by Cheryl Holt
“What are you doing here?” Her question sounded like an accusation.
“I came to talk to your father.”
“About...me?”
“Yes.”
“I told you not to!” she hissed.
“I know you did,” Phillip replied, “but I didn’t say I’d listen.”
The Duke scrutinized the two of them. Though they were separated by many feet of space, sparks seemed to be shooting between them. Their attraction was blatant and undeniable.
When had this happened? How had this happened? How had he not noticed it fomenting?
“Whatever he said about us, Father,” Anne insisted, “it’s a lie.”
“I haven’t said a word,” Phillip interjected. “Yet.”
“But if he had spoken”—the Duke was rigid with fury—“what might he have told me?”
Anne was flummoxed, recognizing she’d given up the game when there’d been no need.
“Well...nothing. He’d have told you nothing at all. Isn’t that right, Phillip?”
She frowned at Phillip, flinging visual knives to keep him silent, but Phillip had never been a man to obey orders. It was one of the many things the Duke loathed about him.
“I want to marry her, Your Grace,” Phillip said. “I’m asking for her hand.”
The Duke had understood that a proposal was coming, but still, he couldn’t believe his ears.
“You what?”
“I want to marry her. I seek your blessing.”
“Are you insane?”
“No. I simply want to marry her. I always have.”
“How in God’s name could you have formed an opinion on the subject?”
“We’ve dallied enough for me to be sure.”
The Duke gasped. “You’ve been trifling her? Behind my back?”
“Yes.”
“Have you fucked her?” the Duke crudely inquired.
“As a matter of fact, I have. On several quite lurid occasions.”
Anne nearly swooned.
“You impudent, insolent, cheeky scoundrel!” the Duke raged.
“Should I take that as a no?” Phillip taunted.
“Get out of here,” the Duke commanded, but Phillip just stood there.
“She could be increasing already,” Phillip said, “with my son.”
“Get out! Get out!”
“If you try to hide her or marry her off to someone else, I’ll announce to the whole world that I had her first and the child is mine. So don’t even think about making her disappear.” He spun on his heel and went to the door. “I’ll drop by tomorrow, when I trust cooler heads will prevail. We’ll discuss it again. I’m not going away.”
“You wily, slimy bastard!” The Duke was shrieking, so incensed that he truly worried the top of his skull might blow off. “I had plans for her. I had men—rich men! titled men!—eager to join with my family over her. She was my pawn, the ace up my sleeve, and you’ve ruined everything! Everything!”
“How could that be?” Phillip said. “She has no dowry, remember? Who would want her besides me?”
“What?” Anne gasped.
“You have no fortune, Anne,” Phillip informed her. “The Duke squandered it years ago. Why do you suppose he’s never accepted any of your marriage offers? There’s no money in the bank, and he’s too embarrassed to say so.”
“That’s a lie!” Anne turned her beseeching eyes on the Duke. “Isn’t it a lie, Father?”
“Of course it is,” the Duke blustered.
Phillip scoffed. “I’ll have her anyway, Your Grace. Even if she’s poor as a church mouse.”
He continued out and as he passed by Anne, she seethed, “I’ll never forgive you for this as long as I live.”
“Forever is a long time,” Phillip advised, and he vanished.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“If you ever visit your mother again,” the Duke hissed, “you will be whipped and sent away forever. Do you understand me, boy?”
Thomas stared up at his grandfather. “Yes, sir.”
“If you ever speak with your Aunt Fanny again, you will be whipped and sent away forever.”
“Yes, sir,” he repeated.
“If you complain to your Uncle Michael about my rules, you will be whipped and sent away forever.”
“I won’t complain.”
“You had better not,” the Duke threatened. “You’ll be going away to school soon, and I’ve informed the headmaster about all the trouble you’ve caused. He has my permission to beat you whenever necessary. You will obey me, or you will suffer the consequences.”
