Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

“Aunt Fanny, come with me!” he pleaded over his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Grandfather. I’ll tell him I want you with me.”

  “She can’t come with you, Thomas,” Camilla interjected. “She can’t.”

  “I tell Uncle Michael then,” Thomas insisted. “I will! He’ll listen to me.”

  The footman glared at Camilla, his disgust obvious. “This is a dirty business, Miss.”

  But though he claimed to be sickened by the task, he didn’t shirk from it. He led Thomas into the hall, the other three footmen closing ranks behind them, and swiftly, they were marching down the stairs.

  Fanny ran after them, shoving Camilla when her sister tried to block her way.

  “I’ll write to you every day, Thomas,” she yelled. “I swear it! If your grandfather says you’ve had no letters from me, you call him a liar!”

  “I’ll write, too, Aunt Fanny. I’ll write every day, too.”

  Then they were outside, and Fanny hastened to the window and peered out as Thomas was lifted into the Duke’s coach. With a crack of the whip, the footmen jumped on board, and the vehicle raced away.

  Feeling as if she’d died all over again, Fanny stumbled to a nearby chair.

  How many losses could a woman suffer? How was she to carry on through such torment?

  Camilla strutted into the foyer, completely composed, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if Thomas had been a used piece of furniture she’d donated to the poor, and Fanny’s temper began to boil.

  For years, she’d tolerated Camilla, had endured her vicious remarks, accepted her faults, and ignored her cruelty. No matter how despicably Camilla had acted, Fanny had never uttered a word of protest, but she had to face the fact that Camilla was—and had always been—undeserving of any sympathy.

  “How could you do that to him!” Fanny charged, her eyes flashing daggers as she advanced on Camilla. “How could you!”

  “My guests will arrive shortly,” Camilla calmly said, declining to argue, “and you’ve wasted so much of my time that I’m not ready to greet them.”

  “I have wasted your time? I was simply trying to protect your son.”

  “My son is none of your business and hardly needs any of your dubious protection. Now get upstairs and leave me be.”

  Fanny was trembling with rage. “Who let you out among decent people?”

  “I don’t have to take that from you.” Camilla pointed to the door. “Get out of my house.”

  Fanny didn’t move. She was so angry that she was a hairsbreadth away from slapping Camilla, from spewing every hateful, malicious insult she could devise, but Camilla prevented any reaction by bellowing for assistance from her servants.

  Several footmen hurried into the foyer, and they seized Fanny and escorted her outside, tossing her into the drive. They formed a defensive male barrier in front of Camilla so that Fanny couldn’t approach.

  Camilla stood in the threshold, stoic, indifferent to Fanny’s plight, and as Fanny studied her, she was certain she’d never see her sister again—and she was glad that she wouldn’t.

  Night was falling, and Fanny was alone—friendless, penniless, without so much as a coat or hat to warm her—but she wasn’t concerned. She’d happily live on the streets before she’d sleep under Camilla’s roof.

  “Thomas and I will find a way to be together,” Fanny vowed, “and you will never know where we are. We’ll be fine without you. I want you to remember that if you’re ever in trouble, if you ever wish you hadn’t been so awful to us.”

  Camilla smirked and gazed at her butler. “If she ever shows up on my stoop again, summon the authorities and have her hauled off as a common vagrant.”

  Camilla turned and went inside. Her servants followed. The door was slammed and locked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As Phillip buttoned Anne’s dress, he paused to kiss her shoulder. She’d stopped by for an afternoon romp, the fourth such wild tryst in a matter of days. As he’d suspected, she was an extremely passionate woman, and she’d quickly adapted to sexual activity.

  Like the worst scoundrel, he’d used her loneliness and naiveté to gain what he craved, so in that regard, he was very much like his contemptible father, when he worked hard not to be like him at all.

  He’d seduced Anne with wicked intent, but he wasn’t sorry. The only remaining question was: What should he do about it? He was a virile and experienced rake, yet in fornicating with her, he’d taken no precautions. What if she was pregnant? What then?

