The Gentleman's Promise (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Fowlkes, Frances

  “Yes, of course,” Lady Vincent replied. “My mistake.”

  Clearing his throat, Jonathon dabbed his napkin at his mouth. Lady Vincent did not make mistakes. Her comment had been intentional. She had meant to bring attention to the missteps of Sarah’s family, though why she had singled her out at dinner was curious. Sarah had done nothing to warrant the barb, and to that effect, neither had Lord Satterfield deserved the painful reminder.

  Olivia lifted her glass and said, “Lord Bonham’s stables have been visited by the king.”

  Not a tinkling of silver against china was made. The entire room quieted.

  “That they have.” Lord Satterfield set his wine aside and peered down the table. “Bonham’s bay mare took Emberton this year over my gray. His stables are quite impressive.”

  Jonathon’s jaw unhinged. He glanced at Sarah, whose lips, the same shade of pink as her gown, had parted into a perfect O of surprise.

  This was unprecedented. He had not expected any words, let alone conversation, to come from the somber lord, and judging from the rest of the room’s stunned faces, neither had they.

  Scrambling to add to the conversation, Jonathon said, “I have had the pleasure of recently seeing the latest edition to his stables. A black foal was born to his prize mare last month.”

  “Black, you say?” Satterfield asked. “Female?”

  “Yes,” Jonathon confirmed. He directed his gaze to Sarah. “Lady Sarah informed me blacks were her favorite upon our last visit there.”

  Her eyes widened, her lips parting farther.

  And he realized he had said too much.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He was usually perceptive and didn’t go bandying about personal information unless he needed to press his advantage. He always knew what to say and when to say it. But tonight, his tongue had a mind of its own, offering up information the rest of the table didn’t need to hear.

  Olivia kicked his shin. Even she knew he wasn’t acting himself. He nodded, acknowledging his mistake and the breach of privacy.

  Apparently satisfied he had received her acknowledgment, his sister gave Sarah a gentle nudge in the side. She blinked, her fingers releasing the spoon. “They-they are the rarest. The most unique.” She lifted her gaze to Jonathon. Her forehead creased, her eyes glinting gold in the candlelight.

  He was mesmerized, caught in her conflicted gaze. He yearned to reach across the table and offer her whatever reassurances he could—he’d promise the moon in that moment, if only to ease some of the anxiety from her features.

  “That they are,” Satterfield said. “Lord Bonham is a fortunate man, indeed, to possess such a rarity.”

  Sarah pulled her gaze from Jonathon and touched her napkin. “He has high hopes for her future. No doubt, she will be raced at Emberton.”

  A chortle sounded to Sarah’s left. Mr. De la Pole swirled the dark red in his glass. “Let us hope Amhurst is more selective in his jockeys before the next race.”

  Sarah clenched her spoon, the filigreed handle likely melding against her pale and slightly flushed palm.

  She was embarrassed. Uncomfortable. And why would she be anything less? A heavy amount of attention was being concentrated on her and her family for no other reason than for evening entertainment.

  “Oh, I don’t know. His last jockey took Emberton,” Satterfield countered. “He was quite talented and well trained.”

  Mr. George De la Pole sat to Sarah’s left. He was a young lord and the second son of the Earl of Mountford. He gave a sly nod and added, “It is rumored he also took the groom.” He brought his glass to his lips and sipped the entirety of its contents.

  Sarah sank in her chair, her chin dipping into her chest.

  What the devil was De la Pole on about? And why had it affected Sarah to such a degree?

  “I believe the only thing the jockey took was first at Emberton, unless you are suggesting the jockey and the groom behaved in an inappropriate manner,” Lord Satterfield said, his voice hard. “In which case, I would remind you that the groom is now Lord Bonham and his wife’s sister sits to your right.”

  “This autumn has been particularly cool, don’t you think?” Olivia asked. A thin smile lifted her lips as she reached for her shawl. “I find I am in constant need of more layers.”