At the notion of being sent away to school, Thomas was terrified. He had always done his schoolwork at the kitchen table, with Aunt Fanny. His new teachers might be grumpy old men who didn’t know how smart he was, and he’d have to sleep in a strange bed and reside in a strange place.
If he left London, how would Aunt Fanny ever find him again?
“Grandfather,” he said, “I don’t want to go away to school.”
“Your opinion is irrelevant, and your uncle is waiting for you in the foyer.” Thomas didn’t move, and the Duke waved to the door. “Out!”
Thomas walked out, hiding his dismay when he saw not only his uncle, but Lady Rebecca, too.
She and Michael were about to marry, but they were both so angry. After the ceremony, he would have to live with her, but he couldn’t imagine it. She didn’t like him, and she was cruel to him—as his mother had been cruel.
He had tried to tell Uncle Michael, but his uncle wouldn’t listen. Uncle Michael had hurt Fanny, had made Thomas leave her behind at his mother’s, but his mother hated Fanny. Bad things would happen to her there, and it would be all his uncle’s fault.
If Thomas was as rich and important as Uncle Michael had once claimed, why couldn’t he take care of Fanny? Why couldn’t she live with him? No one would explain. The few occasions he’d asked questions, the answers had been so short and so heated that he’d given up.
“There you are,” Michael said, smiling his fake smile.
Thomas didn’t smile back.
“Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.”
Michael stuck out his hand, expecting Thomas to clasp hold, but Thomas pretended not to see the gesture.
“Where have you been?” Lady Rebecca scolded.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I was talking to Grandfather.”
“A likely story.”
Thomas knew it was pointless to try to convince her. He stood, silent and miserable, as the butler helped him with his coat, then he followed Michael and Rebecca out into the cold, rainy afternoon. They climbed into the Duke’s coach.
He hadn’t been told where they were going, and he hoped it wasn’t Wainwright Manor. He didn’t want to be by himself in the big, lonely mansion. There were no children to play with, and none of the servants were kind.
The driver cracked the whip, and as the carriage lumbered away, he tried to get comfortable, but his new shirt rubbed his neck, and his new boots pinched his toes. He fidgeted against the seat.
“Sit still, Thomas!” Lady Rebecca snapped.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Don’t call me Miss! You know how you’re to address me.”
“Yes, milady.”
“Thomas!” she barked again. “Stop kicking your feet. It’s annoying.”
“Leave him be, Rebecca,” Uncle Michael said. “He’s fine.”
“He has to learn how to behave. I swear, from the way he acts, he must have been raised by wolves in a cave.”
I was not, Thomas said to himself. I was raised by my Aunt Fanny.
He was painfully aware that Fanny’s name wasn’t to be mentioned, and the restriction upset him very much. Why shouldn’t he be able to talk about her? Why shouldn’t he be able to say whatever he liked?
“Thomas, for pity’s sake!” Lady Rebecca protested. “Will you fuss the entire trip?”
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he
murmured.
“Don’t sass her,” Uncle Michael said. “Just be still—as she requested. I would like us to ride in peace.”
Tears welled into Thomas’s eyes, but he couldn’t bear to have them see, so he tugged on the curtain and gazed out at the street.
There were many people strolling by, and for the briefest moment, the crowd parted. A woman was watching the coach, and it seemed to be Fanny, but she looked so different that he wasn’t sure. Her hair was snarled, the rain matting it to her head. She was very sad, and she appeared fatter, her tummy having more of a bulge than he remembered.
He was desperate to call out, to find out if it was really her, but any comment would produce more scolding from Lady Rebecca.
What would Rebecca do if he leapt for the door and jumped out? He yearned to try it, but he didn’t. The footmen would simply grab him and bring him back, and then, he’d be in trouble.
He might even be punished, might get the thrashing his grandfather had threatened, and if Thomas was whipped, he would be so ashamed. If he was sent away, Fanny would never know where he was.
