Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  He escorted her to the bed, and they climbed in. He pulled the blankets over them, and they snuggled into the plush mattress, stretched out on their sides.

  Gradually, her shivering slowed, and he should have been a gentleman and tiptoed out, but he couldn’t release her. He felt as if they’d dodged a mortal blow, and she seemed to feel the same. Just as he was in no hurry to go, she was in no hurry to demand his departure.

  They rolled so she was on her back, and he kissed her and kissed her, his hands busy, his cock thrilled. She joined in, tentative, then with more confidence, and her assurance lent new urgency to his desire.

  He wanted her more than ever, but in a different way he didn’t fathom. With mounting desperation, he needed to bond himself to her, to meld with her so completely that they could never be torn asunder.

  Her chemise was an unnecessary barrier, and she let him draw it down and off, being perfectly content to participate in any fashion he required. With her naked, he was eager to be in the same condition, and he yanked at his clothes until he was naked, too.

  His loins ached, and he was frantic to plunge into her, but he tempered the pace, dipping down to play with her breasts. He drove her up and up the spiral of pleasure, until her torso grew tense, her hips rocking against his own. When he reached down to fondle her sheath, she was so ready for him.

  He nudged her thighs apart, and with ease, he slipped into her and began flexing. His penetrations were carefully controlled, and he observed her expression, seeing her astonishment, her delight.

  Their ardor increased, as they strove toward their goal, and her eyelids fluttered shut, a flush of exhilaration coloring her pretty cheeks.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” he said. “Watch me—the entire time.”

  He took her hands and braced them on either side of her head, and he linked their fingers, clasping tight as the agitation rose, as the excitement crested.

  “Oh, Michael,” she said. “Oh...”

  “Let go, Fanny. Now. Come with me now.”

  Her emerald eyes were open wide. There was affection in her gaze, but there was something more, too, as if her trek in the woods had altered her or had given her a new opinion of him that she hadn’t shared.

  He thrust deep, again, again, and as her orgasm started, his own commenced. They soared to the peak together, their bodies, hearts, and minds united in a manner he hadn’t understood to be possible between lovers. The potency bound him to her ever more fully, and as the intoxicating interval wound to an end, he was awed to speechlessness.

  How could he ever let her go? How could he proceed with his marriage to Rebecca? The situation was futile, his choices grim.

  How could he give her up? How could he move on as if she didn’t matter? As if she’d been naught more than bit of fluff or a passing fancy?

  Gad! Did he love her? Was that what had happened?

  At the notion that he might, his pulse pounded with joy and alarm.

  He slid away and spooned himself to her, and he kissed her neck, her shoulder, feeling that he should say something, but having no idea as to what.

  “I couldn’t leave you,” she confessed.

  “I’m glad.”

  “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

  She sighed, the sound tragic, as if it were the most agonizing admission in the world.

  “Everything will work out for the best, Fanny. Please don’t fret.”

  “I love you,” she suddenly proclaimed. “That’s why I couldn’t go. I love you, and I don’t even know why.”

  He stiffened with surprise, with wonderment and dismay. He didn’t want her love! He hadn’t a clue what to do with it or how to cherish it, and he recognized that this was the moment he should announce that he loved her, too, but he’d never spoken the words to another soul, and he couldn’t force them out.

  Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, taking comfort in her nearness.

  “You’ve had a long day,” he said, avoiding a verbal commitment he wasn’t prepared to bestow. “Go to sleep now.”

  “I can’t bear to be alone tonight. Stay with me.”

  “I will, Fanny. I’ll stay right here.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “By God, I will not have it!”

  “It is not up to you!”

  Anne flew down the stairs in her stockings, her earrings in her hand. The shouting from the Duke’s library had carried up to her room on the third floor. They were having friends in for dancing and cards, and some of them might have already arrived. If any of them had heard the clamor, she’d be mortified.

  The butler and two housemaids were lurking in the foyer, pointing and whispering, and on seeing her approach, the maids vanished like smoke.

  “Who is it?” she asked. “Who’s fighting?”

  “Your father and Lord Henley,” the butler replied.

  Anne was surprised. She hadn’t known that Michael was back.

  The musicians were tuning their violins. Footmen were rushing through the parlors with candles, vases of flowers, trays of food.

  “Are any of our guests here yet?”

  “I believe the first carriage is just coming down the drive.”

  Anne raced on, desperate to put out the fire of what should be a private argument.

  “You meddling bastard,” Michael was roaring. “How dare you interfere in my personal affairs!”

  “As long as you’re my heir, you will do as I say.”

  She skidded to a halt, then spun the knob and marched in.

  “For goodness sake,” she cried, “what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “This is none of your business, Anne,” Michael said. “Be gone.”

  While the Duke was often abrasive and curt, Michael never was, and she was stung by the rebuke, but she didn’t leave.

  “When your quarrel is audible up in my room,” she responded, “you make it my business. The whole house is listening. Very likely, the neighbors are, too. You’re behaving like a pair of schoolyard brawlers.”

  She had never seen them so at odds. They were facing off across the Duke’s desk. Michael’s fists were clenched as if he might assault their father.

