Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  “Why would you think I did it, you silly goose?”

  “I have no idea, but I had to visit so I could ask you why.”

  “I was just talking about you with our nephew.”

  “About me? Why?”

  “He told me that he’s the man of the family now—he and Phillip.”

  “They’re very close, as close as you and he used...” She cut off and glanced down.

  “I know: as close as he and I used to be. He’s so much better. I’m so glad I brought him to you.”

  “I prayed that you’d let me have him, but I never really imagined it would happen. You always seem to understand exactly what I want.”

  He did understand—what she wanted and what she needed. He’d convinced himself that he couldn’t have her, that it was impossible for them to be together. But why was it wrong? Because his father decreed it? Because his father’s stuffy peers might not approve? Their harsh opinions were ludicrous and couldn’t be the ones that mattered.

  The period he’d spent with her had been the only time he’d been happy, the only time he’d been content. In coming to treasure her as he had, love’s promise had been realized.

  He had hurt and betrayed her, had turned his back on her as if she meant nothing to him, but in the process, he’d learned a hard lesson. A life without her was no life at all. A life without her wasn’t worth living.

  Was he a coward? Would he blithely relinquish the only thing he’d ever truly wanted? For what? For an arranged marriage and decades of misery? For an acceptable match with an appropriate woman? And who would that be? Another spoiled, fussy aristocrat’s daughter like Rebecca?

  When he recollected the man he’d been before meeting Fanny, he was shocked at how ridiculous he must have seemed to her.

  He was his father’s son, was the driven, powerful individual he’d been raised to be, but he was someone else, too, someone considerate and caring and devoted. It had taken an illicit affair with Fanny to make him comprehend that he could be anyone he wanted to be.

  He could love Fanny. He could have Fanny for his own. Who was there to tell him no?

  Daring all, he reached out and took her hand, delighted that she didn’t pull away.

  “Our nephew felt duty-bound—as your male relative—to speak to me on your behalf.”

  She looked panicked. “On what topic?”

  “He pointed out that you’re about to have a baby, so he believes you should wed.”

  She blushed from head to toe. “He said that to you?”

  “Yes. Will you marry me?”

  “What?” She gasped.

  He went down on one knee. “I love you. Will you marry me?”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Of course not. Are you assuming I’ve proposed on the spur of the moment, without a bit of reflection?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, give me a little credit, would you? I’ve wanted to ask you for ages, but I didn’t know how. I was certain you’d refuse me.”

  “But what about your father and your position and...and...”

  “I don’t care about any of it anymore.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am, too.”

  “You have to marry for money. You have to marry an heiress; you said so.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. Anne’s trouble with her dowry has been solved by her marriage to Phillip, and as to everyone else, I can’t save the entire world. I’ve decided to let my father fix his own problems.”

  “Oh...oh...”

  “I love you,” he continued. “I’ve always loved you. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  “I already have, Michael.”

  “I’ll spend the remainder of my life making it up to you. I swear it!”

  She was trembling so violently that he was surprised her knees didn’t buckle.

  “You don’t mean what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve had all these months to think about what I want.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I want you. None of the rest of it is important in the least. My father was wrong; I was wrong. Love is the only thing that matters. Loving you is the only thing that matters.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and snuggled her to him, and through the soft wool of her cloak, he kissed her stomach.

  “Let me be your husband. Let me be a father to this child we’ve created. And after he is born, let me give you another and another and another.”

  She laid her palm on his cheek. “This is all so sudden.”

  “It’s not sudden,” he insisted. “I’ve been waiting for it—for you!—forever.”

  “Get up; get out of the snow.”

  She urged him to his feet, and he rose, but he didn’t release her. Now that he was holding her again, he was determined to never let her go. He bent down and kissed her, sparks seeming to crackle between them.

  She groaned and wrenched away.

  “You’re making this so difficult,” she claimed.

  “How? How am I making it difficult?”

  “When I lived here before, I wasn’t even welcome in this accursed mansion. You kept me hidden from everyone you knew, and now...now...you’re offering it all to me as if the past never happened. How could I fit in? How can you truly want me to share this with you?”

  “I’m a fool; I admit it. I’ve been an ass and a boor and a lout, but I’ve changed. You changed me.” He clasped her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “If you refuse me, what will become of you? Will you putter around Phillip’s country house until you’re old and gray, with no home of your own and no father for your child?”

  “I’m so confused.”

  “Why is it so confusing? I love you and need you by my side. I’ve started a school—”

  “I heard that you had.”