  The light linen wrap resting against her shoulders looked as though it provided as much warmth as the conversation. The words might be pleasant, but the intent behind them was cooler than the evening air. Something was at play and he didn’t like it. One bit. Especially since Lord Satterfield was on the defensive and aligning himself with Sarah and her family.

  A most unexpected turn. True, the man was good friends with the new earl, but frictions between him and the earl’s kin lent one to assume the marquess would ignore Sarah and allow Jonathon to right her wrongs, because, for some reason, he wanted to be the sole recipient of her gratitude.

  His gaze swept to her. Her position hadn’t changed. Her face down, her skin flushed, a dark ringlet resting atop her covered shoulder. She still sat in a defeated posture. The poor girl looked as miserable as the now squirming lord to her left.

  “I only know what I have heard.”

  Satterfield’s gaze hardened. “Please indulge us, De la Pole. You tease us with your secrets.”

  “I believe we are due for a heavy snowfall this winter,” Olivia said.

  De la Pole cleared his throat, his fingers pinching the stem of his glass. “I have heard only rumors that it was Lady Albina herself”—his gaze slid to Sarah—”who was trained by the groom to race at Emberton.”

  More than one lady at the table lifted a gloved hand to cover their gaping mouth, but for every feminine gasp was a loud masculine chortle. Jonathon near joined in the laughter, until his gaze returned to Sarah. He had thought her skin a crimson color before. Now it was as red as the apples he had devoured for his midday meal. She kept her gaze down, staring intently at the base of the silver candelabra to the front right of her table setting.

  “A woman jockey,” guffawed Lord Vincent. “Amhurst is many things, De la Pole, but he would never suffer such an indignity as allowing a woman, especially one under his care, to race a horse.”

  “Indeed,” Satterfield agreed. “I suggest you find another source for your gossip.” The marquess’s tone made the suggestion more of a demand, and one the young De la Pole must have understood, for he nodded and diverted his gaze to his spoon.

  Sarah, on the other hand, peered toward the marquess, a look of gratitude lifting her delicate features. An unfamiliar feeling stirred in his chest. Frowning, he went for his wine. The tension in the room was almost palpable, so thick and heavy, the laughter that had only seconds before sounded in the cavernous room replaced by an awkward silence.

  The conversation needed to be redirected, and his sister had provided an excellent topic of diversion.

  “I do hope the unusually low temperatures will not affect the dogs’ ability to hunt out prey,” Jonathon said.

  Lord Vincent’s hand stilled midway to his mouth. Setting his spoon aside, he said, “Oh, no, it is a gift, actually. They track better in the cold. Were it to rain, they’d have the foxes cornered before breakfast.”

  “How many dogs are you running, Vincent?” asked De la Pole.

  And just like that, the focus was no longer on Sarah but on the dogs and tomorrow’s first run. He couldn’t help but smile at the natural flow of the conversation and how easy it had been to steer the tide away from the one person who wished to remain silent; the same person who peered across the table at him, her light toffee-colored eyes shining with appreciation. Jonathon offered her a smile.

  She returned in kind, her lips tugging at the corners as they formed the words “thank you.”

  Unable to hide his grin, he sat back, feeling awfully proud of himself, though he wasn’t sure if it was because he diverted the conversation or because Sarah’s smile was directed at him and not the Marquess of Satterfield.


  Chapter Seven

  Sarah blinked her eyes open. A solitary flame cast flickering shadows over the pages of her book still open on top of her blanket-covered chest.

  Heaven knew it was late. She had long lost track of the hour. With a yawn, she closed her book and gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving for her ability to close out the horrors endured only hours before.

  She had scurried to her shared bedroom after the disgrace at dinner, lunging under the covers and wishing nothing more than for sleep to claim her so she might escape the indignity wrought by Mr. De la Pole’s comments.

  Because, dear God, they were true.

  She could not begin to describe the abject horror she had felt at hearing the lord recount Albina’s misadventures for everyone’s judgment. It was bad enough to be weighed by her own sins, but to add her sister’s on top of them… Sarah had near fainted under the scrutiny.

