Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  “Trust me on this, Michael. I’ve wed four of these girls. I’ve courted dozens more, and I’ve copulated with even dozens more than that. She’d no different from any of them.”

  “High praise, indeed.”

  “At least she’s pretty.”

  “Is that all that matters to you? That she’s easy on the eyes?”

  “Of course not. There are also her dowry and ancestry.”

  “It just seems a silly reason to wed.”

  “What would be a more appropriate reason?”

  “How about finding a mate with whom you’re a bit compatible?”

  “Egad, Michael, if you want a chum¸ buy yourself a dog.”

  The Duke was furious, but he didn’t dare show any anger. He’d learned from hard experience that Michael was extremely stubborn, so he had to tread cautiously.

  “I can’t stand her,” Michael said resentfully.

  “So? What husband can stand his wife? Even the couples who start out cordial end up loathing each other. It’s the way of these things.”

  Michael scoffed with disgust. “You are such a cold-hearted bastard.”

  “Must I remind you that we need her money? We need it!”

  “Yes, we do.”

  Michael rose and poured himself another drink, then he went to the window and stared outside. He was pensive, weary, sipping his liquor, reviewing his options.

  “What happened while you were away?” the Duke pried. “Why has this arrangement suddenly become so unpalatable to you?”

  “She should have been John’s. He wanted her, but I don’t, and you’re trying to foist her off on me anyway. I can’t force myself to be glad about it—and I don’t care how accursedly rich she is.”

  “John couldn’t bear her,” the Duke said. “If he told you otherwise, he was lying.”

  The Duke was quiet, worried over what had occurred while Michael was in the country. Michael hadn’t been keen on the match, but he hadn’t been mortally opposed either. Something must have transpired to leave him so ambivalent.

  “Michael”—he spoke to his son’s stiff back—“you know you have to wed and sire an heir as quickly as you’re able. You know you have to. I allowed John to debate and delay, but I’m out of time. I don’t frivolously ask this of you.”

  Michael whipped around, his temper barely controlled. “I’m a grown man, Your Grace, and I am well aware of my duty. You don’t have to remind me of it.”

  “Well, you don’t act as if you remember. John’s been deceased for six bloody months already! How much longer will you dither? What if you’re killed in an accident tomorrow? What if you come down with the putrid sore throat and perish next week? What will we do?”

  “I’ll try my damnedest to stay alive,” Michael sneered.

  “Don’t be smart with me,” the Duke scolded. “I’m tired of this pointless and idiotic rumination. If you don’t want Rebecca, then who the hell do you want? Name another girl who’s suitable and available. Name her, and we’ll make an offer this afternoon.”

  He sat, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Waiting. Waiting.

  The moment spun on forever, the Duke on tenterhooks, and as Michael pondered his dwindling choices, he appeared very grim.

  “Fine,” he ultimately fumed, “I’ll marry her.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I wondered when you’d be back.”

  Camilla studied Lord Henley with a jaundiced eye.

  When he’d shown up a few weeks earlier, she’d recognized him, and she’d been intrigued as to why he’d hidden his identity. She’d played along, being curious over his subterfuge and where it would lead. As she’d suspected, they’d finally come for Thomas.

  The Wainwrights—for all their money and pomp—were an infertile lot. The Duke had been married four times, but only his first wife had ever conceived. Of his three adult children, only John had sired a son. Thomas was worth his weight in gold.

  “May I sit, Miss Carrington?” His emotions were carefully masked, but he couldn’t completely conceal his distaste for the surroundings.

  “By all means.” She gestured to the chair opposite.

  “Is your sister here?”

  “No. She should be gone until supper.”

  “And Thomas?”

  “He’s out in the yard.”

  “Good. I don’t want him upset while we talk.”

  “I think I know your purpose, so I’ll be blunt.” She assessed him, calculating how many pounds he might be coerced into coughing up. “I’m open to any offer you’d like to extend, but I must advise you that my price will probably be much higher than you’ve estimated.”

