The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  “I’ll have Daniel arrange for a carriage to be brought around.”

  Rebecca rose to her feet. “I prefer to walk, Mrs. Trent. I’d like to get a feel for the distances. May I use your name in way of introduction?”

  “You will be needing no introduction, my dear. The village has been buzzing since you and the young master arrived. Everyone has been quite eager just to catch a glimpse of you.” Mrs. Trent walked with her to the door. “I believe you will like Knebworth Village and its people. They are kindly, industrious folk, my dear—very much like yourself, if I may say so.”

  ***

  The path through wood and meadow that led to the village was peaceful and comforting, the quiet broken only by the twittering of the birds and the rustle of leaves as small, woodland creatures scattered at Rebecca’s approach.

  The stillness of the forest was one of the few things that she had missed while living in the midst of the hustle and bustle of a growing city like Philadelphia. Not really missed, she thought, for she had been too preoccupied with Jamey and with the demands of their everyday life to waste her time missing anything. But here at Solgrave, with each step that she took, there were reminiscences of her childhood walks in the fields and parks around Oxford that kept pushing their way into her head. Bittersweet memories of schoolmates who had traveled those paths with her. Friends now cut off from her by years and society…and the spilled blood of a villainous rake.

  And with those memories, doubts she had carried since she was a girl burst to the surface. Doubts and fears she had pushed from her thoughts, questions to which she’d never sought answers. Walking toward Knebworth Village, Rebecca now found herself unable to dismiss them.

  She tried to consider the discussion she’d had earlier with Mrs. Trent. The housekeeper had said such sweet things to her, even if they weren’t true. It wasn’t the first time she had been confused with something she was not. Even in Philadelphia, those with whom she had known and worked had always treated her as gentility. True, she had never been really accepted as one of them, but instead respected and treated as someone above.

  Her friend Molly’s words came back to her, comments about Rebecca’s learning and wit. And even before that, when she’d first met Lady Hartington, her employer had been most impressed with the “certain something” that the new tutor possessed. That, added to the respected reputation of Mrs. Stockdale’s Academy for Girls, and Mary Hartington had considered Rebecca an excellent choice for her three children.

  A sudden breeze pushed Rebecca’s straw hat a-kilter, and she caught the end of the ribbons and removed it from her head. The feel of the spring air and the warm sun was heavenly on her face.

  The person she was, and the incorrect assumptions people made about her background, was of course solely due to Mrs. Stockdale and the years Rebecca had spent at her school. There were so many things that she’d learned in that exclusive place. True, some of them were so frivolous for someone of her position in life that she’d never openly admit to them. Riding to hounds, the importance of grace and submissiveness in a lady’s manner, the planning of parties—from afternoon tea to a proper ball—the proper steps to the “acceptable” forms of dancing, how to reply when addressed in terms of courtship by young men both superior and inferior in station. What use would Rebecca Neville ever have for such knowledge? What use would Rebecca Ford have for such foolishness?

  How she had been able to afford the tuition of the fine school was in itself a mystery that she long taken for granted. She had many times been told about the barrister whom she assumed was her benefactor. But Mrs. Stockdale’s school was attended by offspring of earls and barons, by the most eligible daughters of English society. She could still remember the fine carriages that rolled away each spring toward genteel homes in London and Bath and Bristol, homes she could only imagine. Etched in her mind, also, were the images of the carts of trunks filled with stylish new clothing that arrived each fall.

  And she was Jenny Greene’s daughter. At least, those were Sir Charles Hartington’s words. They were burned into her brain. And with them, the memory of assault and murder and her own wild flight into the darkness. She tried not to think of that accursed night. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the only name she’d ever been given about her parentage…Jenny Greene.

  She knew the name Jenny Greene. Everyone in England knew Jenny Greene. Once the darling of the London theatre, she had held the hearts of both princes and paupers in her hand. Jenny Greene had led a life that was notorious for its freedom, a life that was seemingly above society’s censure…for a while, at least. Rebecca flushed at the thought that this might be her mother.

  But why, she wondered now, would the actress go to the tremendous expense of sending her daughter to such a place? Why would she never contact her in all the years that followed? This morning, while waiting for Mrs. Trent in Lord Stanmore’s library, Rebecca had absently paged through a recent issue of the London newspaper, the Daily Advertiser. When she had found herself scanning the list of the plays being presented in the city’s various theaters, she’d realized with a start that her true object had been to find a name. Jenny Greene’s name. She did not even know if the woman…no, her mother…was still alive!

  Rebecca paused at the crest of a hill and lifted her face to the caressing breeze. The view of the valley before her was breathtaking. Framed by the green edge of the forest, the meadows and pastureland rolled downward to a gently meandering river and Knebworth, a tidy little village snugly nestled within a patchwork quilt of farms. She turned and glanced behind her. Only the very top of Solgrave was visible from here. When winter had stripped these trees of their leaves, she mused, what a welcome sight those chimneys and sturdy walls would offer a cold and weary traveler.

  “Not that you will ever see it, Rebecca Neville,” she murmured.