  She’d been singled out by the marchioness, and worse, for no reason other than to advertise her family’s societal missteps and peccadilloes. Had it not been for the Marquess of Satterfield’s defense and Jonathon’s swift change of topic in the conversation, she’d be set aflame by the heat of her chagrin, forced to hang her head at everyone’s withering stares and harsh words. She’d never prayed harder for a distraction—something, anything, to save her from the misery of her public humiliation. She had not expected a savior in the marquess.

  His loyalty to Amhurst was notable. The man had defended her honor, if for no other reason than sheer loyalty to the earl. The same could not be said of the other gentlemen at the table, Jonathon excluded.

  Jonathon had stayed by her side through her public humiliation. He had not faltered, his unswerving loyalty to her indicating more than simple friendship—or at least she hoped. Was it possible he held true for reasons beyond a promise? That an attraction to her held his loyalties fast?

  Jonathon was a worthy candidate for her hand and a true gentleman, one whose fidelity was notable. Her body certainly seemed attuned to him, her breath catching whenever he entered the room. She’d known him forever, their long history a bond unlike any other man could supply.

  She could not deny her yearnings for more than a friendship—but she knew full the cost associated with his continued devotion. He ran the high risk of being tainted by her reputation. Did he know it as well? Or did he continue to be steadfast in his allegiance despite it, in hopes of winning her favor and attentions?

  Because he had them, unlike Mr. De la Pole who seemed determined to see her ruined, though she had no idea why. Had he wagered and lost on Satterfield’s horse? Had her sister’s win upset his?

  She had told no one of her sister’s secret. Only one man at dinner had known the absolute truth of her sister’s involvement, and Lord Satterfield had stayed faithful to her family by remaining in their confidence. That Mr. De la Pole had somehow stumbled upon the scandalous revelation was beyond disturbing. Whose tongue had slipped? And why? Was it possible one of the earl’s staff had discovered her sister’s secret and had sold it to Mr. De la Pole for a bit of coin? The notion of a disloyal servant was a troubling one, indeed. But even more so was the fact that if she believed her chances at securing a husband minimal before, they would be nonexistent should the full truth of her sister’s scandalous behavior be revealed.

  Sarah took a small measure of comfort in knowing the marquess had downplayed the rumor and Mr. De la Pole had seemed doubtful of his source and genuinely abashed. She might yet have hope of restoring her name in the inner circles of Society. A proposal was still a possibility. Though, were she to be terribly honest, the only person she wished to obtain one from was the one man who stood to lose the most from her affections. An offer from him would mean the loss of his school, and she would not be responsible for taking his mission—his purpose.

  But were she given to the fancies of her woolgathering, she could see a future with Jonathon at her side, his lips on hers, heart hammering against her chest—were that she did not have a stain upon her.

  If by some means she were able to procure an offer from another, someone who stood to lose nothing from her affront, would she accept? Would she put aside her yearnings and settle?

  Sarah held back her groans of frustration. If only she hadn’t acted so foolishly in her past, she might still have hope for a future with Jonathon. But as it were, her horrible actions cast a shadow over her aspirations.

  Olivia, who had dutifully followed her to their room, suffered no such affront. She had fallen asleep long before, her snores—

  Sarah frowned. Olivia always snored. The girl was louder than a pig grubbing for food. And yet…silence pervaded. She peered through the dim light afforded by the still burning flame. A dark lump was visible, but it neither moved nor shifted.

  She slid off the covers, the cool evening air of the room prickling her flesh. Slinking through the shadows, she reached for the dark lump. Her hand settled on—blankets. Mounds of blankets. Patting down the bed, her search yielded her worst suspicion—Olivia was gone.

  “If this is some sort of game, I demand you end it at once,” Sarah hissed.

  Nothing but silence responded.

  “Olivia?” Her words echoed in the stillness. “Are you…are you here?”

