by Cheryl Holt
He trailed off, appearing uncomfortable with what he’d nearly revealed.
“Warned him about what?”
“It’s nothing.”
Her pulse raced. “You warned him about Thomas? I thought you weren’t aware of Thomas until John’s will was read.”
“Oh...no, I hadn’t the slightest inkling. I was as surprised as you were.”
She was positive he was lying, and if he was, then he’d known about Thomas all along. He had to have been cognizant of Thomas’s dire straits, but had sentenced Thomas to squalor. Miss Carrington claimed that she’d written numerous letters, seeking assistance, but John had ignored her.
Had the Duke interfered somehow? Had he prevented John from helping them? Had John even learned that Miss Carrington had corresponded?
“Don’t harm Thomas,” she implored. “I’m begging you.”
He had no comment, but proceeded to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He sipped it calmly, as if she wasn’t present.
“Are you quite finished?” he ultimately said. “If so, I’m very busy.”
She peered at his desk, and it was clear of all papers. He was doing naught but scheming and gloating, and she felt as if she was suffocating on his deceits, on his spite.
“I’ve been thinking,” she started.
“About what?”
”I want to marry. I want you to begin making inquiries again. It’s been a few years. There might be someone available now whom we hadn’t previously considered.”
He snorted as if it were a preposterous suggestion.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re an old maid. There’s not a man in England who would have you when you’re so aged. It’s not worth the bother of searching.”
She flinched as if he’d slapped her. “I do believe that’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“So your answer is no?”
“Didn’t you hear me? Are you deaf?”
“No. I’m not deaf.”
“Good.”
“If anything happens to Thomas, I’ll tell Michael it was your fault. I’ll tell him you and Rebecca arranged it.”
“Idle threats, Anne, and you exasperate me with them. Be gone.”
For once, she was happy to oblige him. She left without argument, his malevolence wafting after her like an evil cloud.
The afternoon was quickly waning, and she needed to give the staff instructions for the evening, needed to bathe and dress. They had guests coming for drinks, then they were all heading to the engagement supper being hosted by Rebecca’s father.
Except that Michael wouldn’t be there, and Anne couldn’t bear the notion of how awkward it would be to sit across from Rebecca, making excuses for him.
She grabbed her hat and cloak, tiptoed to the front door, and departed. No one noted her passing by. No one saw her go.
She might have been invisible.
“Is Charles at home?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Phillip stared at his father’s wife, Susan. Her smile was icy.
“I need to talk with him right away. Do you know when he’ll return?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
He’d just spun to leave when the butler appeared down the hall.
“Actually, Mr. Sinclair,” the butler said, “the Earl is at home, and he’s expecting you. If you’ll come with me?”
At the rebuke—and from a servant no less—Susan tersely claimed, “My mistake, Phillip. He must have arrived without my being aware.”
Phillip glared at her, but didn’t remark on her obvious lie. She was a brittle, bitter woman who loathed Charles—with valid reason. Phillip felt sorry for her, but she aggravated him, too.
She’d birthed no children for Charles, so his natural children were an insult to her and blatant evidence of her barren state. Since it was Phillip’s goal to have his siblings acknowledged, he and Susan were always at odds.
He left her stewing in the foyer and followed the butler to Charles’s library. His father was alone, lounged in a chair by the fire and drinking a glass of wine.
“Phillip,” he said without rising, “how nice to see you.”
“He had a spot of trouble,” the butler tattled, “with Lady Trent.”
Charles and Susan were locked in a constant battle over who would be allowed to visit when she was in residence. The butler had strict orders to have any guests shown in immediately without regard to her wishes.
“Tell her I’ll speak with her as soon as Phillip and I are done.”
The butler closed the door, as Phillip joined his father by the fire. Charles looked calm and composed, as if his wife’s behavior didn’t bother him in the least—and it probably didn’t.
Charles was rarely in London. He and Susan rarely communicated. They never socialized. Phillip wondered if Charles was ever lonely, if he was ever sad over how his life had gone, but he doubted it. His father wasn’t prone to reflection or regret.
“I received your note,” Charles said. “What brings you by?”
“I believe I’ve found one of your daughters.”
“Really?”
“In fact, I’m sure of it.”
He handed over the letters he’d retrieved from Charles’s man of affairs.
“Oh yes,” Charles murmured as he leafed through the pages, “I remember her now. She was very beautiful, very sweet.”
“So is the daughter you sired with her.”
“It says the mother died shortly after the girl was born. What became of the child?”
“She was given to a vicar and his wife to raise.”
“Was he good to her?”
“Yes, although he died a few years ago. She’s had some problems since then.”
“What is her name?”
“Frances—though she calls herself Fanny.”
“Fanny...” Charles mused. “A pretty name for a pretty girl. Do you know where she is?”
“I’m told she’s at Henley Hall with Michael, but I’m not certain. I guess I’d better find out.”