The woman was almost out of sight, and he wiggled his fingers so that if it was Fanny, she would realize that he’d seen her. The woman waved back, and he leaned out, deciding to call to her after all, when Lady Rebecca nagged, “Thomas! Lower the curtain. You’re letting in a draft.”
Thomas peered out again, but Fanny had vanished.
“Thomas!” Lady Rebecca shouted.
“Thomas,” Uncle Michael said, “just sit back, would you?”
Thomas relaxed against the squab, but he was very angry. He wanted to make them feel bad, wanted to make them sorry for the way they treated him
“I saw my Aunt Fanny,” he boldly stated, delighted with how they both stiffened on hearing her name. “She was standing on the corner when we drove by.”
Uncle Michael frowned. “I don’t think it could have been her, Thomas. It was probably someone who resembled her.”
Obviously, he didn’t believe Thomas, and his uncle wasn’t the least bit concerned that Fanny was out in such terrible weather. He didn’t so much as glance out the window.
“It was her,” Thomas insisted. “She waved at me.”
“With all this rain we’re having, it would be hard to tell for sure.”
Uncle Michael patted Thomas’s shoulder, then he yawned and shut his eyes.
“She’s getting fat,” Thomas pressed.
“It wasn’t her,” Lady Rebecca claimed.
“It was, too,” Thomas mumbled.
“She’s not even in London,” Lady Rebecca added.
“Yes, she is. I don’t care what you say.”
Lady Rebecca gasped with outrage. “Do you see what I put up with, Michael? Do you see? How long will you permit him to speak to me like that?”
“Thomas, please,” Uncle Michael said. “You know better than to carry on like this. Where are your manners? Apologize to Lady Rebecca.”
“I apologize,” Thomas grumbled, frustrated, furious, glaring at the floor.
It was, too, my Aunt Fanny, he said to himself. It was, and she will never stop loving me.
Fanny stood outside the gate of the Wainwright’s town house, glad she’d gotten to see Thomas one last time. He was dressed in expensive clothes, his hair slicked back, his boots polished to a shine. He’d looked stoic and resigned, and nothing like the happy, carefree boy she’d known.
Once previously, she’d planned to kidnap him and run away, but she never would. She had nowhere to take him, no way to keep him safe. The whole world seemed allied against her, and it was impossible to keep fighting. Despite her pure motives, she couldn’t win.
She’d lost every person she ever loved, had lost everything that was familiar and good in her life. She’d always tried to be honorable and decent, her only moral lapse being her grand passion with Michael Wainwright, and she didn’t understand why God was punishing her.
What had she ever done to deserve so much anguish?
Lord Henley and Lady Rebecca had been wrapped in heavy coats, as if embarking on a lengthy journey. Lady Rebecca had clutched Henley’s arm, and he appeared to be very comfortable with her. There was no evidence that a short while earlier, Fanny had been the very center of his existence.
As the carriage had passed, Thomas furtively gestured to her. Fanny did the same, then the vehicle rounded the corner and sped off.
Fanny went in the opposite direction, having nowhere to go. Over the prior week, she’d stayed at a charity mission, had slept on the floor, had been given an old cloak and one bowl of soup in the evenings, but she’d been asked to move on so other, more desperate women could take her place.
She was hungry and freezing and terrified over what catastrophe would befall her next. She’d been drifting from shop to shop, begging for a job, but she had quickly discovered that she wasn’t the only poor female trying to find work. Numerous offers had been extended, but none that involved gainful employment.
She had to save herself, but what should she do? No matter what she attempted, it ended in disaster, yet she had to keep on. She couldn’t give up.
A large mansion emerged in front of her, and she dragged to a halt, aware that it belonged to Lord Trent. Soon after being evicted from Camilla’s, she’d learned its location and had strolled by several times, but she hadn’t had the courage to walk up the drive and knock.
What was preventing her? A carriage was parked by the door, so apparently, someone was home.
