Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  Michael and Phillip were standing back-to-back. Someone called out instructions, and they started walking in opposite directions, counting out the paces.

  “There they are,” Anne shouted over her shoulder to Miss Carrington.

  “I can’t believe this!” Miss Carrington muttered, and she dug her heels into the horse’s belly. It pitched forward, its rider holding on for dear life.

  Another command was issued, and Michael and Phillip swung around, pistols aimed, as Miss Carrington screamed, “No! Michael, no!”

  Before her words could echo across the glen, a shot was fired, and the loud noise frightened her horse. The animal shied with alarm, and there was no hope of Miss Carrington remaining in the saddle.

  She was tossed to the ground and landed with a hard thump, her head smacking the dirt. The animal skittered away, leaving Miss Carrington in the grass, not moving, pale as death.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God,” Anne murmured over and over, as she leapt down and knelt beside Miss Carrington. She clasped her hand, patting it, talking to her.

  “Miss Carrington...Frances...can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

  Phillip rushed up and fell to his knees, too, and Anne’s heart pounded as she noted that his shirt was torn and the sleeve was soaked with blood.

  “Fanny!” he cried, and he focused his accusing gaze on Anne. “What happened to her?”

  “Her horse shied when the pistol fired.”

  “What is she doing here?”

  Michael ran up, and on seeing Fanny, he looked stricken.

  “Fanny! Fanny!”

  He rested a comforting hand on her thigh, but Phillip smacked it away, their animosity not quelled.

  “Get away from her.”

  “No,” Michael protested. “She’d want me to help her. She’d want me to be the one to...”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” Phillip bellowed. “Get away!”

  Phillip picked her up and struggled to his feet, Fanny cradled to his chest. He staggered to his carriage, his balance unsteady, but whether it was from Fanny’s weight or his own injury, Anne couldn’t tell.

  Anne rose, feeling as if she’d aged a hundred years. Michael watched in agony, as Phillip carried Fanny away, and Anne’s fury soared.

  “Are you happy now?” she asked. “Are you proud of yourself?”

  “I...I...love her,” Michael ridiculously declared.

  “Rebecca is waiting for you at home. I suggest you hurry there and make your apologies. After this farce, you’ll be lucky if she’ll still have you.”

  The others were silent, embarrassed. They were men she’d known her entire life, men who’d been friends with Michael and Phillip since they were boys. Dueling was illegal, and the Duke would have to bribe and entice to keep all of them from being arrested.

  “How dare you allow this!” She flashed a scathing glare across the group. “How dare you assist them! I’ll remember everyone who participated! You’ll be hearing from my father and from the Earl of Trent. You’re fortunate no one was killed, and you’d all better pray that Miss Carrington recovers.”

  With the stress of the moment having abated, she felt as if she might burst into tears, and she couldn’t bear to have any of them to see. She spun and raced after Phillip who was laying Miss Carrington on the seat in his carriage.

  “Phillip!” she said as she dashed up. “Has she regained consciousness?”

  ”No.” He was trembling with anger. “What were you thinking, bringing her here?”

  “She didn’t want you to quarrel over her. She was desperate to stop you.”

  “If she dies, I swear to God, I’ll drag your brother back here and finish what I started.”

  He whipped away and climbed into the coach, and it seemed wrong for him to depart without her. The tears that had threatened splashed down her cheeks, and she reached out to him.

  “Your arm, Phillip. You’re bleeding.”

  “Go away.”

  “Let me come with you,” she implored. “Let me tend your wound.”

  “Tend my wound?” he scoffed. “For pity’s sake, go away! Leave me in peace.”

  “Phillip, please,” she begged.

  He ignored her, rapping on the roof to signal his driver. A footman slammed the door in her face. His outriders jumped on board, and the coach rolled away, moving faster and faster, and in a matter of seconds, it vanished into the trees.

  “Master Phillip?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bailey? What is it?”

  “She’s finally awake, and she appears to be all right—except for a fierce headache.”

  “Good. And the baby?”

  “Should be fine.”

  Phillip breathed a sigh of relief. On the trip home from Marley Field, he’d been so afraid that she might miscarry.

  The stitched gash on his arm throbbed like the dickens, and he downed a glass of brandy to blunt the pain. Mrs. Bailey waited for instructions, but he was so bereft, he simply had nothing to tell her.

  Ultimately, he glanced up and said, “My thanks to you. It’s been a terrible day. You’re excused. I won’t need you further this evening.”

  “Would you like me to sit with her?” Mrs. Bailey offered.

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  “But if I may say, sir, you’re in a sad state yourself. The doctor left you some laudanum. You should drink it, then take to your bed.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You go on.”

  She dawdled, looking as if she might protest, then she tiptoed away.

  He stood and trudged toward the stairs, and as he entered the foyer, there was a knock on the door. His butler was hovering, a question in his eye as to whether he should answer. As rumors of the duel had spread, there’d been a constant stream of visitors, but they’d all been turned away with no comment.

  It was very late, and Phillip wondered who would still be curious enough to inquire. Pathetically, he wished for it to be his contemptible father, even though he knew Charles had sailed for France at first light.