  The prospect panicked him.

  “Marry me,” he murmured, not realizing he was going to ask. The words had just slipped out.

  “Marry you?”

  “Yes.”

  She stiffened and stepped away from him, and casually, she walked about, picking up her gloves and coat.

  “We’ve been through this before,” she reminded him. “The Duke would never agree.”

  “We could leave right now. We can be in Scotland so fast it will make your head spin.”

  “If you knew how sordid that sounds to me, you wouldn’t propose it.”

  “Why is it sordid? When we returned, we’d be wed.”

  “I’m too old fashioned, Phillip. I think it’s wrong to sneak off without our fathers’ blessings.”

  “My father wouldn’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “Mine would. He’d never speak to me again.”

  Phillip didn’t suppose that was necessarily a bad thing, but he didn’t say so.

  “So what is your plan for us, Anne?”

  “I don’t have a plan.”

  “You’ll just keep popping in for a tumble until...when? ‘Til you tire of me? ‘Til you’re pregnant? ‘Til we’re discovered? Then what? What will you do if your father learns of our liaison?”

  “I have no idea. I’m pretending none of this is happening.”

  He wanted to shout at her, but she looked so torn and confused that he couldn’t be angry.

  “You haven’t thought this through.”

  “No. I’m running on instinct.” She started for the door.

  “What if I make the decision for you?”

  She whirled toward him. “What decision would that be?”

  “What if I call on your father and ask for your hand?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Just the other day, I begged him to find me a husband.”

  “And...?”

  “He claims I’m too old now, that there’s not a suitable man who would want me.”

  “I want you.”

  “He’d never deem you suitable, Phillip. You know that.”

  “Maybe he’ll surprise us both. Maybe you’re such an aged, decrepit weight around his neck that he’d be glad to be rid of you.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Let me talk to him,” he urged.

  “He’ll only refuse, and he’ll gravely insult you in the process. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “I’m a grown man, Anne, and I’ve known the Duke for a long time. Give me a little credit, would you? I can manage him.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the things he says about you behind your back.”

  Phillip was a bastard child, in a lengthy line of bastard children, sired by London’s most despicable roué. What slur could the Duke possibly hurl that Phillip hadn’t already heard?

  “It can’t be much different from what people say directly to my face.”

  “But it’s my father, Phillip. It would hurt me. It would make me ashamed.”

  When she gazed at him like that, with her blue eyes wide and pleading, it was hard to tell her no and mean it.

  He sighed. “All right, but I’m not going to give up on this. You can’t expect me to stop asking.”

  “No, don’t stop asking. I like it when you do.”

  He crossed to her and took her in his arms, and he kissed her thoroughly, until her limbs were slack, and her smile firmly back in place.

  “Would you l
ike me to see you home?” he inquired.

  “No. I don’t want anyone at the house to suspect about us. It would become too difficult to slip away. If the Duke thought I was misbehaving, he’d never permit me to set foot outside.

  He moved away, not eager for her to note his exasperation. She was twenty-five years old. Why couldn’t she grasp how the Duke used her? Why could she stand up to him? Didn’t she want to be happy?

  Phillip yearned to shake her, which was pointless.

  “When will you visit me again?”

  “Whenever I can get away,” she said. “I’ll let it be a surprise.”

  He chuckled, liking this spontaneous aspect to her personality. He intended to nurture it, to utilize it to press his advantage.

  He led her down to the rear door, and she hurried out to the hackney she’d hired, the driver having been paid a fortune to wait for her.

  Once the vehicle pulled away, he went into his library and began to pace, but the more he fretted, the more irate he became.

  If they kept on as they had been, disaster would strike. She would get pregnant, or a servant would tattle to the Duke, and all hell would break loose. The Duke might send her to a convent, or ship her off to some obscure estate, and Phillip would never know what had happened to her.