Lady Rebecca had insisted that Trent never aided any of his natural children, but Fanny was beyond pride or vanity. If they turned her away, she’d be no worse off than before. They might even pity her and throw her a few coins.
She straightened her snarled hair, her grimy clothes, and had marched through the gate, when horses’ hooves clattered on the bricks behind her.
An older woman approached, her groom riding with her. She was perched on a fancy side-saddle, fashionably attired in blue velvet and white lace, a jaunty hat on her head. As she saw Fanny, she reined in, a furious gleam in her eye.
“You there!” she barked. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Fanny curtsied, doing her best to seem polite and meek. “I hope you’ll pardon me, milady, but I seek an audience with Lord Trent.”
The woman inhaled sharply. “You would dare?”
After whispering something to the groom, he helped her dismount, then she marched over, the heels of her boots clicking on the ground. She pointed with her riding crop, pushing at the hood on Fanny’s cloak to reveal her golden blond hair, then she grabbed Fanny’s arm and studied her wrist, verifying the presence of the same birthmark that had interested the Duke.
As if it were poison, she flung Fanny’s arm away.
“It’s obvious you’re one of them,” she said. “Who told you to come here?”
“No one.”
“Really?” She scoffed. “You pathetic vagabonds are all alike. What is it you want?”
“I just...just...want to talk to Lord Trent.”
“Well, I am Lady Trent, and you shall not. Not ever!”
“Oh...my...”
In Fanny’s ruminations, she’d focused on the fact that people claimed Lord Trent was her father. She had never paused to wonder if there was a Lady Trent. It was clear the woman suspected the reason for Fanny’s visit, and Fanny was mortified to have flaunted herself in such a horrid way.
“By your very existence,” Lady Trent seethed, “you insult me, yet you have the audacity to show up—without warning—on my stoop. Have you no manners? No shame?”
“Forgive me, milady.”
“Forgive you?”
“I shouldn’t have intruded. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’re sorry! You parade yourself before me; you throw my husband’s infidelity in my face, and you suppose a mere apology will suffice? How dare you!”
She spun to her groom and ordered, “Get this illegitimate begg
ar out of my yard.”
Phillip sat in Charles’s parlor, staring at the walls and wondering what was taking his father so long to return home. He had errands to run, and he couldn’t continue to wait.
Charles was leaving for France in the morning, and Phillip had decided to go with him. Why not? What was there to keep him in London?
He was still reeling over his encounter with the Duke, and he couldn’t figure out why he bothered with the Wainwright family. Why did he put up with either Michael or Anne?
He had no idea.
Time and distance were the best remedies for what ailed him. He would travel to France for a few months, would drink and lounge and loaf with his father. Hopefully, when he came back to London, his absurd infatuation with Anne would have waned.
He walked to the sideboard and was pouring himself a brandy, when he heard a quarrel out in the drive. Frowning, he went to the window and peeked out.
Susan was berating a girl, towering over her as she delivered a vicious, cutting diatribe. Was it a servant? They were in full view of anyone passing by on the street. What could the girl have done that would warrant such a public reprimand?
He sighed with resignation, then headed outside. He didn’t care if Susan had every right to discipline her employees. It simply wasn’t in his nature to sit by while a female was abused.
As he approached the fracas, it was clear that Susan’s rage had been let loose, and the girl was bearing the brunt of Susan’s years of silent torment. Susan was trembling and appeared so distraught that he worried she might strike the girl with the riding crop she clutched in her hand.
Phillip hurried over, seized the crop and yanked it away. Susan whirled on him, eager to convey a tongue-lashing for his interfering, but when she saw it was he, she halted, looking greatly annoyed by his arrival.
“What is wrong with you?” he snapped.
“This is none of your affair,” she insisted. “Be gone. At once!”
“Calm yourself, and go in the house.”
“You will not order me about.”
“Won’t I?”
They engaged in a visual battle of wills that she quickly lost.
“My husband will hear about this,” she threatened.
