Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  He’d erected a firm barrier that prevented her from discovering much about his private life, even though she was very curious. She’d like to probe for details, but she was sure he wouldn’t provide them, and it gave him an undue advantage. He knew absolutely everything about her while she knew practically nothing about him.

  He approached and gestured to the stool in front of the dressing table.

  “Sit down.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to take down your hair.”

  She frowned and thought about complaining, but didn’t. Like a puppet on a string, she obeyed.

  He stood behind her, so dark and brooding, and as she studied his reflection in the mirror, she was unable to look away. Slowly, he extracted the combs and pins, removing them one at a time, relishing the chore. Soon, the lengthy tresses tumbled free, and he riffled his fingers through them, then he grabbed the brush and tugged it down.

  She relaxed against him, liking this side of him, feeling very wanton but not caring. Gradually, he was luring her into his web again. Would she allow herself to be trapped?

  Eventually, he tossed the brush onto the table, and he bent down and nibbled at her nape. Goosebumps cascaded down her arms.

  “I love your hair,” he murmured.

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Who’s changing the subject? I’m talking about how beautiful you are.”

  “Thomas said that he is very rich now.”

  “He is.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s very rich.”

  He glanced up, their gazes locking in the mirror.

  “If your brother was so generous at his death, why didn’t he show any interest in Thomas when he was still alive?”

  “I haven’t any idea. He never mentioned Thomas to me. Not once.”

  “Did you know my sister? Were you aware of their affair?”

  “I had never heard of your sister, and I hadn’t met her until I came to the country. We only learned about Thomas when the will was read after John’s funeral.”

  “Who has he named to be Thomas’s guardian?”

  “Me.”

  “And you’re in charge of his money, too?”

  “Every penny until he is twenty-one.”

  They continued to stare, and her mind whirred. No wonder they’d wrested Thomas away from her and Camilla. No wonder they hadn’t disclosed the facts.

  If Camilla had had an inkling of the size of Thomas’s fortune, she’d have demanded a bigger payoff. If Fanny had had any notion of the true extent of the windfall, she’d have understood that the Wainwrights would want custody of Thomas, and she’d have taken him and vanished.

  She spun on the stool and peered up at him.

  “You can tell me what’s happening,” she said. “You don’t have to keep secrets from me.”

  “I know.”

  “I would never hurt or betray you, and I will always try to do what’s best for Thomas.”

  “I know that, too.”

  He assessed her, appearing to be on the verge of a great confession, but he often looked as if there was something nagging at him, or something he was dying to confide, and he could never spit it out.

  Instead, he did what he usually did, what seemed more natural for him.

  He kissed her again, his fingers twined in her hair, as he pulled her up off the stool and into his arms. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands roving everywhere, and quickly, she was overwhelmed. Her pulse was pounding, her breasts aching. She longed for him to touch her nipples, and it embarrassed her to realize how susceptible she was to base conduct.

  Camilla had claimed that if Fanny ever had the chance to experience passion, she’d comport herself no better than any other woman. Fanny had laughed at the prospect, deeming it absurd, but clearly, Camilla had been correct, for when Henley started in, Fanny couldn’t resist.

  She moaned with dismay and tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t release her.

  “You are so wicked,” she said.

  “I don’t deny it.”

  “You make me forget myself.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “It’s very late,” she scolded, “and I’m exhausted. I have to get ready for bed, so you need to leave.”

  “May I join you?”

  “No, you may not.”

  He grinned. “You can’t blame me for asking, can you?”

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Would you go? Please? And on your way out, send Peggy to help me before she retires.”

  When she’d resided with her sister, she’d had clothes that fastened in the front and were easy to put on and take off. The new items he’d purchased for her were the height of London fashion. Every garment had hooks and laces that were impossible to maneuver without a maid.

  “I ordered her to bed ages ago,” he said.

  “Then how will I disrobe?”

  He raised a naughty brow. “I will assist you.”

  “You most certainly will not.”

  “I most certainly will. Turn around.”

  She glared at him, but Michael ignored her, gripping her waist and spinning her so that her back was to him. He unbuttoned her dress, the bodice slack against her chest, and she clutched it to her bosom.

  For some reason, her scandalous condition—with her hair down and half-clad—seemed more intimate than the evening he’d ripped off her nightgown and seen her naked. There was a delicious sense of expectation in the air, as if any decadent thing might occur.

  She peeked over her shoulder, and his ardor flared, just a spark away from blazing like an inferno. She must have noted something hazardous in his gaze, for she trembled and nervously licked her tongue across her bottom lip.

  The guileless gesture nearly destroyed his control.

  “I want you,” he said, “and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t.”

  “We’re not animals. We can curb our worst impulses.”

  “Why should we?”

  “Lord Henley...”

  “Call me Michael.”

  He swept her into his arms and carried her to the other room, and though she squirmed and complained, he tossed her onto the bed and came down on top of her.

  He couldn’t continue to disregard the needs she induced, and she wasn’t immune to him either. When there were trapped together in such close quarters, it was pointless to avoid the inevitable.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “What I should have done days ago, what I should have been doing all along.”