  “—an excellent school, with wonderful teachers. Thomas could attend it, and you could help me with the other boys.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “This is a good spot for you,” he said, pressing his advantage, desperate to convince her. “You’ll be safe and busy and fulfilled and happy. You’re wanted here—and needed—and I love you so much.”

  For an eternity, she was quiet, pondering, and just when he’d decided she’d decline, just when he was positive she’d reject him, she vehemently said, “I want this. I want this for myself, but you’re scaring me. I’m afraid you’re not sincere. I’m afraid you’ll regret it in the future.”

  “Fanny, do you actually suppose I could ever regret loving you?”

  “Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but months and years from now, when you—”

  He couldn’t listen to her litany of doubts, so he kissed her again, and he kept on and on, until her protests were silenced, her body relaxed against him.

  “I will never regret it,” he vowed. “Never. Say yes.”

  Up on the verandah, the door to the house opened, and they glanced over. Thomas had come out, and Phillip was standing behind him, watching them, a questioning look in his gaze.

  “The men in your family,” Michael said, “need an answer, Fanny. What shall we tell them?”

  Fanny stared at her nephew, at her brother, then she peered up at Michael.

  “Promise me that you’ll never be sorry.”

  “I promise.”

  “Promise me that it’s forever.”

  “I swear to you that it’s forever.”

  “I want to stay here with you. I want to raise our children together and be gloriously happy every second.”

  “And you shall be. I intend to see to it.”

  “Then, yes. Yes, I will marry you.”

  “Are you sure?” Michael asked. “Once you agree, I won’t let you back out.”

  Fanny took his hands in her own. Her skin was icy, and she was shivering. Her beautiful green eyes glowed with affection.


  “I am very, very sure,” she murmured.

  Michael nodded, so ecstatic that he was amazed his heart didn’t burst from his chest.

  He smiled over at Thomas. “Did you hear that, Thomas?”

  “No, Uncle Michael. What did she say?”

  “She said...yes.”

  “I knew it! I knew it, Uncle Michael. Didn’t I tell you she’d say yes? Didn’t I?”

  “You certainly did, Thomas. You certainly did.”

  There was a stunned pause, then Thomas whooped with glee and raced down the stairs to hug them both.

  THE END

  Don’t Miss the Second Novel in

  Cheryl Holt’s ‘Lord Trent’ Trilogy!

  LOVE’S PRICE

  The story of Helen and Harriet Stewart Sinclair

  Coming in June, 2013

  PROLOGUE

  Farnborough, England, 1810...

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  On hearing the question, Miss Peabody stared across her desk at twin students, Helen and Harriet Stewart. The two sisters had attended her school since they were small girls, so she supposed she ought to have felt some sympathy over what she was about to do, but she had a profitable business to run.

  The facility wasn’t an aid society for paupers.

  She was a tad anxious about the information she had to impart, but she kept her expression carefully blank. It was the aspect of her position that she most loathed, dealing with the family dramas that clouded the lives of her pupils.

  As headmistress, she had a duty to break bad news from home, and there was no easy way to convey catastrophe. A clean, brisk airing of the facts was always best.

  “I’m saying,” Miss Peabody replied, “that you won’t be able to continue your education here.”

  Helen frowned, gaping at Miss Peabody as if she’d spoken in a foreign language.

  “Why?”

  “Because neither your tuition nor your room and board has been paid in over a year. As I’ve often explained, we don’t accept charity cases. You’re aware of the rules.”

  “Grandfather would have paid,” Helen loyally declared, “if he hadn’t been so sick all those months before he passed away. He probably didn’t realize the money was owed.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Peabody allowed, “but he didn’t pay, so the issue is moot.”

  “You know that we’re waiting for Grandfather’s will to be read and probated. The bank draft should arrive any day.”

  “The will has been read,” Miss Peabody tersely announced.

  “And...?”

  “You have no inheritance.”

  Harriet gasped. “Grandfather didn’t provide for us?”

  “No.”

  “He swore he would. Last time I talked to him, he swore it to me.”

  “Apparently”—Miss Peabody shrugged—“he forgot to make the necessary changes to the document.”

  “But our Uncle Richard will be happy to—”

  “I have corresponded with your uncle. He declines to cover the fees for the coming term, much less the arrears.”

  “Why would he do that to us?”

  “I’m not a clairvoyant, Miss Stewart. I couldn’t begin to guess.”

  While she pretended lack of knowledge, Miss Peabody knew the reason. She wasn’t surprised by Richard Stewart’s decision, but it irked that she had to be dragged to the precipice of a conversation she was determined not to have.