  The Duke ignored her, his venom directed at Michael.

  “Who the hell do you think you are,” the Duke raged, “taking the boy from Wainwright Manor without my permission?”

  “Your permission!” Michael scoffed. “I am his guardian, and I’m a thirty-year-old adult man. If I want to toss him on a ship and sail off the end of the earth, I will, and you can’t stop me.”

  “That annoying tart will not have him!” The Duke pounded the desktop. “I will not stand for it!”

  At his voicing of the word tart, Michael grew very still, wrath rippling off him in waves. “Her name is Fanny Carrington, and if you insult her again, I will beat you to a bloody pulp.”

  “Fanny Carrington!” the Duke taunted. “Fanny Carrington! If I never hear the name Carrington again as long as I live, it will be too soon. Those two sisters have the morals of alley cats. They’ll spread their legs for anyone, and if you suppose I’ll let you impregnate her so that we have to dole out more money to—“

  Michael leapt across the desk, ink pots, pen jars, and papers crashing to the floor. The Duke flinched away, out of range, coolly sipping his brandy.

  Anne leapt, too, grabbing Michael by his coat and yanking him to his feet with such force that threads popped in the jacket’s shoulder seams.

  “Control yourself,” she scolded. “Rebecca is joining us this evening. You don’t want her to see you like this!”

  The Duke snickered. “Oh, we definitely wouldn’t want Rebecca to see you like this, would we? She might speculate over why you’re in such a state. What would we tell her, I wonder?”

  Michael glared, appearing almost as if he...he...hated the Duke, and the virulent look frightened her.

  “If you ever speak to Fanny again,” Michael seethed, “if you ever threaten her again, I’ll kill you. I swear it
!”

  “Michael!” Anne gasped. “What’s come over you?”

  “His pecker is in a knot,” the Duke crudely said, “over some lowborn, loose Jezebel, and he...”

  Michael lunged again, and Anne jumped in front of him, a hand on his chest. Their eyes met and locked, but Michael was so angry he didn’t seem to know who she was.

  “Get out of my way.”

  “No. You go up and change your clothes. I’ll expect you downstairs in half an hour, and I insist you be your usual courteous self.”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, and she wasn’t sure about what—or whom—he was talking. Her alarm spiraled.

  “Go!” She urged him out.

  He glared at the Duke a final time, then he left.

  As the door slammed behind him, the Duke laughed and walked over to pour himself another drink.

  Anne was so incensed that she wasn’t certain where to begin.

  “What is the matter with you?” she fumed.

  “What’s the matter with me?” the Duke asked. “I was just sitting here having a brandy, when he barged in.”

  “What did you do to him? What did you do to Miss Carrington?”

  “I simply offered her money to go away and leave us in peace.”

  “How is she bothering us?”

  “If you were a married woman—which you’re not—I’d explain the facts of life to you. As it is, the details are not fit for your maidenly ears. So go finish dressing for your soiree.”

  He was treating her as he always had—as if she was stupid or insignificant—and his conduct infuriated her. She wouldn’t be dismissed!

  “Is Michael having an affair with Miss Carrington? Is that why you’re fighting?”

  “Michael is engaged to Rebecca, and they will be wed in a few weeks. That’s all you need to know. Now get out of here. You irritate me with your prattling.”

  Anne had never felt so thoroughly chastised, not once in all the years she’d been reprimanded by him, and she couldn’t decide why she was so upset. His reproofs were nothing new, but lately, she was too out of sorts to put up with him.

  She was so close to giving him the tongue-lashing he deserved, but it occurred to her that if she let loose, she might never stop. There seemed to be a whirling dervish building inside her, a coil of ire and hurt spinning out of control.

  She huffed out and stomped up the rear stairs to her room where she could stew in private. It was the Duke’s blasted party. Let him welcome everyone! Let him chat and mingle! Let him check on the champagne, supervise the servants, and coordinate with the kitchen.

  For over an hour, she dawdled, and when she finally went downstairs, the event was continuing on just fine without her. The guests were regular visitors, the staff well-trained and competent. No one needed instructions or guidance. No one needed a hostess at all.

  Though Michael was nowhere to be found, Rebecca was holding court with the Duke. She blathered away, and he pretended to heed her, even though he never listened to a word spoken by a female.

  Anne was disturbed by the prospect of Michael’s having a lover, and with Rebecca being her friend, she wondered where her loyalties lay, whether she should be offended or not. And if she was, on whose behalf? Miss Carrington’s? Rebecca’s? Both women?

  Did Anne care that Michael had taken a mistress so near the wedding? Was it any of her business? Was she entitled to an opinion? Or should she, as always, be blind to the antics of the men in her family?

  She wandered through the salons, irked and exasperated, until she saw Phillip over by the French windows that led out to the verandah, and it dawned on her that she’d been searching for him in the crowded parlors. She started toward him just as he slipped outside, and she was glad he had. They could have a moment to talk. If she was lucky, he might even kiss her again!

  She raced after him, expecting to find him peering up at the stars or smoking a cheroot, but he was down in the garden and vanishing into the shadows. She increased her pace, more eager than she should have been for a rendezvous, and she was about to call to him, when a woman approached from the other direction.