Michael was over by the window, morose, ruminating and staring out at the stars.
He watched from his chair in the corner as Fanny rolled onto her back, as she yawned and stretched. With the moon shining down, the shadows stark, she looked ethereal and delicate, but she’d proved over and over that she was tough as nails, that she was resilient and clever.
What was he to do with her? They couldn’t stay together, but with each passing day, he was more infatuated. He repeatedly asked himself: How would he ever part with her? The prospect was disturbing, and he didn’t know how to face it.
While he hadn’t breathed a word about his approaching wedding, the end of their liaison was imminent. Once he married Rebecca, it would be impossible to keep the secret from Fanny. After she discovered what he’d done, she’d be crushed, and she would never forgive him, which he couldn’t bear to imagine.
He’d meant to have a brief fling, but it was patently obvious that he’d miscalculated. They were openly living in sin—but for when they were around Thomas and pretended to have separate bedchambers—and he was learning so much about her.
She had a devoted, loving temperament that he enjoyed, and she brought a contentment to his life that he’d always sought but hadn’t known how to achieve.
Automatically, she reached for him across the mattress. It was very late, and he should have been sleeping next to her, but he wasn’t. She frowned, and he was thrilled to see that she’d grown accustomed to his presence, that she expected him to be there.
She could have stuck by her morals, could have fled and declined to consort with him, but she hadn’t. His time with her had altered his world until he understood that he couldn’t go back to being the man he’d been before they’d met.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked.
“No.” Her green eyes were poignant, percep
tive, and he must have appeared sufficiently miserable that she added, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
He studied her intently. Ever since he’d returned from London, he’d been on the verge of uttering facts that would devastate her. The room was very quiet, the sense of anticipation extreme, and it was the perfect moment to confide in her. He’d spewed too many lies and not nearly enough truths, but he simply couldn’t tell her.
She deserved to know about his engagement, about his pending nuptials. The information was like a tangible object in the middle of the floor, but he spent every minute biting down any grand confession. Why hurt her unnecessarily?
He was existing in a fairy-tale, praying that everything would continue on just as it was.
The autumn night was very chilly, the fire out, and he was naked. He shivered and rose, walking to the bed and slipping under the quilts.
“You’re freezing,” she gasped, then laughed as she pulled him to her and his frigid skin connected with her own. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“Too long.”
“Silly man.”
He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose. As they cuddled in the snug cocoon of the blankets, he wished they could remain where they were forever, that morning would never come, that the future would never arrive.
He hugged her to his chest, and he was brooding and pensive, yearning to have a genuine conversation, but having no idea how to start it.
“What is it?” she inquired, completely attuned to his troubled condition.
“Nothing,” he insisted, too confused to reveal his thoughts.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
He had to protect her, had to keep her close and safe. If he spoke a word of the actual state of his situation, she’d leave him, and they’d established—on several occasions—that she was adept at landing herself in terrible jams.
He couldn’t allow her to endanger herself, couldn’t be candid if it would cause her to do something rash and irrevocable.
Instead, he did what he always did, what he was always anxious to do. He began making love to her, his lips seeking and finding hers. She was a very passionate person, and she eagerly joined in.
Her slender fingers roved over his arms and shoulders, and her thighs widened, her legs circling his waist so she could draw him into her. As he peered down at her, his heart pounded with an odd sort of ecstasy.
He never tired of looking at her, never grew weary of being with her. Did she know? Could she sense the emotions festering inside him?
She rolled them, surprising and delighting him with her desire to be on top. She was on her knees, her toes digging into the mattress to rock her sheath across his phallus.
With her back arched, her glorious hair flowing down, she might have been an ancient goddess, and he smiled, liking this side of her, planning to nurture it with all his might.
He let her play and tease until his ardor spiked and he couldn’t delay. He flipped them again, so that she was lying beneath him, so that he could stare into her beautiful eyes as they found their pleasure together.
He reached down and touched her at the vee between her legs, and as she let go and flew to the heavens, he flew with her, reveling in the tumult that went on and one until it seemed it would never stop.
Eventually, the exhilaration waned, their breathing slowed, and they were grinning, their gazes locked. A thousand comments swirled through his mind as he struggled with what to say, with how to profess how much he loved her, but he was stubbornly, foolishly silent.
“Are you happy, Fanny?” he ultimately queried. “Are you glad you stayed with me?”
“I’m very happy.” She cradled his cheek in her palm. “And how about you, Michael? Are you happy?”
“Oh, Fanny, yes, I’m so very, very happy, too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fanny sat in the front parlor, fighting down a wave of nausea. For the prior two weeks, she’d been sick in the morning. She was exhausted all the time, her breasts were very tender, and she constantly wanted to weep. Her monthlies were late, and she was counting on her fingers, hoping she’d calculated wrong, but knowing she hadn’t.
She wasn’t the most experienced of females, but she was smart enough to recognize pregnancy when it was staring her in the face.
