Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  “It’s futile to converse with you. Goodbye,” she said again.

  “Let me see your wrist,” he absurdly commanded.

  “What?”

  “Your wrist! Your wrist!” He held out his hand, eager to examine the appendage, and when she balked, he snapped, “I haven’t got all day to fuss with you. Let me see it.”

  Deeming him mad, she extended her arm. She had an odd birthmark on her wrist, shaped like a figure eight. He assessed it, then scowled.

  “Phillip was wondering about you,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her, “but I thought he was joking.”

  “Joking about what?”

  “You were adopted, weren’t you?”

  She almost denied it, then stopped herself. It was common knowledge that her parents had found her on the church steps. There was no reason to lie.

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re aware of the identity of your birth parents, aren’t you? You know who your father is.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He snorted. “Don’t toy with me. I won’t tolerate it, and it’s beneath you.” He pointed at her wrist. “Your father is Lord Trent. You bear the stain.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All his misbegotten brats carry it. It’s how paternity is proven—when his bastards come begging for a handout. You’re one of his, all right. The hair, the eyes; it’s all there.”

  At having him blithely mention the man who might be her natural father, she steeled her emotions. Could it be true? Or was the Duke merely spreading more of his venom?

  She knew few details about her sire other than the fact that he had been an infamous nobleman and libertine. Could it be Lord Trent? How could it matter who it was? But still, she couldn’t disregard the spark of hope it ignited. Did she belong to someone? Was there someone out there who might claim her?

  Trent...Trent...Trent...

  With each beat of her heart, the name pounded through her veins, and she could barely keep from clapping her hands over her ears to shut out the sound.

  The Duke scrutinized her, pondering, and when he spoke, he was cajoling, coaxing. “What if I told you that I could convince Lord Trent to acknowledge you? What if I told you that you could go to London and live with him?”

  “My father was a parish vicar. He died three years ago. He was a simple, poor, and honest man who’s buried in the cemetery next to the church where he ministered.”

  He ignored her. “Trent and I are closely acquainted. I can persuade him to provide you with a dowry. I can have him find you a husband. Would you like that?”

  He was triumphant, positive she’d snatch at his offer with greedy fingers.

  “You’ve miscalculated,” she said. “I don’t want a husband—especially not one that you would help me locate.”

  “Nonsense, girl. Every female wants a husband. Think of it: a home of your own, children to mother, and status in the community. It’s your every dream come true. And you’d have your real father tossed into the bargain.”

  To her surprise, he’d actually voiced her most essential dreams—a home, a family—but she’d never admit that he was correct.

  “You don’t know anything about me, so you couldn’t begin to guess what I might want.”

  “He’d take you under his wing. Wouldn’t you like that? Isn’t it what you get down on your knees and pray for every night? You’d have your father—your rich, handsome, aristocratic father—standing by your side.”

  His tantalizing words ignited such a storm of yearning that she grasped how Eve must have felt in the Garden when the snake was tempting her.

  After all, what—precisely—did Fanny have? For the moment, she was fed and clothed, and she had access to Thomas—but it was all at Michael’s discretion.

  If she angered him, he could rescind every boon. Then where would she be?

  If she accepted the Duke’s proposal, she would be abandoning Michael and Thomas, but would receive a new life in their place.

  It was a prudent solution. It was a rational solution. She was on a sinking boat, and she should have leapt at the Duke’s rescue.

  Yet, she shrugged. “No thank you. I have no desire to meet Lord Trent. If he is my natural father—which I seriously doubt—I would never foist myself on him like some detested charity case.”

  Rage flared in the Duke’s eyes and mottled his cheeks. He rose, shaking his finger at her.

  “You pathetic hussy,” he hissed. “I’ll ruin you for this.”

  “I’m already ruined. There’s nothing you can do to me.”

  “If that’s what you suppose, you’re an even bigger idiot than I suspected.” His lascivious gaze dropped to her stomach. “If you think you can lounge around, fucking my son”—she blanched at the crude term—“until you spit out another Carrington bastard for me to support, you can just think again.”

  “You needn’t worry,” she casually said as if she were a fertility goddess who could control procreation, even though she and Michael consorted every evening. “It will never happen.”

  “Just so you know, the instant I learn that you’re pregnant, I shall go to court and obtain legal custody. There’s not a court in the land that would deny it to me. I will come and wrest your babe from your very arms. You’ll never see it again, and you’ll never get a penny from me.”

  He looked so pleased with himself, and a flood of a virulent hatred shot through her, the likes of which she’d never experienced before.

  “You’re a despicable, evil man.”

  “You’ll picture your bastard living high on the hog on my fortune, but it will be a fantasy. I’ll have it thrown in the Thames and drowned.”

  She’d never heard a person spew such a wicked remark, had never imagined that a person could have such malevolent designs.

  “I curse you, Your Grace,” she said with a forbidding dignity. “I hope you die old and alone, spurned by your children and reviled by all as you deserve to be.”

  She left, and as she hurried away, she felt as if she was suffocating, as if she might shatter into a thousand pieces.