  “We can’t be lovers.”

  “Of course we can. We share a blatant attraction, and it’s ridiculous to behave as if it doesn’t exist.”

  He began kissing her, as he had out in the hall, knowing it was the one thing she wouldn’t protest. She enjoyed kissing, didn’t see the harm, and always forgot how swiftly it led to more. Shortly, she was participating with a fervor that matched his own. As he petted and caressed, so did she. As his torso dropped between her legs, her thighs widened to welcome him. As his loins flexed in anticipation, hers met his stroke for stroke.

  Shoving at the fabric of her dress, he nibbled to her bosom, to her breast. He toyed with her nipples, sucking them, pinching them, until she was moaning and straining for more, and he slid his hand under her skirt, then up and up, to his destination. She was wet, open for him, and he slipped two fingers into her sheath, fondling her, preparing her for what was to come.

  He undid the buttons on his trousers and tugged them down. The exhilaration was so thrilling, unlike anything he’d encountered prior. With no delay or finesse, he thrust inside.

  He was so excited to copulate with her, and he wished his peculiar fascination would wane, yet the more he indulged, the more he craved. She was like a dangerous drug, like opium tempting the worst addict. He couldn’t resist.

  Much too quickly, his desire peaked, and he couldn’t hold back, but
neither could she.

  As she tensed, as her inner muscles clenched around him, he felt her let go, and he let go, too. His orgasm was potent and powerful, and it went on and on until, finally, the pleasure crested, and the slow glide to the end commenced.

  He savored a last thrust, then he withdrew and stretched out beside her. They were silent, pensive, and as he spooned himself to her, he noticed how perfectly they fit together. He draped a lazy arm over her waist.

  “Are you smiling?” he eventually inquired.

  “No.”

  “You should be. I’m not mistaken in stating that you enjoyed what we just did.”

  “You’re too vain for your own good, and I refuse to flatter you.”

  “I can’t help it if I’m wonderful and you’re benefiting from my prowess.”

  She scoffed. “When I’m alone, I persuade myself to ignore you, but the second I’m with you, I yearn to misbehave.”

  He leaned nearer and whispered, “I’m not sorry.”

  She sighed. “How can I stop this? How can I make myself act as I should?”

  “You can’t.”

  “I suppose not.”

  He stroked her back, and she yawned.

  “Close your eyes and rest,” he advised.

  “You can’t stay in here.”

  “I won’t. I’ll go once you start to snore.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “I don’t snore.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we? I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  She laughed, then sobered. “I’m serious. Thomas can’t find you with me. Or the servants. I’d be so embarrassed.”

  “I promise I’ll leave as soon as you’re asleep.”

  She was rapidly drifting off, and shortly, she dozed, trusting herself with him when she shouldn’t trust him at all. He remained snuggled to her, until the candles sputtered out, and the room was bathed only in moonlight.

  Then he slipped away and went to the bedchamber down the hall.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “There’s someone here to see you, Miss Fanny.”

  “To see me?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Fanny removed her bonnet and hung it on the hook by the door. Peggy seemed slightly alarmed, and Fanny frowned. They were in the kitchen, and Cook had been baking, so the air was fragrant and warm. Fanny’s cold cheeks stung.

  The month of September had flown by, the harvest ending, cooler weather the norm. The leaves were turning, and the paths through the forest were lined with red and gold.

  Michael and Thomas were at Henley Hall for the afternoon, and the house had been so quiet without them that she’d gone for a stroll in the woods. By approaching from the rear as she had, she wouldn’t have noticed a horse or carriage in the front drive, and she couldn’t imagine who it might be.

  “Who is it?”

  Peggy stepped closer, knowing that the residence was small and voices carried.

  “It’s Lord Henley’s father,” Peggy whispered.

  The import of the announcement took a moment to register.

  “The Duke is here?”

  “Yes.”

  Fanny’s heart literally skipped a beat. “Are you sure he didn’t ask for Lord Henley?”

  “No. He specifically mentioned you.”

  She stared at Peggy, feigning calm, but her mind raced. What could he want?

  He had to have discovered that Fanny was...was...involved with Michael, but if he questioned her or demanded explanations, she would die of embarrassment.

  Inwardly, she cursed Michael. He’d told her the house was his private retreat, but if the Duke knew its location, it wasn’t much of a secret. Michael would be gone for hours, and she couldn’t hide in the kitchen, waiting for him to show up and save her.

  She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face.

  “Have you offered him tea?”

  “Yes, Miss,” Peggy said, “and he’s made himself very comfortable.”

  “Has he been here before?”

  “Never.”

  Fanny peeked down at her dress, deciding there wasn’t time to change, so she leaned to Peggy and murmured, “How do I look?”

  “Pretty as a spring day, Miss.”

  “Wish me luck.”

  Shoulders squared, she marched out, ready for battle.

  He was seated in a chair by the hearth, ignoring the tea tray, but having helped himself to some of Michael’s brandy. She entered and dropped into a curtsy.