  For pity’s sake, Helen and Harriet were sixteen years old. Their mother had died when they were babies, and at the earliest opportunity, they’d been shipped off to Miss Peabody’s school. They’d never been invited home for Christmas or summer holidays, had never received familial visitors but for the annual trek made by their grandfather.

  Surely, they understood why their relatives had always ignored them. Why their kin had forsaken them. Why should it be Miss Peabody’s job to shatter their illusions?

  “Are we to go to Brookhaven then?” Helen asked. Brookhaven was the Stewart estate.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “What are we to do?” Harriet queried. “What has our uncle instructed?”

  “He has written you a letter.”

  Miss Peabody had peeked at it, and she’d been disturbed by its cold tone. Though she could be ruthless herself when the situation called for it, the content was unduly harsh.

  She retrieved the letter and handed it to Helen, watching silently as Helen perused it. Soon, Helen scowled, evidence that she hadn’t had a clue as to the truth.

  “What does he say?” Harriet leaned toward her sister, trying to read over Helen’s shoulder.

  “He says we’re not welcome at Brookhaven.”

  “Not welcome?” Harriet was aghast. “But why?”

  “He suggests that we travel to London and throw ourselves on the mercy of the...the...Earl of Trent?”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “He claims Lord Trent is our father.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Harriet protested. “Our father was a gentleman farmer.”

  “Uncle Richard insists not, and he maintains that it’s time for Lord Trent to support us—rather than the Stewarts.”

  So, Miss Peabody mused, they didn’t know. No one had ever told them.

  Both girls turned to Miss Peabody, their identical gazes dismayed and perplexed. With their striking emerald eyes, and their golden blond hair—hair that was the color of ripened wheat—they were very beautiful, and purportedly, the spitting image of their aristocratic sire.

  And, of course, they possessed the birthmark, just above their left wrists, that was in the shape of a figure eight. It was referred to as the Mark of Trent and cited as proof of paternity by his cast-off children.

  Lord Trent was England’s most notorious roué, and it was impossible to count how many women he had seduced.

  As a young debutante, the twins’ long-deceased mother had succumbed to his charms, and now—all these years later—her sins were coming home to roost. Helen and Harriet would bear the brunt of her folly.

  “Since we can’t go to Brookhaven,” Helen said, “may we stay here?”

  “No.”

  “Where are we to go?”

  “You should follow your uncle’s advice,” Miss Peabody responded, “and contact Lord Trent. What other option do you have?”

  “Are you mad?” Harriet rudely snapped. “Can you actually expect us to tot off to London and knock on the door of a strange nobleman we’ve never met?”

  “Don’t take that attitude with me, Harriet.”

  “You never liked us,” Harriet charged, leaping to her feet and pointing an accusing finger. “You’re being deliberately cruel.”

  “Sit down. We will discuss this calmly, or we won’t discuss it, at all.”

  Harriet appeared eager to quarrel, but Helen grabbed her arm and tugged her to her seat. Harriet was hot-headed, volatile and prone to trouble. Helen was the peacemaker of the two, the pragmatic sister, the sensible sister.

  “Is my uncle’s revelation true?” Helen asked. “Is Lord Trent our father?”

  “It has been the rumor,” Miss Peabody said.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “It was hardly up to me to inform you.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Helen peered at her lap, thinking and pondering, while Harriet fidgeted.

  “What would you recommend?” Helen ultimately inquired. “If you were in our shoes, what would you do?”

  “I’d probably go to Lord Trent.”

  “And if we don’t wish to? What then?”

  “You might stop at the rectory and talk to the vicar. He might help you to locate a position.”

  “A...a...position!” Harriet sputtered. “Doing what?”

  Helen shushed her and pressed, “If we don’t want to do that either?”

  “Then...I haven’t the foggiest idea what will become of you.”

  “May we remain here briefly—to plan and
regroup?”

  “I’m afraid not. While we were chatting, your bags were packed. They’re in the front foyer. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave before the other students return from their walk. I won’t have a big fuss made over your departure.”

  The callous comment set a spark to Harriet’s temper. She jumped up again. “You old witch! You’ve never—”

  “That’s enough!” Miss Peabody seethed. “I’ve been more than patient, but your tenure at my school is ended. I bid you good day.”

  For a moment, Helen stared and fumed, then she stood and took her sister’s hand.

  “Come, Harriet, let’s go.”

  “Helen, don’t let her get away with this. There must be something we can do.”

  Helen glanced over, searching Miss Peabody’s gaze, finding naught but firm resolve.

  “No,” Helen said, “there’s nothing we can do. Let’s go!”

  Without another word, and no murmur of farewell, Helen spun and led her furious sister from the room.

  Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author

  CHERYL HOLT

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