  He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “My father, Duke of Clarendon, has instructed me to bring Thomas to London. To live with our family.”

  “Forever?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are the conditions?”

  “You’ll sign over full custody to me, and you’ll relinquish any authority over him. In perpetuity. There will be no checking in, no holiday visits. The break will be clean and total.”

  At his uttering the word perpetuity, he evaluated her as if expecting her to blanch with shock, but it was the precise term she’d been hoping to hear.

  “Fine,” she coolly replied. “What will I receive in exchange?”

  He reached into a satchel and pulled out a legal document. “We’ve purchased a house, in a fashionable neighborhood in town, where you will be permitted to reside for the rest of your natural life. We’ll also bestow a quarterly allowance. Your expenses will be your own, paid out of that allowance, and it will be the extent of our debt to you. You will never seek more, and you will not contact us again about Thomas or any other issue.”

  “And if I decide later that I want more, what will you do?”

  “We will withdraw all support and have you evicted. If you try to fight us in the courts, we will have you branded an unfit mother. We’ll have Thomas, and you’ll have nothing at all.”

  Her cheeks flamed with fury. He was so pompously smug, and she yearned to tell him what she thought of him, but she never would. She was too keen to have what he was eager to provide.

  “Let me see the papers.”

  He gave them to her, and they were silent as she read. The language was very clear, and the stipend was nearly twice what she’d been prepared to demand. She would return to London in triumph, would become a popular hostess and run with a fast, exciting crowd. Her dreams were all coming true!

  The last page wasn’t a document, but a sketch of a house. She picked it up and scrutinized it.

  “Is this the house?” she queried.

  “Yes. I figured you’d like to have some notion of what we’ve bought. There’s a description of the rooms attached.”

  Fleetingly, she glanced at it, pretending scant interest while her innards were churning with anticipation. It was small, but modern and stylish. She was already picturing how it would be decorated.

  “I suppose it will do.” She feigned boredom and tossed the stack on the table. “However, it’s such a huge building that I’m afraid the allowance is too low. To keep it in good repair, I’d need double of what you’ve suggested.”

  “I’m sure you would”—his smile was grim—“but this is our one and only offer. The terms are non-negotiable.”

  “Then I guess I’ll keep the boy,” she bluffed.

  “I guess you will.”

  He scooped up the papers and began shoving them into his satchel, and she suffered a moment of panic, cursing herself for a fool.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” she quickly said. “I’m positive we can work this out.”

  “I’m positive we can, too.”

  He was gentleman enough not to gloat, but then, with very little effort, he was going to get what he’d come for. He produced a quill and ink jar, and she wrote her name at the bottom of the contract.

  “Will you be taking him with you?” She was anxious to have the affair concluded before Fanny
could return and raise a fuss.

  “Yes. I have a nurse in my carriage, to help me watch over him on the way to town. When we pass through the village, I have another coach waiting, and I’ll send it for you. Your new home is ready. I thought you might like to move in immediately.”

  “I would. Thank you.”

  “What about your sister?” he oddly asked.

  “What about her?”

  “I assume she’ll be traveling with you. You’ll have to explain the details to her and give her time to accept the changes.”

  Camilla had no intention of bringing Fanny to London. Henley had the signed contract, and Camilla had a copy of it, so she didn’t need to hedge or fib. Fanny’s name wasn’t on any of the pages, and so long as Camilla didn’t pester the Wainwrights, Henley couldn’t renege.

  “Despite Fanny being referred to as my sister,” Camilla clarified, “she and I are not related.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No. She was a foundling, left on the church steps. My father was the vicar, and my parents took her in and reared her as their own.”

  “But if she doesn’t come with you, what will happen to her?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” she stated.

  His arrogant gaze swept the decrepit space, and he seemed aghast, which could only indicate that he’d formed an absurd attachment to Fanny. The prospect had Camilla clenching her teeth with resentment.