  The quiet had never sounded so deafening. If her friend was in the room, she was not replying, which meant something had happened. Something horrible.

  What the devil was she to do now? In her younger years, Olivia had been prone to walk the halls in her slumber-induced state. Was it possible she had vacated the room without Sarah’s notice?

  She nibbled on her bottom lip. Barrington Park was unfamiliar to her in its layout, the tour she had earlier in the afternoon a scant memory—and one guided in the light of day. Were she to search about the house in the dead of night, she was certain to lose her way.

  Of course, there were worse alternatives. Should Olivia be caught wandering about in her night shift, her reputation would suffer—and Sarah’s equally should she be caught attempting to find her. But she couldn’t very well leave her friend to face such a fate.

  With a sigh of resignation, she snatched her evening robe off the side chair nearest her bed and shoved her arm into the chilled cotton sleeve. She needed help, and there was only one person who would believe her motivations were innocent.

  Jonathon.

  The evening was veering from bad to worse. Heaven only knew what people would suspect were they to find her scratching at his door in the wee hours of the night, but she hardly had a choice. Were Sarah even to find Olivia, no one could coax her back to bed like her brother.

  She truly had no other alternative.

  Grabbing the candle, she made her way to the door. With a click, she lifted the latch and set out toward the gentlemen’s quarters.

  …

  No matter his position, Jonathon could not find rest. While his bed was comfortable and his feather pillows fluffed to their fullest, his mind refused to quiet. Despite how hard he tried to squeeze his eyes shut, they would not stay closed. The events of dinner continued to replay behind his lids, which would not be all that terrible were Sarah and her look of uncomfortable humiliation not the main focus of his memories.

  He wished nothing more than to take her in his arms and soothe away her worries. To press his lips against her neck and trail kisses down the smooth expanse to her creamy exposed shoulder…

  Damn. He needed libation. Quickly. Another glass of Sarah’s magical concoction would do nicely. Or rum. He wasn’t all that particular. Just something to put him out of sorts until the morning so he would not have to revisit the sight of her furrowed brow. And worse, the hint of her teeth as they nibbled on her bottom lip, an action that, while worrisome, made his lower half stiffen.

  Rum. Definitely some rum. Vincent had to have some. The library, perhaps?

  He threw off his sheets and slipped on a shirt and breeches, his blind shuffling loud in the still room. If he weren’t careful, he’d alert a s
ervant to his late night misadventure, although it wouldn’t be entirely awful should Lady Vincent be made aware of his nocturnal quest. At least then, the marchioness and her disdain would be diverted to him and away from Sarah.

  He snatched a candle off the hearth and made quick work of lighting the short wick.

  With his hand cupping the sputtering flame, he exited his room and turned to the left, toward the gallery and Barrington’s extensive library.

  Even with his light his progress was slow, the unfamiliar terrain of Barrington making the passage difficult. And this, before the rum. He’d be better off taking the bottle to his room than to attempt to navigate the halls whilst deep in his cups.

  With another turn, he found himself in front of the library—and not alone.

  Licking his fingers, he doused his flame and edged closer to the flickering shadows cast by another light.

  Who would be out and about at this time of night? Another man seeking the comfort of Vincent’s stores? Or a man seeking an assignation and waiting for the light of his lover? Either way, it was best if he did not reveal himself until the appropriate time, if it all.

  Slinking past the rows of tomes, Jonathon kept to the outer edges of the central open area of the room set aside for reading. A stub of a candle, near its end, burned on the nearest table. He crept nearer, taking pains to quiet his steps so as not to startle the dark unmoving lump on the chaise beside it. He started as a loud snore rattled the silence.

  Dear Lord. Could the lump possibly be—

  “Olivia?”

  Jonathon turned as another light illuminated a small corner of the room and an all too familiar voice cut through the quiet.

  Sarah.

  She stepped onto the carpet, her slippered steps muted as her candle hovered mid-air in front of her. Her round eyes peered into the darkness, searching—