trying to sleep, trying to ignore the dismal surroundings and the meager furnishings, but Camilla’s obscene guffaws kept ringing in her ears.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I’ve been reading one of your old diaries.”

  “Have you? How utterly boring.”

  Phillip Sinclair stared across the carriage at his father, Charles, the Earl of Trent.

  “Tell me about the summer you were twenty-six. I think you sired several daughters.”

  “Did I? I don’t recollect.”

  You wouldn’t, Phillip mused, scowling. He loved and hated Charles in equal measure, his mood fluctuating with his aggravation level.

  Charles was a shameless roué who’d seduced dozens of females, including Phillip’s mother. She’d been a young debutante, and her parents had kept Phillip, had raised him with their other children, so he’d fared better than most in his situation.

  He’d been sent to excellent schools, had mingled in High Society, and he had his own fortune that allowed him to live comfortably. He’d been lucky, had thrived in spite of his lineage, but he worried about his many half-siblings who hadn’t been similarly blessed.

  Phillip had first stumbled on one of them in a brothel. Thankfully, the girl had been working as a housemaid, rather than a whore, but she’d become ill and was tossed out on the streets before he could learn what had happened to her. She’d died alone, of consumption, with no one to hold her hand or mourn her passing, and her death had galvanized him.

  He’d made it his life’s mission to find as many of them as he could, to see them safe and secure.

  Phillip studied his father’s records and searched for children who had his golden blond hair and emerald green eyes. Most of them also carried a birthmark on their wrist, a figure-eight called the ‘Mark of Trent’. It was a brand of sorts, a symbol of paternity that Charles couldn’t deny.

  As Charles’s oldest—though illegitimate—son, Phillip had an ability to manipulate Charles as no one else could. When Phillip located a sibling, he made Charles acknowledge them, but he couldn’t make Charles repent his behavior. Charles didn’t possess the capacity to rue or regret. He never suffered an ounce of remorse. He didn’t know the meaning of the word guilt.

  Then again, the women he seduced always loved him. Even after they were in terrible trouble, even after it was obvious he was gone and never coming back, none of them ever wanted him blamed.

  “I take it I was busy that year,” Charles said.

  “Very.”

  Charles smiled—as if with a fond memory. “How many children have you discovered?”

  “At least six, and it sounds as if they’re all girls.”

  Charles had a propensity for siring daughters, and they were the ones Phillip was most desperate to locate. A natural born daughter, without funds or familial support, was at risk as a son could never be.

  “I suppose,” Charles sighed dramatically, “that you’ll be demanding dowries for all of them.”

  “You know I will.”

  “You’ll beggar me before you’re through.”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  Charles snorted. “If I didn’t enjoy your company quite so much, I’d never put up with you. I encourage your meddling when I ought to see you ruined.”

  “You don’t have the means.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  Charles raised an imperious brow, appea
ring elegant and ruthless, as if he might do something horrid to Phillip, but he never would. Although Charles lacked a conscience, he actually liked Phillip very much.

  “Now about that summer...”

  Phillip was determined to glean as many details as he could, but Charles cut him off.

  “It’s rude of you to pester me. You should honor your father rather than constantly berating him.”

  “I honor you. I just don’t worship you. Despite how you pretend otherwise, you have many flaws.”

  “I have no flaws,” Charles insisted, and it was Phillip’s turn to snort a reply.

  Charles truly believed he was a perfect human specimen. And why wouldn’t he? He was rich, vain, and extremely spoiled by the fact that he’d always been able to act precisely as he pleased.

  At age forty-eight, he was an intriguing, mesmerizing man. With a single glance, he seemed to delve to the heart of the matter, seemed to understand all your troubles and woes. Which was all a complete illusion, but it had led many females astray.

  Phillip looked exactly like him, having inherited the same physique, hair, and eyes, as well as his disturbing tendencies toward debauchery and deceit, but fortunately, Phillip had inherited his mother’s best traits, too. He was loyal and ethical, but he fought a daily battle to ensure that his mother’s superior characteristics triumphed over his father’s inferior ones.

  Their carriage rattled to a halt, their brief conversation at an end. They were caught in the line of vehicles discharging passengers at the Wainwright mansion. Hundreds of London’s premier citizens were arriving to attend the Duke’s latest soiree, though it was a mystery how he was paying for such an elaborate party. On credit, no doubt, with shopkeepers unaware of the pending fiscal catastrophe that Charles had engineered.

  “I’ll stop by in the morning,” Phillip said, “to discuss this further.”

  “Susan will be delighted,” Charles said with a straight face.

  Susan was Charles’s long-suffering wife. She knew about his dastardly habits, and she bore it all in a silent rage. She hated Phillip and detested him visiting their home, but Charles ignored her complaints—as he ignored everything about her.

  “I’d like to probe your memory as to names and dates.”

  “It’s a waste of time.” Charles gave a casual shrug. “Unless my partner was a princess or some other highborn lady—“

  “You ruined a princess?”

  “Yes, and it was great fun, too. But as I was saying, unless there is some special reason to remember the girl, I won’t be much help.”

  “You wouldn’t want any of your daughters destitute or imperiled, would you?” Phillip let a hint of threat seep into his voice.

  “Of course not. There have just been so many. It’s hard to keep track.”

  A footman opened the door and lowered the step, and Charles grinned.

  “Give my regards to Clarendon,” he said. “Hopefully, by Christmas, that house will be mine.”

  “It’s entailed. You can’t have it; I already checked.”

  “I guess I’ll have to settle for taking the furnishings.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any use in my asking again that you reconsider his debt.”

  “No. I’ve loathed him for three decades, and I finally have him right where I want him.”

  “Your obstinacy is wreaking havoc on my friendship with Michael.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “I’ve been wondering: When you won the wager, did you cheat?”