  Drawing a deep breath, she turned her back and started down the slope toward the village. Tucking loose strands of hair behind an ear, she was attempting to put the straw hat back on when the sound of an approaching rider made her step to the side of the path. An instant later, from around a bend of the trees, she saw the horse and rider came into view. Her treacherous heart beat faster at the sight of him.

  “Mrs. Ford!” Lord Stanmore’s surprise was evident in his voice, but Rebecca tried to focus on the broad chest of the prancing steed, rather than stare at the man who was controlling him. “Pray, don’t tell me James has disappeared again.”

  “No, m’lord!” She didn’t have to look up to know he was mocking her. Tired of struggling with the hat and the wind, she pulled it off again and held the ribbons tightly in one hand.

  “A very pretty hat, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. Since James is hard at his lessons, and the morning is so pleasant, I decided to take a walk to the village.” She glanced at him as he dismounted from the gray hunter, frowning at the butterflies in her stomach.

  “May I join you?”

  She stretched a hand in the direction of Solgrave, then pointed in the opposite direction. “You surely…but you must be…really, I can find the way.” She sounded worse than Mr. Clarke at his most halting moments.

  He patted his steed on the nose and looked expectantly at her. “Would you mind very much if I joined you?”

  His gentle tone drew her gaze. Looking into the silvery depths of his black eyes, she realized that she might just be incapable of denying him anything. Good Lord, she thought, panic washing through her.

  “No, I don’t mind,” she heard herself say.

  They started down the path toward the village in silence. Where the path wound through a grove of trees, the quiet of the woods was more pronounced than before. Rebecca glanced at the discreet space the earl kept between them as his horse clopped along behind. She wasn’t afraid of him, Rebecca told herself. It was herself. Her panic admittedly stemmed from the sensations that he’d produced in her, memories he’d awakened in her. So vivid were those memories! Those were things that she�
�d tried so hard to forget. She stole a quick glance at his direction and found him staring straight ahead. He appeared to have accepted her words that the whole incident had been a mistake.

  If she could only make herself believe it.

  “It was distressing to hear that you had taken ill. I hope you are feeling better.”

  “I am sorry to have caused your lordship any concern.” Rebecca twisted the ends of the hat’s ribbons around her fingers and looked down at an abandoned stone quarry that suddenly opened up at the left of the path. She decided to speak the truth. “There was nothing in matter with me. But after giving some thought to your earlier observations, I found myself in agreement with you regarding the excessive and unnecessary protectiveness I feel for Ja…for your son.”

  “I see. You agree with me, and then you set out to punish us by staying away?”

  “Punish?” Surprised, she cast a sideways glance at him and then focused on the path. “No, m’lord. I was applauding your judgment. I am trying to give James some distance so that he can adjust more readily to the new faces in his life.”

  “My dear Mrs. Ford, I know you don’t consider me an expert in childrearing—and with good reason, of course—but from what you’ve just said, I think you know even less than I do.”

  She turned on him sharply. “Are you trying to be hurtful, m’lord?”

  “Hardly! But I would suggest that you stop trying to force a bond to form between James and myself.” His tone was gentle. “You were the one who advised me of the necessity of giving James time. I agree! He needs time. And I need time, as well.”

  “Aye, time to spend together! But this is what I am trying to give you.”

  He shook his head. “Deprived of your presence, we have had the most uncomfortable of dinners for two nights running.” He stared straight ahead for a moment before turning to her. “James refuses to say a word or even look up from his food for the entire evening. His manners are fairly unexceptionable, by the way. My compliments.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But his intractable silence hardly improves anything.” He paused. “Not that Mr. Clarke noticed, of course. I made the grave error of asking him to stay to dinner, last night. The man talked endlessly. I managed to maintain a polite façade. My years in the House of Lords has taught me to appear interested, even when my thoughts are drawn to…well, to more interesting people.”

  He fixed his gaze on her, and she fought to ignore the heat radiating in her belly.

  “If you mean me, m’lord, I must protest strenuously that I am hardly ‘interesting’ and would have added nothing to the dinner conversation. In fact, I am quite certain that you would not have considered my presence any improvement.”

  “I disagree.” His dark eyes smiled at her, and Rebecca found herself growing quite warm under his attentions. “Your presence might have silenced the tutor and would certainly have washed some of the gloom off James’s face. Now, as far as my own response to your company…I think you know that I would have been honored to have you with us.”

  The path took them out of the woods and into the bright sunshine of the meadow. At the bottom of the hill, the village bustled with activity. Sanctuary, she thought.

  “We are…almost there.” She placed the hat on top of her head and again made an attempt to tie the ribbons in the face of the rising breeze.

  “Allow me!”

  The gentle touch of his hand on her elbow froze her. Holding the hat in place with one hand, she found herself helpless as he turned her around until she was facing him. She stared at the broad expanse of his chest, at the collar of white and the cravat showing beneath the black riding coat. She dared herself to look up at the firm, full lips to the dark eyes that were studying every flaw in her face.

  Unhurriedly, he tied the ribbons at her throat. When he was finished, though, he did not release the ends of the ribbons. The horse’s reins lay on the ground, and she felt the brush of his fingers scorching her skin as he pushed the hair out of her face.