  Everyone had always loved Fanny, when no one had ever loved Camilla. She couldn’t bear to suppose that Henley was sweet on Fanny, and if he was stupid enough to be infatuated, then he deserved any misery Camilla conferred.

  “You’re a ruthless woman, Miss Carrington,” he rightly charged. “Fanny has stayed with you and supported you through all your troubles.”

  “You’re mad if you think so. I am her guardian—not the other way around—and you haven’t a clue of what it’s been like to keep her in line.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “She mentioned your quarrel with those boys in the village. You’re aware of what they said about her.”

  “They claimed she’s a whore. You’ll never make me believe it.”

  “Why would I lie? I admit to having one carnal indiscretion in my life, when I loved your brother, and I’m not sorry for it. But what those boys told you was the sad fact: She’s dallied with half the county.”

  “She has not.”

  “My only salvation has been that she birthed no bastards. It’s been sufficiently difficult to care for Thomas after my father died, but if she’d had a gaggle of children, too, I don’t know how we’d have survived.”

  He went to the small window and stared out in the yard, and she could sense that she’d struck a nerve. He didn’t want the story to be true, but he was disturbed by it all the same.

  Finally, he spun toward her, and his eyes glimmered with a powerful emotion she couldn’t identify. Anger? Regret?

  “If it will make you feel better,” Camilla lied, “I can send her a regular allowance out of the stipend you’re paying me.”

  “That would be very generous of you.”

  “It won’t be much, but then, it doesn’t cost much to live here. She’ll get on fine.”

  At hearing her offer to share her money with Fanny, he looked vastly relieved, and she could barely keep from laughing with malicious glee. He’d return to London, assuming his precious Fanny safe and secure, when her reality would be very bleak.

  “I’d like to be on my way,” he said, seeming aggrieved. “Would you call Thomas inside and explain what’s to occur?”

  He glared at Camilla as if she were vermin, as if he’d soiled himself by visiting her, and his disdain had her ecstatic over the false tale she’d woven about Fanny’s chastity. She hoped he stewed over it for months!

  She rose and walked to the rear door and hollered for Thomas.

  As he approached, she inquired, “I was wondering: Why didn’t your brother come himself?”

  “He died in a carriage accident.”

  “When?”

  “Six months ago.”

  The news was like a knife to her heart. For nearly a decade, she’d dreamed of seeing him again, of making him fall in love with her as he had so easily the first time.

  When she’d initially been forced home from London, pregnant and in disgrace, she hadn’t even been allowed to say goodbye to him. She’d waited so patiently, sure that he would be frantic over finding she’d gone. He would realize he missed her, would hurry to rescue her from her parents’ shame and her neighbors’ scorn.

  Over the years, she’d invented hundreds of scenarios, where he arrived, grinning and apologetic and eager to be with her. Certain of his affection and devotion, she’d never lost faith, she’d never given up on him, and this was the result?

  The universe was too, too cruel!

  She wanted to question Henley further, wanted to ask how often John had mentioned her, but Thomas entered, foiling any conversation.

  “You remember Fanny’s friend, don’t you, Thomas? Mr. Waverly?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Hello, sir.”

  “Hello, Thomas.”

  “I have a surprise for you,” Camilla said. “Mr. Waverly is actually Lord Henley. He’s your uncle.”

  Thomas was confused, not understanding the magnitude of the pronouncement.

  He frowned. “My uncle?”

  “I’ve told you about your father. Lord Henley is his brother.”

  “Oh,” Thomas mumbled, still not clear.

  “He’s going to take you to London—for an adventure. You’re off to meet your grandfather, the Duke of Clarendon. I told you about him, too. Remember?”

  A grandfather was a concept Thomas comprehended very well, and he smiled. “Really? I’m to meet my other grandfather?”

  “Would you like that, Thomas?” Henley queried.