  A wave of nostalgia washed over her, for her prior life at the rectory with her parents and Thomas, and the power of it nearly knocked her to the floor. She wanted to be the woman she used to be, before tragedy had intervened. The Wainwrights were poisoning her, and she was desperate to escape their influence.

  She rushed to the kitchen to grab her cloak and bonnet.

  Peggy, Cook, and the two footmen were there, obviously having overheard the quarrel. They were whispering amongst themselves.

  Fanny couldn’t abide their pitying stares. She swept by them, yanked at her belongings, and opened the door.

  “Where will you be, Miss Fanny?” Peggy was nervous, wringing her hands. “Lord Henley wouldn’t like it if you went off by yourself.”

  “He is neither my father nor my husband,” Fanny said. “If I decide to leave this house, I will, and none of you will prevent me.”

  “But...but...Miss Fanny...”

  Fanny glared at her. “You may tell him I’m not partial to the company I’ve recently had to keep.”

  She marched out into the woods, wondering how far she’d go and if she’d ever return.

  “Why would Grandfather treat Aunt Fanny like that?”

  “I don’t know, Thomas. He’s always been difficult.”

  “He shouldn’t have been so awful to her.”

  Out of the mouth of babes, Michael thought, tamping down his fury.

  “No, he shouldn’t have been.”

  Thomas raised up off his pillow to peer outside. The sun had set, and the weather was changing, the wind howling, ominous clouds blowing in.

  “I’m worried about her.”

  Michael was, too, but he wouldn’t admit it to the boy. They’d ridden horses all afternoon, blissfully unaware of the Duke’s visit until Peggy had sent a footman with the news.

  By the time they’d arrived home, the Duke had vanished an
d so had Fanny. Michael couldn’t conceive of her going for good, couldn’t conceive of her abandoning Thomas, so he’d been certain she’d pop up directly, but she hadn’t.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Michael said. “She was distressed, but once she calms, she’ll be back.”

  “It’s very dark. Are you sure she can find the way?”

  “We have candles burning in every window. Now snuggle down and close your eyes. When you awaken in the morning, she’ll be sitting at the breakfast table—as she always is.”

  Thomas was dubious, but he did as Michael asked. He scooted under the covers, and Michael tucked him in. Then Michael dropped into a chair, feigning composure as Thomas drifted off. The moment his breathing slowed, Michael tiptoed out.

  Peggy and the other servants were in the kitchen.

  “Any word?” he anxiously inquired, as he joined them.

  They shook their heads and stared at the floor. They’d let her run off again, without so much as a footman trailing after her. If some misadventure had befallen her, they all realized there would be consequences.

  “We have to search for her,” he advised. “Everyone will assist—if it takes all night. We’ll separate into teams, though Peggy, you will remain here in case—“

  Before he could finish the sentence, the door opened, and Fanny entered.

  She hung her hat and cloak, then walked past them so silently that she might have been a ghost. She appeared cold and wet, disheveled but unharmed.

  Without a hello, she proceeded to the stairs and climbed. Shortly, they heard her footsteps overhead in the master suite.

  “Cook, prepare a tray for her,” Michael ordered. “Hot cocoa, brandy, and whatever else you can muster in a hurry. Set it out in the hall. Then you’re all excused for the evening.”

  “And me, Lord Henley?” Peggy queried. “Will you be needing me?”

  “No. I’ll tend her myself. The rest of you are excused.”

  No one moved, and he added, “We’ll speak in the morning. My father is never—never!—to be allowed into this house again. You’ll each swear to me that you have the fortitude to keep him out, and if you can’t, you will be dismissed.” He studied each of them. “Am I making myself clear?”

  There was a flurry of mumbled responses, and he whirled away and dashed up the stairs to the closed door at the end of the hall. He wasn’t sure of his welcome, and for once, he was nervous about how to proceed.

  What had the Duke told her? Would she leave him?

  He was far from the day when he was ready to part with her, and if she insisted on going, his authority to stop her was limited.

  Very quietly, he spun the knob and slipped into the room. Rain pinged on the window glass, evidence of the storm outside, but in anticipation of her return, it was cozy inside. There was a fire in the grate, candles in the candleholders.

  She was in the dressing room, rubbing a towel across her wet hair. At his arrival, she stiffened, but didn’t comment, and he went over to her.

  “We were just organizing a search party,” he said. “I was getting worried.”

  “Would you please call Peggy?” Her voice sounded raw and abused.

  “I’ll assist you.”

  He reached for the towel, and for a second, they had a tug of war, but she relented and released it. Her fingers brushed his, and they were icy.

  “You’re freezing, you silly girl. Come out by the fire.”

  He led her to the outer chamber, and in the brighter light, it was apparent that she was in worse condition than he’d noted in the kitchen. Her skirt was muddy and torn, her palms scraped as if she’d fallen. There were twigs in her hair, rain on her shoulders. She was shivering, and she looked dazed, as if she didn’t know where she was.

  Her strange mood frightened him, and he moved her to the hearth and began unbuttoning her dress.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For which transgression?”

  “For the way my father treated you. I never imagined he’d come here.”