  “Cheat?” Charles scoffed. “Honestly, Phillip, where do you hear such things?”

  Phillip studied Charles’s expression, which was impossible to read, but Phillip was positive the man was guilty as hell. He always was.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Phillip said. “We’ll talk about illicit fornication.”

  “Ah, my favorite topic.”

  With a weary chuckle, Phillip climbed out and proceeded down the street to the mansion. Once inside, he worked his way through the crowd, searching for Anne Wainwright and finding her over by the stairs.

  He started toward her, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, but as usual, she didn’t notice his approach. He’d just reached out to lay a hand on her arm, to make one of his pathetic attempts at touching her, when another fellow claimed her for a dance. She smiled and totted off, not aware that Phillip had been dawdling behind her like a supplicant.

  At his folly, he shook his head, disgusted that he couldn’t ignore his insane attraction to her. He went to find Michael, instead, and located him in a rear corner, drinking and skulking behind the potted plants.

  “Why are you hiding?” Phillip inquired as he grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray.

  “I’m bored to death, and I don’t want any debutantes—or their mothers— accosting me. I can’t believe I’m back in London and living with my father. It’s a nightmare come true.”

  Phillip laughed. “How was your trip to the country?”

  “Extremely interesting. Have you ever been told that you have a sister named Fanny Carrington?”

  “No, why?”

  “The woman I met resembles you and your father.”

  “Didn’t you tell me her father was a vicar?”

  “Yes.”

  While Charles was despicable, it wasn’t likely that he’d stooped to impregnating vicars’ wives, but who could be sure?

  Phillip shrugged. “You know my father. Anything is possible.”

  Just then, Anne waltzed by, and instantly, Phillip’s attention was riveted on her, his fascination blatant and difficult to conceal.

  “There’s Anne,” Michael pointed out, “dancing with Longworth.”

  “She certainly is.”

  “She fancies him,” Michael insisted, and he seemed to be deliberately goading Phillip. “She mentioned it at breakfast.”

  “She does not fancy him,” Phillip snarled through clenched teeth.

  “Why don’t you ask her to dance, yourself?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Michael smirked.

  Phillip suspected that Michael had deduced Phillip’s idiotic infatuation, but he’d never embarrassed Phillip by directly alluding to it. His preferred method was sly innuendo.

  “Did you talk to Charles for me?” Michael queried.

  “Yes, and you know how stubborn he is. He’s not about to change his mind.”

  Michael growled with frustration. “You realize that this will force me to marry Rebecca, don’t you?”

  “You poor man.” Phillip oozed false sympathy. “Imagine having to wed such a rich, gorgeous wife! It will be absolute hell having all her money in your bank account.”

  “Oh, do be silent.”

  A fuss erupted at the top of the stairs, as the next guest was announced, and Phillip chuckled with malicious glee.

  “Speak of the devil,” Phillip said, “here she comes.”

  “Yes, she does.” Michael sighed.

  “Do you expect she’ll be wearing her tiara?”

  “I hope not. I can’t abide such silliness.”

  “Lady Rebecca Talbot,” the butler intoned, his melodious voice cascading across the cavernous space.

  All heads turned, and for a few moments, Rebecca froze until everyone was watching her, then she descended, taking the steps slowly, holding them rapt with her splendor and poise. With her flawless face and perfect skin, she was a celebrated beauty, more exquisite than any debutante in years.

  Her white-blond hair shimmered, her icy blue eyes sweeping the room, searching for and immediately honing in on Michael.

  Phillip chuckled again. “It appears that she’s left the tiara at home.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Very much.”

  “I thought we were friends, so have pity on me. How about if you marry Rebecca?”

  Phillip gave a mock shudder. “I wouldn’t have that ice maiden in my bed. She’d freeze my vital parts an
d I’m very attached to them.”

  “Yet you think I should make the sacrifice? What about my vital parts?”

  “She’s very pretty, and you have to pick an heiress. And don’t forget: They’re all the same in the dark after you blow out the candle.”

  “But I always envisioned I’d have a bride who was...was...”

  “A bride who was what?” Phillip said when he couldn’t finish.

  “Well, I assumed I’d at least...like her.”

  “You want to like your wife? I didn’t realize you were such a romantic.” Phillip chortled with amusement.

  “I’m wretched enough as it is. Quit harassing me.”

  “I can’t help it if you’re being ridiculous.” Phillip sobered and counseled, “You’re making this too difficult.”

  “How?”

  “Wed her, get her pregnant, and stash her in the country. Buy yourself a mistress. You can like her all you want. Then when you tire of her, you can buy yourself another and another and another.”

  Rebecca had reached the bottom of the stairs, and she was crossing the floor, proceeding directly toward Michael.

  “Do you ever wish you were someone else,” Michael said, “someone with no responsibilities, who lived a different kind of life?”

  “That was you six months ago,” Phillip reminded him, “before John died.”

  “Oh...so it was.”

  Rebecca was coming closer, closer. The doors to the verandah were open, and from Michael’s pained expression, Phillip thought he would bolt, but before he could escape, Rebecca neared and slipped a proprietary hand onto his arm.

  “Hello, Rebecca,” Michael said. “When did you arrive?”

  At his claiming not to have witnessed her grand entrance, she was very aggravated, but she tamped down her irritation, not wanting Michael to notice that she had a temper—which she did.

  “I expected you to be waiting for me at the foot of the stairs,” she complained.

  “I didn’t see you,” Michael lied. “Sorry.”

  “Rebecca, where is your tiara?” Phillip inquired.

  Her eyes narrowed, her displeasure clear. “Is there some reason you feel it appropriate to comment on my attire?”

  “No,” Phillip replied. “I simply like to annoy you.”