  He nodded, and the butler peeked out.

  To Phillip’s amazement, Michael was standing there, and Phillip was stunned by the man’s audacity.

  Phillip had assumed the tedious hours—of having his wound sewn and wrapped, of fretting over Fanny’s condition—would have quashed his fury, but apparently not. He was still so enraged that if he’d been holding his gun, he’d have raised it and shot Michael through the center of his black heart.

  “What do you want now?’ Phillip seethed.

  Michael acted as if he might step inside, and Phillip stormed over and blocked the threshold so he couldn’t.

  “Are you all right?” Michael actually seemed concerned. “I had to check.”

  “I’m just dandy. Now get the hell out of my house.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Go away!”

  “I’ll be sorry until the day I die,” he contended.

  Phillip peered over at his butler. “My pistol is on my desk in the library. It’s still loaded. Would you fetch it for me?”

  “Phillip!” Michael exclaimed, exasperated.

  Phillip glared at him. “If you’re here when he gets back, I’ll kill you.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Go now, so I don’t have to show you that I most certainly do.”

  “May I see Fanny?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “Would you at least advise her that I’m here?”

  “No.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “Well, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t believe you. Let me ask her myself. If she tells me the same, I swear I’ll go and never return. But I have to hear it from her own lips.”

  “She’s not receiving guests. Especially you.”

  “Is she conscious? Is she...”

  “The baby’s fine—if that’s what you’re trying to learn.”

  “Oh...”
Michael breathed. “I’m so glad.

  “But don’t worry. I’m taking her away from London, so you’re free, Michael. Free to marry with impunity. Free to forget all about her.”

  “I’ve decided to set up a trust fund for the baby. I want to do the right thing. I want to be sure their situation is stable.”

  At Michael’s clueless pomposity, Phillip was aghast.

  “A trust fund? That’s your idea of doing the right thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think you can buy away your misconduct?”

  “I loved her,” Michael insisted. “I loved her, but I never told her until it was too late.”

  The butler was marching down the hall, the pistol on a tray, and when Phillip had threatened to shoot Michael, he hadn’t been joking. He really thought he might.

  “Get off my stoop,” he said, “and don’t ever come back.”

  He shut the door and spun the key in the lock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Anne stared at the bedchamber she’d occupied for most of her twenty-five years.

  The shelves and drawers were crammed full of her favorite things. An old doll. Her mother’s hair brush. A cameo necklace that had been a gift from her brother John.

  She’d always assumed her paltry chattels meant so much to her, that they were the foundations of who she was, so she was extremely surprised at how easy it was to leave everything behind.

  She hoped that, eventually, she’d be able to send for it all, that she would reconcile with her father and he would give her her belongings, but she wasn’t counting on it. The Duke was a vindictive man. Very likely, she’d never see him or her possessions again.

  The maid fastened the buckles on the traveling trunk Anne had packed. She hadn’t been sure of what to take, so she’d selected what seemed most useful: day dresses, warm shawls, a heavy coat. She felt as if she was perched on a cliff, about to jump over the edge, and any landing was likely.

  If she wound up living on the streets, at least she’d have some comfortable shoes to wear.

  “Will that be all, milady?” the maid asked.

  “Please check on the hackney I requested, to see if it’s arrived. Have one of the footmen carry the trunk down and load it.”

  The girl curtsied and hurried out, and Anne gazed around a final time.

  “Farewell, old room,” she murmured to herself. “Farewell old life.”

  She thought of all the years she’d squandered, waiting to marry, only to learn that she had no dowry. Fleetingly, she wondered what else the Duke had frittered away. Who else, besides herself, had been depending on him, had believed his lies? How many other dreams had he destroyed?

  She walked out and headed down to the library where her father was ranting. His rage over the duel still hadn’t abated, and Anne had heard enough cursing to fill a barrel. She was so glad she didn’t have to waste another second on him.

  “For bloody sake,” he was shrieking at Michael as she entered. “I have ten lawyers scurrying about London to keep you from being arrested! Do you know what the jails are like in this country? Well, I do! I’m one of the men who decides what’s spent on them—which is nothing! They’re hellholes. Is that where you want to end up? Are you insane? Is that your problem?”

  “Father,” she interrupted, but he ignored her.

  “Perhaps that is your problem. Perhaps you are insane. Maybe I should have you committed to Bedlam. It would serve you right.”

  Michael yawned.

  “Father,” she tried again.

  He whipped around. “What, Anne? What?”

  “I just stopped to say goodbye.”

  “Well good-bloody-bye to you, too. Can’t you see we’re talking? Can’t you see we’re busy?”

  “Yes, I can, but goodbye anyway.”

  As she turned to go, she was amazed to note that she wasn’t nostalgic at all. The only emotion she felt was relief. She couldn’t wait to step outside into the fresh air.

  The finality in her tone must have caught the Duke’s attention, because as she reached the door, he barked, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “I told you: I’m leaving.”

  The maid peeked in. “Your hackney is here, milady. Your trunk is loaded.”

  “Your trunk!” the Duke snapped. “Just a damned minute...”