Distractedly, she rubbed her abdomen. What to do? What to do?
Michael had to be told, but she couldn’t imagine how the conversation would go. He’d said he wouldn’t take a baby from her, but she wasn’t positive that she’d believed him. Could she risk confiding in him? If he’d been lying, and he took her child, the fiendish Duke would be in control of it, which Fanny would never allow.
Then again, Michael seemed more content recently. Though he’d never admitted it, she was certain he was in love with her. What if he was? Would it change anything?
If he loved her, why shouldn’t they wed? With a baby on the way, he might be willing to throw off convention and have her as his bride. He’d have to give up his quest for a rich wife, but would he?
Movement out in the drive caught her attention, and she saw a woman approaching the house. It was a chilly, blustery afternoon, and the visitor was bundled in a heavy coat, a hat pulled low on her head. She was alone, her stride very determined, which was worrisome. They were located off the main road, so they never had callers, and Fanny was in no mood for company.
She just wanted some privacy, just wanted a few quiet hours while Michael and Thomas were at Henley Hall, where she could think and plan, but the woman marched right up and knocked. They didn’t have an army of servants, and everyone was busy with chores. Fanny answered the door, herself.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, if I could please speak with...” The woman paused. “Aren’t you Miss Carrington?”
“Yes.”
“Might I talk with you? It will only take a minute.”
Fanny studied her, deciding she looked familiar, but Fanny couldn’t place her. Her clothes were very fine, evidence of wealth and breeding. She appeared to be about Fanny’s age, and she was taller than Fanny, slender, with striking blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her cheeks were red from the cold.
There didn’t seem to be any reason not to let her in—other than Fanny’s foul disposition.
“Well...I suppose.”
“I appreciate it.”
She stepped across the threshold, and it was the oddest sensation, but Fanny felt as if an ill wind blew in behind her, as if Doom had slithered in when Fanny’s back was turned.
“The weather is so fierce today,” the woman remarked as she removed her outer garments.
“Have you been walking far?”
“No, not far,” she vaguely said.
Fanny hung the woman’s belongings on the stand in the corner, then she pointed to the parlor where a toasty fire burned in the grate.
“Why don’t you warm yourself by the hearth, and I’ll have Cook make us some tea.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Regally, the woman gestured to the two chairs nearest the fire, as if she was the hostess and Fanny an interloper.
They entered side-by-side, her guest assessing every item as if evaluating its worth. Fanny furtively scrutinized her, finding her to be very beautiful, very stylish and polished, and the obvious differences in their attitudes and comportment were blatant and unnerving.
“Is Lord Henley at home?” the woman asked.
“No, he went riding at Henley Hall.”
“Will he be gone long?”
“That was his plan—unless the weather becomes more inclement.”
The woman sat, arranging her skirts, holding her hands toward the flames. Fanny was silent, waiting for whatever bad news was coming, and she perceived that it would be very bad, indeed.
“This is a cozy house,” the woman said. “Small, but cozy. I’ve never been in it before.”
&nbs
p; “Hmm...” Fanny mumbled, not certain how to reply.
“I wasn’t even aware it was here until the Duke gave me directions.” She looked around again, then she leveled her astute gaze on Fanny. “My name is Rebecca Talbot.”
“How do you do, Miss Talbot.”
“Actually, it’s Lady Rebecca.”
“Oh. I’m Fanny Carrington, but you already knew that.”
“Yes, I did. I’ve been conscious of you for some time now. Has Lord Henley ever spoken of me?”
“No. Ah...should he have?”
Lady Rebecca nodded, pensive, frowning. “You care for Lord Henley, don’t you? You care for him very much. I can see it in your eyes.”
The intimate question flummoxed Fanny, making her wish she hadn’t opened the door.
“I was in a difficult situation,” Fanny said. “He’s been kind to me.”
“Has he? With the two of you living here like this, are you hoping he’ll marry you? Is that what he’s told you?”
“Gad no. We’re friends, and he’s letting me visit with my nephew.”
“So you understand that he’s very much above your station. There’s no chance of a union between you—despite how you might fantasize about another conclusion.”
“Yes, I understand. I’m not stupid.”
The comment was extremely aggravating, and she was about to rise and escort Lady Rebecca out, but Rebecca sighed and said, “Don’t be upset. It wasn’t my intent to insult you. I was just stating the facts, but not very politely. I’m trying to figure out what you want, but I’m off to a poor start.”
“What I want? I don’t want anything.”
Lady Rebecca relaxed in her chair, and she was pensive again, weighing her options. “I was going to be rather harsh with you, but I can’t be.”
Fanny’s pulse pounded with alarm. “What do you mean?”
“It’s apparent that what I’m about to say will hurt you very much. I’m sorry for it, but there’s simply no easy way to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I am Michael’s fiancée.”
Fanny gasped. “His what?”
“We’re engaged, Miss Carrington. I’m his fiancée.”