  “I hate him,” she vehemently replied. “I’ve never hated anyone before, but I hate him.”

  “It’s a common reaction.” He chuckled, hoping to inject some levity, to make her smile, but he didn’t succeed.

  “He’s a horrid man.”

  “I won’t argue the point.”

  He stripped away her dress, loosened her corset and drew it away, too, so that she was clad only in her chemise, stockings, and shoes. He circled her to kneel and pull them off, and it was a sign of her exhaustion that she didn’t complain.

  There was a knitted throw on the bed, and he grabbed it and draped it over her as he eased her into a chair. A servant was in the corridor, setting down the tray of food, and he retrieved it and brought it inside. He mixed a liberal dollop of brandy with some cocoa and held it out.

  “Drink this,” he ordered. “It will warm you.”

  She sniffed it, grimacing at the smell of the hard liquor, but she did as he asked, her frozen fingers wrapped around the hot cup.

  As she sipped, he fetched a brush, a basin of water and a towel. He yanked the ribbon from her hair, and he combed out the snarls and debris. Then he squatted down, and gently, he swabbed the scrapes on her hands, a cut on her knee.

  “Where were you?” he inquired.

  “In the woods.”

  “You fell.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”

  “I almost didn’t. I wasn’t going to.”

  “I’m glad you did, though. Thomas was distraught.”

  As was he, but he didn’t care to know how she’d respond to that fact.

  She stared at the fire, apathetic, disbelieving, and he leaned forward, wedging himself between her thighs, forcing her to meet his gaze.

  Out of the blue, she asked, “Are you engaged to be married?”

  For a brief instant, his heart pounded, but he swiftly regained his composure.

  He scoffed. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “From your father.”

  Dammit! “He told you that?”

  “Yes. Are you engaged?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re not marrying next month?”

  “No,” he said again.

  She studied his eyes, searching for a truth he would never let her find.

  With each passing day, he was more enamored of her. It was an attraction he’d never been able to quell or fight, and he was nearly mad in his need to be with her. Despite how he comprehended that he should confess all, he couldn’t be candid about Rebecca.

  Even though he’d seduced Fanny, she was still possessed of the rural morals by which she’d been raised. If she discovered that he was betrothed, she would leave, when he wasn’t ready for her to go.

  “Swear to me that you’re not about to wed,” she pressed.

  “I’m not,” he lied, swallowing down his guilt. “I swear it.”

  “But you’ll marry someday, though, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will. I have to.”

  “I realize that I asked you this when we first met, and you said no, but you know me better now. Would you...would you ever lower yourself and marry me?”

  It was the worst question imaginable. How could he answer it in any suitable manner? He would never choose her, but when he found her to be so remarkable, what did it reveal about his character? About his sense?

  “No, Fanny. I couldn’t.” She was crushed by his rejection, and he hated that he’d hurt her. “I have to marry for money.”

  “But you seem so rich to me.”

  “I have funds of my own, but my father is having difficulties. I have to assist him.”

  “Why would you? Why do you owe him anything?”

  “I’m not doing it for him. I’m doing it for those who rely on him. For our family’s tenants and employees. For my sister whose dowry was squandered.”

  “I see,” she murmured, and she was quiet for
an eternity. “Once you wed, what will become of me?”

  His pulse was racing again. Sexual affairs never lasted, so he knew they would eventually part. He would pay her a stipend, would buy her a charming cottage in some dreary village in the country. She’d be accommodated, and he would go on with his life. He’d never see her again, and strangely, he felt panicked at the notion.

  “Who can predict what will happen?” he said.

  “I wouldn’t stay after you were wed. It would be too painful for me.”

  “Don’t worry about it tonight.”

  “Your father said that if I get pregnant, he’d take my baby from me, and he’d have it drowned in the Thames.”

  “Oh, Fanny...”

  This was an infamy the servants hadn’t shared, and he was curious why not. Perhaps they hadn’t heard the threat, or perhaps it was so vile that they were ashamed to repeat it.

  “Is that how you would feel?” she inquired. “Would you take my child from me? Would you allow him to kill it?”

  “No, no. I would never let him.”

  “If I were pregnant, what would you think?”

  They were entering a murky bog, and he wasn’t sure what to say. It would be the height of folly to sire an illegitimate child with Fanny, but he couldn’t deny the rush of satisfaction that swirled through him at the possibility.

  “If you were pregnant,” he cautiously hedged, “it would be...splendid, but complicated.” It was a weak comment, a coward’s comment.

  “Would you take my baby—as you took Thomas from Camilla? Would you wrest him away and hide him where I could never see him?”

  He stared and stared, the silence going on forever. He’d just told her a terrible lie about his wedding, and he was loathe to tell her another, yet the fact remained that a child—especially a son—belonged to his father.

  “No, I wouldn’t take it,” he finally said, but with no conviction.

  She recognized it as a falsehood, and her disappointment was clear. He detested that he’d upset her, and he was anxious to change the subject, to make her smile.

  She was still freezing, her skin icy, her hair damp, and he stood and helped her to her feet.

  “Come.”

  “To where?”

  “You’re too cold. Let’s get you warm.”