  He marched over, shooing out the maid.

  “Tell me what this is about,” he demanded, “and make it fast. I have one child who’s gone stark-raving mad”—he pointed at Michael—“and I don’t have the patience to deal with another.”

  “I don’t wish to live here any longer, so I’m moving out.”

  “You are not,” he scoffed,” and I won’t have you pestering me with your nonsense.”

  “No, Father. Not this time. I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back.”

  He studied her as if he were a scientist and she a curious bug.

  “What did you say?”

  “I’m moving out. I’ll be at Phillip’s, where I intend to beg him to marry me. If he throws me out—which is a distinct possibility—then I haven’t a clue where I’ll be. I’ll let you know.”

  “You’ll let me know? You’ll let me know?” He was shrieking again, his voice raising an octave or two. “I forbid it! Do you hear me! I forbid it!”

  “Yes, I hear you. The whole house hears you, and we’re all tired of listening.”

  She peered over at Michael. They hadn’t spoken since the duel, since he’d shot her great love—and could have killed him. She had no idea if he felt any remorse, and she didn’t care enough to inquire.

  “I hope someday,” she began, “that you’ll recognize how shameless you are. I hope someday you’ll regret how you’ve always treated Phillip, how you ruined Miss Carrington like the worst sort of cad, but I won’t hold my breath. I’m not coming to your wedding, so make my apologies to Rebecca.”

  She started out, then stopped. “Oh, and by the way, while you’re sitting here, basking in Father’s glow, you should be aware that he knew about Thomas—probably from the moment he was born. When Thomas and the Carringtons were in dire straits and they wrote to John, pleading for assistance, Father intervened somehow. I’m fairly sure that John never knew Miss Carrington had tried to contact him.”

  “That’s a lie,” the Duke claimed, without much conviction.

  A dangerous light flared in Michael’s eyes, but it was quickly snuffed out.

  She left, a stunned silence in her wake. She’d never stood up to either of them before, and she was positive that—once the shock wore off—they’d snicker and wager over how soon she’d slink home. What they didn’t understand was that she would never return.

  When she’d seen Phillip, kneeling in the dirt with Fanny Carrington, his shirt caked with blood, his expression ragged with grief, she’d had the most remarkable insight: She’d made all the wrong choices.

  She was weary of her father, and she loved Phillip. If he’d let her, she would build a new life with him.

  With unshakable resolve, she hurried out and climbed in the hackney, and shortly, she was at Phillip’s. The driver helped her down.

  “Bring my trunk inside,” she said, “and no matter what the servants say, leave it in the foyer.”

  She gave him his fare, plus a generous tip, then she went over and entered without knocking. The driver followed her in, dropping her luggage with a heavy thud, and a maid ran down the hall to check on the noise.

  “Lady Anne?” The woman gulped with dismay. “What are you doing here?”

  “Would you fetch Mr. Sinclair for me?” The maid looked panic-stricken, and Anne added, “I realize that you have orders not to let me in, but don’t worry. I’ll take all the blame. Go get him, would you?”

  The maid raced off, and Anne took a deep breath, steeling herself for the pending confrontation. Despite how he raged, despite how hard he tried to toss her out, she wouldn’t be intimidated and she wouldn’t depart.

 
She removed her cloak and hung it on the rack in the corner, tugged off her gloves and laid them on a chair as if they belonged there.

  A footman came by, one who—apparently—hadn’t heard the edict about keeping her out. When she advised him to carry her trunk up to Phillip’s bedchamber, he complied without hesitation.

  Grinning, she waltzed into the parlor to pour herself a brandy—a brandy! She was changing so fast that her head was spinning.

  Very soon, footsteps pounded down the stairs, and she knew it was Phillip. He’d told her to stay away, and she’d defied him, so there would be a good deal of shouting and recrimination, and—she hoped—a good deal of reconciliation, too.

  “What on earth are you thinking?” he growled as he swept in. “Don’t you listen? It’s over between us. Go away!”

  She downed her brandy and marched over, approaching until they were toe to toe.

  “I accept,” she said.

  “You...what?”

  “I love you, and I always have. I accept your proposal of marriage.”

  Her declaration flustered him. It wasn’t anything close to what he’d been expecting.

  “There is no offer on the table,” he hotly replied. “It was rejected, and I have no desire to submit another.”

  “You don’t need to submit another. I’m accepting every one you’ve tendered. I’m ruined, and I’ve fled from my father. My luggage is up in your dressing room and being unpacked.”

  “It had better not be!”

  “I want to leave for Scotland today. Can you?”

  He scowled. “Have you tipped off your rocker?”

  “Probably. Now say yes. Say you’ll marry me and make me the happiest woman in the world.”

  “You don’t want to marry me. You never have.”

  “My prior refusals were a blunder—I admit it. I wanted to marry you; I was just scared.”

  “But suddenly you’re ready?” He was dubious, sarcastic.

  “Yes.”

  He wrenched away from her and stumbled to the window to stare outside. He was rigid with fury, but she could sense that his mind was racing, trying to figure out what was driving her.

  “Did you tell the Duke?” he asked.