  Anne knew her well. She was the beautiful and voluptuous Margaret Smythe, a baron’s daughter, an earl’s wife. There had been rumors of an unhappy marriage, of adultery and torrid liaisons, but Anne had discounted the stories.

  Frowning, she watched and eavesdropped, as Phillip held out his arms and Margaret snuggled into them. They began kissing, and from their familiarity, Anne didn’t suppose it was their first embrace.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and she felt as if her heart was breaking, as if Phillip was betraying her, which was ridiculous. She had no claims on Phillip’s affections.

  “Where have you been?” Margaret murmured against his lips, and she laughed in a sultry way. “I’ve been chasing you across the city.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  “In Yorkshire.”

  “Really?” Phillip mused. “How convenient of him.”

  “Anne won’t notice if we sneak away. Can we meet at your house in thirty minutes?”

  “Most definitely. You leave first. I’ll follow shortly.”

  They engaged in another tempestuous kiss, then Margaret dashed off, and Anne hid in the bushes, mortified and shocked beyond belief. Margaret climbed the stairs onto the verandah and swept inside, then Anne trudged after her, so undone that she’d forgotten about Phillip who had taken that exact second to proceed to the house, too. She nearly bumped right into him.

  They were standing under a lantern, so her stunned, hurt expression was clearly visible.

  They stared and stared, and finally, Phillip said, “Are you spying on me, Anne?”

  “I was just...ah...”

  “Was there something you wanted?”

  She was aware that she should make some inane remark, then slither away, but she was crushed to the marrow of her bones.

  “Why would you do that with her?” she inquired.

  “Why not?”

  “But I thought that I...”

  She trailed off again, not having a clue how to complete the sentence without disgracing herself even further.

  “That you were what?” he pressed. “That you were the only woman I’d ever kissed?”

  She couldn’t respond. She wanted to die!

  “Grow up, Anne.”

  He moved around her, and she halted him by grabbing his wrist.

  “I can’t bear to have you go off with her.”

  “Why?”

  There wasn’t a single answer she could give that made any sense, and he seemed to know it. There was a challenge in his gaze, but also, a touch of pity, which she hated.

  “She’s married, Phillip,” she stupidly mentioned.

  “So?”

  “Don’t you want better for yourself?”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  And with that, he left her alone in the yard.

  “I’m so happy that you’ve returned safe and sound.” Rebecca forced pleasantness into her tone.

  They were away from the party and strolling down a garden path, the lanterns reflecting off her diamond necklace and golden gown so that she glowed.

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Michael said.

  He glanced over at her, and her jaw was clenched so tightly that he was surprised she could open her mouth to speak.

  He hadn’t intended to make an appearance at the soiree, but somehow, Rebecca had learned he was home. Anne had sent a frantic note upstairs, informing him that Rebecca was asking after him, and Michael hadn’t been able to think of a valid reason not to come down.

  Though she was trying hard not to show it, Rebecca was enraged, and he couldn’t blame her. For all her snobbish ways, she was only twenty—the same age as Fanny, a devilish voice reminded him—and barely beyond adolescence.

  She should have had all the grandeur and romance a girl deserved with the approach of her wedding, and he wasn’t such a
scoundrel that he’d revel in denying them to her. He wished he could fix the rift that had developed between them, or that he could explain why he was suddenly so distracted.

  He felt as if he’d metamorphosed into a man he didn’t recognize—a man with two identities and two separate lives. He was marrying a woman he scarcely knew and didn’t like while he was carrying on a torrid affair with another whom he adored.

  “Your brother always enjoyed walking in the garden.”

  It was the very worst thing she could have said, the most insulting comment she could have made. In his view, the number one point against her was that she’d been betrothed to John first.

  He could hardly keep from snapping at her.

  “And he loved parties,” Michael stated. “He loved to dance.”

  “He certainly did.”

  They continued on, silent, miserable.

  Ultimately, she ventured, “Where have you been? I was worried.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a hint of sarcasm in her query that had him wondering what was behind it. Had there been rumors? Was she probing into his private life? He was about to marry her. Wasn’t she entitled?

  “I had business at Henley Hall.”

  “Nothing disastrous, I hope?”

  “No.”

  He’d been suffocating in the house, and when she’d suggested they take the night air, he’d jumped at the chance, but the mansion was getting farther and farther away, and he yearned for the crowd so he wouldn’t be stuck alone with her.

  “I heard the strangest story,” she broached.

  “What is that?”

  “I heard you took Miss Carrington with you.” She peeked up at him. “Did you?”

  He sucked in a deep breath, held it, let it out. He felt as if he was perched on a high cliff and about to leap off into space.

  “Yes. I decided it was best to get her out of London.”

  “Is she staying at Henley Hall?”

  The residence was about to be Rebecca’s home, and she was aghast.

  “No, she’s not at the Hall. I simply escorted her to the country. She’s visiting... relatives.”

  “I wasn’t aware that she had any.”

  It was a question and an indictment, but he didn’t answer it.