  “Yes, sir, very much.” Thomas gazed at Camilla. “But Aunt Fanny isn’t here. We can’t leave without her.”

  “Fanny and I are staying behind. We’ll...ah...we’ll be here when you get back,” she fibbed, not seeing any reason for him to know he wasn’t coming back.

  After he’d spent a few days in the Duke’s ostentatious mansion, being showered with expensive gifts, Fanny would be but a distant memory.

  “You don’t need to pack a bag for him,” Henley instructed. “I’ll buy him new things in town. Unless he has some favorite toys he’d like to bring?”

  “His toys were sold long ago to purchase food.”

  The revelation left Henley temporarily speechless, but he quickly recovered.

  “Let’s go,” Henley said to Thomas, urging him outside.

  Thomas was a polite boy, and usually, he did as Camilla bid him, but as he saw the fancy couch-and-four, with the fat, stern nurse dawdling next to it, he hesitated and peered over at Camilla.

  “Are you certain, Mother?”

  “Of course I am. Get in.”

  “I need to say goodbye to Aunt Fanny. She’ll be very hurt if I don’t. May I wait for her?”

  Camilla was about to shout at him, to march over and physically fling him into the coach, when Henley said, “You’ll be away for only a short while, Thomas.”

  Thomas studied him and bought into the lie.

  “All right, sir.”

  “And,” Camilla added, “your uncle has written Fanny a note, telling her where you’ve gone and when you’ll return.”

  “It will be soon, Mother, won’t it?”

  “Very soon.”

  Henley guided him to the carriage, as a cadre of servants watched. The liverymen were standing at attention, acting as if Thomas were European royalty, rather than an indigent country boy.

  Camilla preened, delighted to have them recognize that she was the mother of such a precious cargo.

  Thomas had just scrambled in, when suddenly, Fanny appeared down the lane, and Camilla cursed her luck.

  Fanny glanced up and saw the coach, the nur
se, and Michael Wainwright, and she scowled, her mind working furiously to decipher what it indicated.

  “Michael!” she cried. “What are you doing?”

  His head snapped around, and he glowered at Camilla. “I thought you said she’d be away for hours.”

  “Camilla!” Fanny yelled. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “You go on,” Camilla told Henley. “I’ll deal with her.”

  “Make sure she understands that this is for the best.”

  “I will.”

  She smirked as he turned his back and climbed into the carriage, and he rapped on the roof, eager to be off. The driver clicked the reins, and the horses started to pull the heavy conveyance.

  As Fanny hurried toward it, the carriage picked up speed. She dashed by Camilla, chasing after it and hollering, “Michael! Michael, stop this instant!”

  Thomas popped up in the window and leaned out.

  “Aunt Fanny”—he was grinning and waving his arms—“I’m going to London with Mr. Waverly.”

  Someone yanked on his jacket, and he vanished from view.

  “Michael!” Fanny cried again, and she lunged to grab for the handle on the door, but she couldn’t reach it, and she stumbled to a halt as the vehicle raced away.

  She stood, rooted to her spot, aghast as they disappeared. Once the dust had settled in their wake, she spun on Camilla.

  “What have you done?” Fanny seethed. “Why is Mr. Waverly taking him?”

  “Your dear Mr. Waverly isn’t Mr. Waverly. He’s Michael Wainwright, Lord Henley. John is...is...dead”—Camilla could hardly bear to utter the tragic comment—“and Henley is now the oldest son and heir to the Duke of Clarendon.”

  “No!” Fanny was trembling, not able to believe it. “He’s not a Wainwright. He would have confided in me; he would have said.”

  “He would have said,” Camilla mimicked in a sing-song voice. “He’s a lying, conniving scoundrel—just like the rest of them.”

  “If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What’s to tell? He wanted Thomas, and I agreed to hand him over.”

  Fanny gasped. “What?”

  “I’ve signed over custody to them.”

  “Custody!” Fanny clutched a fist over her heart as if she might faint. “For how long?”