  “Your Grace, how kind of you to visit. We weren’t expecting company.”

  “Stand up, girl. Let me see you.”

  As she rose, he rudely evaluated her, meandering across her womanly parts, taking such an inordinate assessment of her breasts that she felt soiled by his lecherous regard.

  “You’re definitely fetching,” he claimed, “when you’re all cleaned up. I was wondering what was keeping Michael intrigued.” He smirked. “Now I know.”

  She refused to react. “If you were hoping to speak to Lord Henley, he’s at Henley Hall.”

  “I know where he is—I always know where he is—and I’ll chat with him soon enough, I dare say.”

  He hadn’t given her permission to sit, and she wasn’t certain of the protocol, but he was the guest, and she wasn’t about to dawdle before him, trembling like a ninny. She went to the chair opposite and sat, too.

  He sipped his drink, the silence stretching out, and she sensed that he was trying to intimidate her, but it wasn’t working. Fanny had survived Camilla’s worst moods and harangues, and she could endure him with the same equanimity.

  “Let’s be candid, shall we?” he ultimately said.

  “By all means.”

  “You’re very self-possessed, aren’t you? Is that why Michael fancies you?”

  “I couldn’t guess if he fancies me or not, Your Grace. I wouldn’t presume to give an opinion for him.”

  “Oh, he fancies you all right.” He narrowed his gaze. “I understand his intentions—he’s a man and he’s my son—but I’m trying to figure out yours. Is it money? Is it marriage? Tell me so we can deal with it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come now, your slovenly sister made out like a bandit. Surely, you’d like some of the same largesse from my family’s coffers. Is that what you crave? If so, state your price so we can begin negotiations.”

  “I have no price.”

  He scoffed. “I’ll never believe that you’re giving it to him for free.”

  “Giving him what?”

  At her response, he was momentarily startled, then he hooted with laughter.

  “Are you an idiot? Or are you simply naïve? You’ll never convince me that you’re giving him your body for free.”

  He’d finally lit a spark to her temper. “I don’t like you, and I won’t listen to your insults. You’re welcome to wait until Lord Henley returns, but I don’t have to entertain you while you do it. Goodbye.”

  She couldn’t remember when she’d last been so angry. Before Michael Wainwright had shown up and changed everything, she’d been an ordinary woman who’d lived an ordinary, modest life. She felt as if she’d been in a bad carriage accident, as if she’d been swept to sea by a deluge and she couldn’t see the shore.

  What had transpired couldn’t be altered. Nor could she fix the past. She could only move forward, and she wouldn’t feel guilty or apologize for circumstances that were beyond her control.

  She’d spun to storm out, when he muttered, “So...it’s not money. It’s love. You’re wrangling to make him fall in love and marry you.”

  She whipped around, yearning to say something biting and cruel that would stab him like a knife, but she couldn’t devise a remark that was sufficiently caustic.

  “Are you aware of why he owns this property?” he taunted. “This is where he dallies with his mistress—when he keeps one. This is where he brings the occasional widow, the weekend paramour. If you’re scheming to be elevated above that
class, you’re a fool. By your very presence here, it’s clear what he thinks of you. You’ll never rate any higher in his esteem.”

  “I don’t know any gossip about this place,” she lied, “or why Lord Henley uses it, and I won’t have you denigrating him in his own parlor.”

  “Ah...such loyalty! Such devotion!” He waved toward her chair. “Sit down. Sit down. I’m weary of craning my neck, gaping up at you.”

  She didn’t budge, but she didn’t leave either. She glared at him, stoic, regal in her fury.

  When she didn’t speak, he continued, “He has obligations you can’t fathom. He has to marry.”

  “Of course he has to marry.”

  “His wedding is just over a month away.”

  At hurling the shocking announcement, he looked very smug, his desire to wound her blatant and galling, and she was amazed at how she tamped down the stunned reaction he was eager to elicit.

  She studied him, curious as to whether the statement could possibly be true. Could Michael have kept such a terrible secret from her? Could such a significant event be near and she not perceive its approach?

  “It is not. You’re lying.”

  “His fiancée is a perfect match for him,” he insisted.

  “I’m certain she’s lovely.”

  Her acerbic dismissal of his declaration left him seriously aggravated, and his temper flared.

  “You little wench! Listen to me: He will never choose you, but I suppose you’ve invented some inane scenario in your head where you imagine you can coax a proposal out of him. You can’t, and if that’s what you’re hoping, you’re deranged.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not stupid. I realize that he would never pick me.”

  “Do you? Do you, really?”

  “Yes,” she quietly replied, knowing it was the trust, saddest word she’d ever uttered. Why couldn’t Michael pick her? Why couldn’t she be the one he loved? The one he cherished?

  “Well, the longer he loafs in the country with you, the less time he has to concentrate on what matters. So I ask you again: What is your price?”

  “For what? I haven’t requested anything from him. I don’t want anything from him!”

  “But I am another story altogether. I want you gone. What will it take to be shed of you? How fast can we accomplish it?”