  The entire debacle would explode without warning, and Phillip wasn’t willing to sit idly by, doing nothing to avoid catastrophe. He had to confront the situation head on so that the details were out in the open. It would force the issue, and Anne would have no option but to wed him.

  If she didn’t like it, he cared not. She needed to be saved from herself, needed to be married and away from her father’s influence.

  Phillip rang for his valet.

  When the man entered, he said, “Lay out my best jacket and trousers. Then I’ll need a shave. I’m off to the most important meeting of my life.”

  The Duke stared at Michael, unnerved by what he saw.

  Michael was home, but he was so greatly changed that he seemed to be a different man altogether. The Duke had never witnessed such a morose, brooding individual.

  Whatever had transpired at Henley Hall, it must have been brutal, and he had to give Rebecca credit. She’d returned with him, as she’d sworn she would, but at what cost?

  Michael looked like a marble statue, as if he’d been carved out of ice. How long would he continue on like this? How would he and Rebecca ever get on?

  Rebecca had to realize the breach that had arisen between them. How would she mend it? Did she recognize that she needed to? If something wasn’t done, it was very likely that Michael would completely fall apart, and no wedding would ever be held.

  The little whore, Fanny Carrington, was a menace. Would the Duke never be shed of her?

  “What were you thinking,” the Duke fumed, “leaving the boy with Miss Carrington?”

  “Thomas belongs with her. They’re very close.”

  “I’m sick of hearing about her!” the Duke roared. “I’m sick of listening to you wax on about her as if she were a bloody saint.”

  Michael shrugged, pretending to have no opinion.

  “At least, I wrested him from her,” the Duke seethed, “and as you’ve proven you can’t watch out for his interests, from this point on, I shall see to his welfare.”

  “How did you find him? Where were they hiding?”

  The question was casually voiced, as if Michael wasn’t on pins and needles, desperate to know where she was. Who did he imagine he was fooling? His misery was so blatant it was laughable.

  “Why would I tell you where she is?” the Duke shouted, throwing up his hands in disgust. “You’ll be married in a week—to someone else. Get over it!”

  “I am over it.” He sounded like an automaton.

  “Before Miss Carrington left your house in the country,” the Duke lied, “she sent me a note. She said she didn’t want Thomas to stay there all alone. When my men showed up to fetch him, she was already gone, and she provided no forwarding address.”

  “So...she could be anywhere.”

  “Yes, she could be. Shall we search the whole, bloody country until we locate her? Shall we shame your fiancée to death? Perhaps we can run an ad in The Times, advising everyone to be on the lookout for your ex-mistress. And if we find her, then what? Will you move her into Henley Hall and beg Rebecca to let her live there? Maybe they could become bosom companions.”

  Michael snorted with malice. “I don’t believe they’d be cordial.”

  “I am weary of this pathetic infatuation. Get a grip on yourself! Start acting like the man I raised you to be.”

  Michael stood, no emotion visible. “Will that be all?”

  “Rebecca is the best choice for you,” the Duke insisted.

  “She certainly is.”

  “You’ll never convince me otherwise.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of trying.”

  “Her money will solve all our problems.”

  “Aren’t we lucky?”

  Michael turned to depart, when the butler poked his nose in to announce that Phillip had arrived and was requesting an audience. In light of the Duke’s foul mood, snide, suave Phillip Sinclair was the very last person the Duke wanted to see.

  “Tell him to go away,” the Duke snapped. “Tell him I’m out.”

  “Master Sinclair said to inform you that he knows you’re here, and he’s quite adamant about speaking with you.”

  “Oh, he is, is he?”

  “Yes, and he also said to inform you that if you refuse to...”

  Phillip took that moment to saunter past the butler, barging in as if he owned the accursed place.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” he stated. “I trust I’m not interrupting?”

  “You bloody well are, you impertinent scapegrace, and you know it. Be gone—or I’ll have the footmen toss you out on your rear.”