  “I envy the wind.”

  Startled, she swallowed the knot of fear in her throat as his head lowered. Torn between the desire to run and the even stronger desire to feel his mouth against hers once again, she stood rooted to the ground and closed her eyes.

  The brush of his lips was gentle—but heat shot through her, firing her blood and reducing her bones to molten wax. Her hands were fisted for a moment, but then fluttered open against his chest. The desire sizzled in the narrow space between them and Rebecca’s lips parted as the pressure of his mouth became more persistent. Their tongues danced, and suddenly, starved for more of this torturous heat, she rose onto her toes and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

  A groan of pleasure sounded somewhere deep in his throat, and Stanmore’s hands became eager as they pressed her to him so hard so there was not a breath of distance left between their bodies. She would have been perfectly willing to remain molded against his body, but he abruptly ended kiss.

  He drew back from her, and she forced open her eyes, even though she could not force herself to breathe. He touched her lips with his fingers.

  “I shan’t rush you again,” he said, his voice husky and dark. “We have all the time in the world.”

  CHAPTER 16

  As they approached Knebworth Village, Rebecca felt as if a thick fog had swept in around her. As if in a dream, she could almost see herself walking, one foot placed squarely in front of the other, the sun shining above, the breezes sending rippling waves through the sea of green around her. And yet, she could hardly feel her own body.

  Only when they reached the first of the cottages nestled against the hill, did her senses begin to respond. The smell of the spring earth registered in her brain. The sound of a dog barking beyond the small market square. The constant shush of the river flowing through the triad of stone arches that supported an ancient bridge. The fog suddenly cleared, giving way to a nervous, sharp-edged clarity.

  The same discreet distance as before separated them, and she threw a quick glance at him. His face showed nothing, and his eyes were fixed on the village ahead of them. One might think they were just two casual acquaintances whose paths had joined a moment earlier.

  With only that momentary look, though, the tranquility in Rebecca’s body and mind suddenly erupted into full-fledged gale. Fear and desire clashed in a tumultuous and primordial battle. She wanted to touch her own lips and feel where he had touched her last. And then she wondered how she would be able recall the taste of his lips and recollect their soft texture during the eternity of longing that was to begin so soon.

  So soon? she thought, looking at the roses spilling over a garden wall. The intensity of her feelings totally bewildered her. How did this happen? As they walked, she could feel the power of his presence beside her; she could feel herself being pulled toward him. It was as if a taut flaming cord had formed between them, tugging at the very center of her. And this thrilled her as much as it terrified her. After all, how could she—a woman who had always shunned such feelings—ever have fallen so hard and so quickly?

  Rebecca knew what she was feeling. She was not a child. It had taken great effort to restrain her emotions after the kiss. It was taking even a greater effort to walk at his side and not look at him again, for she also knew that she must keep up some pretense of indifference. But how could she do that? she wondered desperately. When he turned his keen gaze upon her face, she knew he was reading her thoughts, peering into her very soul.

  This was a dangerous game, and it was one that the earl of Stanmore was clearly a master of. His look, his words, his touch…he was playing with her, body and soul. It was a mortal game where no surface was solid, no edge firm. Reach out to steady herself as she may, her grasp only found clouds and mists that dissipated, slipping through her fingers. It was a game so complicated that she knew she would surely drown in it.

  But the irony of it all was that she knew her only salvation lay, along with her damnation,
in the same forbidden touch. His touch. And she could not help herself. She did not want to help herself, it seemed.

  His deep voice scattered her thoughts. “It is not Philadelphia, I’m sure, but welcome to our little village.” He gestured ahead. “We boast a number of shops situated along the lane here. Knebworth is a fairly active country village, as far as country villages go…particularly on market days. And we have a church—that you can see just there—that dates back to Alfred the Great, as well.”

  “I was hoping to meet the rector…and perhaps the schoolmaster, as well.” She looked past his coat, staring at the green hedge lining the lane.

  “The school house is the second to last building at the far end of the village. The rectory lies up the hill from the church. You can see it there…it is the one with the slate roof and the new stable near it.”

  She glanced in the direction that he was indicating. “Thank you, m’lord. I had no intention of detaining you. Mrs. Trent gave me detailed directions. I can find the way.”

  Obviously ignoring the opportunity that she was offering him and leaving her, he glanced at a group of very young children playing a noisy game in the front yard of a cottage they were passing. “I know that Mr. Cunningham, our schoolmaster, is generally occupied during the day. I would be happy to introduce you another day. It will be my pleasure to escort you to the rectory, however.”

  Rebecca whispered her words of gratitude as he led the way down the village street. It was a lovely and busy village. The cobbler could be seen in his front window, hunched intently over his work. The Black Swan, a large half-timbered inn, boasted a garden with fruit trees and arbors of wisteria covered with the pale lavender flowers. In the yard of Stafford’s livery stable, a number of well-appointed carts and curricles and even a new four-wheeled phaeton could be seen. Noting her interest, Lord Stanmore informed her that Mr. Stafford’s brother built carriages.