  “It’s marvelous to see you, too.” He went over and poured himself a brandy. “Hello, Michael. When did you get home?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Is the wedding still on?”

  The Duke answered for Michael. “Of course it’s still on. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Because Michael will always be sorry,” Phillip replied.

  “When I want your opinion, Phillip, I’ll ask for it. Now if you’ll excuse us...?”

  “Where is Fanny Carrington?” Phillip ignored the Duke, his hot gaze locked on Michael’s.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Michael responded.

  “What have you two done with her?”

  “She left”—Michael feigned nonchalance as to her plight—“and she didn’t enlighten me as to where she’s gone. Ask the Duke. He claims he doesn’t know where she is, but he’s probably lying.”

  “Why did you leave London with her in August? Have you ruined her?”

  Michael frowned. “I fail to see how my relationship with her is any of your business.”

  “Really? Well, I’m thinking she’s one of my sisters, so that makes it my business. From what I’ve heard, she has no other male relatives, so I would be her champion in correcting any defamation.”

  “Some champion you’d be,” Michael muttered, his raw temper flaring, and at the abrupt exchange, the Duke scowled.

  Michael was angry at Rebecca and the Duke, but he was lashing out at everyone, with Phillip simply the latest person to feel the sting of his wrath. For some reason, Phillip seemed overly volatile, too, and with them both in a heightened state of excitement, Michael was deliberately baiting him, as if spoiling for a fight.

  In the past, they’d spatted occasionally, had even come to blows once in a great while—as boys were wont to do—but that was when they were children. What on earth was the matter with them?

  The Duke’s quarrel with Phillip’s father had been long and bitter. Perhaps the fathers’ feud was spilling over to the sons, and if so, the Duke was glad of it. He’d never have to see Phillip again.

  “How horridly ha
ve you used her?” Phillip demanded. “I ought to know, so I can calculate the amount of compensation you owe her.”

  “I guess you’ll need to sue me for a fortune,” Michael retorted, “but I won’t pay her a penny. She enjoyed it as much as I did.”

  Before the Duke realized Phillip should be stopped, Phillip hauled off and hit Michael as hard as he could. Michael staggered to the side, knocking over a small table, and figurines flew to the floor with a loud crash.

  Michael straightened, appearing urbane and unruffled, and he hurled the one insult he knew would incense Phillip even further.

  “Bastard!”

  Was he mad? Phillip moved to hit him again, and the Duke leapt into the fray, a hand on each chest pushing them apart.

  “Boys! Boys!” he bellowed. “Desist! At once!”

  Phillip stepped away, rubbing his knuckles while Michael rubbed his cheek. They were glaring as if they hated each other, as if they’d always hated each other, and for a frantic instant, the Duke wondered if he shouldn’t go locate that annoying Fanny Carrington and bring her back.

  How could they proceed to the wedding with Michael behaving like a maniac? Who the hell cared if Michael kept Fanny Carrington as his mistress? Not the Duke, certainly. Rebecca was the only one who’d be displeased, but her feelings were of no consequence. Why not allow Michael his romance?

  But as quickly as the thought whizzed by, he shoved it away. Fanny Carrington was a nuisance, and he’d never let her sink her claws into Michael again.

  “What did you want, Phillip?” he inquired. “You had something to tell me, so spit it out, then go. As you can see, Michael isn’t himself, and we’re in no mood for company.”

  Phillip studied Michael, then the Duke, then Michael again. He shook his head with disgust.

  “Never mind. It’s a bad time. I’ll call on you some other day.”

  “I doubt our situation will improve for several weeks,” the Duke admitted, “so you might as well speak your piece.”

  “There’s no point. I’m sorry to have intruded.”

  He whirled to stomp out, just as Anne hurried in.

  “What is it now?” she fumed, her exasperation clear. “The butler fetched me. He said you and Michael were...”

  On observing Phillip, she stumbled to a halt.