Love's Promise (21 page)

“No.”

“You should be. I’m not mistaken in stating that you enjoyed what we just did.”

“You’re too vain for your own good, and I refuse to flatter you.”

“I can’t help it if I’m wonderful and you’re benefiting from my prowess.”

She scoffed. “When I’m alone, I persuade myself to ignore you, but the second I’m with you, I yearn to misbehave.”

He leaned nearer and whispered, “I’m not sorry.”

She sighed. “How can I stop this? How can I make myself act as I should?”

“You can’t.”

“I suppose not.”

He stroked her back, and she yawned.

“Close your eyes and rest,” he advised.

“You can’t stay in here.”

“I won’t. I’ll go once you start to snore.”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “I don’t snore.”

“We’ll see, won’t we? I’ll let you know in the morning.”

She laughed, then sobered. “I’m serious. Thomas can’t find you with me. Or the servants. I’d be so embarrassed.”

“I promise I’ll leave as soon as you’re asleep.”

She was rapidly drifting off, and shortly, she dozed, trusting herself with him when she shouldn’t trust him at all. He remained snuggled to her, until the candles sputtered out, and the room was bathed only in moonlight.

Then he slipped away and went to the bedchamber down the hall.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“There’s someone here to see you, Miss Fanny.”

“To see me?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Fanny removed her bonnet and hung it on the hook by the door. Peggy seemed slightly alarmed, and Fanny frowned. They were in the kitchen, and Cook had been baking, so the air was fragrant and warm. Fanny’s cold cheeks stung.

The month of September had flown by, the harvest ending, cooler weather the norm. The leaves were turning, and the paths through the forest were lined with red and gold.

Michael and Thomas were at Henley Hall for the afternoon, and the house had been so quiet without them that she’d gone for a stroll in the woods. By approaching from the rear as she had, she wouldn’t have noticed a horse or carriage in the front drive, and she couldn’t imagine who it might be.

“Who is it?”

Peggy stepped closer, knowing that the residence was small and voices carried.

“It’s Lord Henley’s father,” Peggy whispered.

The import of the announcement took a moment to register.

“The Duke is here?”

“Yes.”

Fanny’s heart literally skipped a beat. “Are you sure he didn’t ask for Lord Henley?”

“No. He specifically mentioned you.”

She stared at Peggy, feigning calm, but her mind raced. What could he want?

He had to have discovered that Fanny was...was...
involved
with Michael, but if he questioned her or demanded explanations, she would die of embarrassment.

Inwardly, she cursed Michael. He’d told her the house was his private retreat, but if the Duke knew its location, it wasn’t much of a secret. Michael would be gone for hours, and she couldn’t hide in the kitchen, waiting for him to show up and save her.

She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face.

“Have you offered him tea?”

“Yes, Miss,” Peggy said, “and he’s made himself very comfortable.”

“Has he been here before?”

“Never.”

Fanny peeked down at her dress, deciding there wasn’t time to change, so she leaned to Peggy and murmured, “How do I look?”

“Pretty as a spring day, Miss.”

“Wish me luck.”

Shoulders squared, she marched out, ready for battle.

He was seated in a chair by the hearth, ignoring the tea tray, but having helped himself to some of Michael’s brandy. She entered and dropped into a curtsy.

“Your Grace, how kind of you to visit. We weren’t expecting company.”

“Stand up, girl. Let me see you.”

As she rose, he rudely evaluated her, meandering across her womanly parts, taking such an inordinate assessment of her breasts that she felt soiled by his lecherous regard.

“You’re definitely fetching,” he claimed, “when you’re all cleaned up. I was wondering what was keeping Michael intrigued.” He smirked. “Now I know.”

She refused to react. “If you were hoping to speak to Lord Henley, he’s at Henley Hall.”

“I know where he is—I
always
know where he is—and I’ll chat with him soon enough, I dare say.”

He hadn’t given her permission to sit, and she wasn’t certain of the protocol, but
he
was the guest, and she wasn’t about to dawdle before him, trembling like a ninny. She went to the chair opposite and sat, too.

He sipped his drink, the silence stretching out, and she sensed that he was trying to intimidate her, but it wasn’t working. Fanny had survived Camilla’s worst moods and harangues, and she could endure him with the same equanimity.

“Let’s be candid, shall we?” he ultimately said.

“By all means.”

“You’re very self-possessed, aren’t you? Is that why Michael fancies you?”

“I couldn’t guess if he fancies me or not, Your Grace. I wouldn’t presume to give an opinion for him.”

“Oh, he fancies you all right.” He narrowed his gaze. “I understand
his
intentions—he’s a man and he’s my son—but I’m trying to figure out yours. Is it money? Is it marriage? Tell me so we can deal with it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come now, your slovenly sister made out like a bandit. Surely, you’d like some of the same largesse from my family’s coffers. Is that what you crave? If so, state your price so we can begin negotiations.”

“I have no price.”

He scoffed. “I’ll never believe that you’re giving it to him for free.”

“Giving him what?”

At her response, he was momentarily startled, then he hooted with laughter.

“Are you an idiot? Or are you simply naïve? You’ll never convince me that you’re giving him your body for free.”

He’d finally lit a spark to her temper. “I don’t like you, and I won’t listen to your insults. You’re welcome to wait until Lord Henley returns, but I don’t have to entertain you while you do it. Goodbye.”

She couldn’t remember when she’d last been so angry. Before Michael Wainwright had shown up and changed everything, she’d been an ordinary woman who’d lived an ordinary, modest life. She felt as if she’d been in a bad carriage accident, as if she’d been swept to sea by a deluge and she couldn’t see the shore.

What had transpired couldn’t be altered. Nor could she fix the past. She could only move forward, and she wouldn’t feel guilty or apologize for circumstances that were beyond her control.

She’d spun to storm out, when he muttered, “So...it’s not money. It’s love. You’re wrangling to make him fall in love and marry you.”

She whipped around, yearning to say something biting and cruel that would stab him like a knife, but she couldn’t devise a remark that was sufficiently caustic.

“Are you aware of why he owns this property?” he taunted. “This is where he dallies with his mistress—when he keeps one. This is where he brings the occasional widow, the weekend paramour. If you’re scheming to be elevated above that class, you’re a fool. By your very presence here, it’s clear what he thinks of you. You’ll never rate any higher in his esteem.”

“I don’t know any gossip about this place,” she lied, “or why Lord Henley uses it, and I won’t have you denigrating him in his own parlor.”

“Ah...such loyalty! Such devotion!” He waved toward her chair. “Sit down. Sit down. I’m weary of craning my neck, gaping up at you.”

She didn’t budge, but she didn’t leave either. She glared at him, stoic, regal in her fury.

When she didn’t speak, he continued, “He has obligations you can’t fathom. He has to
marry.”

“Of course he has to marry.”

“His wedding is just over a month away.”

At hurling the shocking announcement, he looked very smug, his desire to wound her blatant and galling, and she was amazed at how she tamped down the stunned reaction he was eager to elicit.

She studied him, curious as to whether the statement could possibly be true. Could Michael have kept such a terrible secret from her? Could such a significant event be near and she not perceive its approach?

“It is not. You’re lying.”

“His fiancée is a perfect match for him,” he insisted.

“I’m certain she’s lovely.”

Her acerbic dismissal of his declaration left him seriously aggravated, and his temper flared.

“You little wench! Listen to me: He will never choose you, but I suppose you’ve invented some inane scenario in your head where you imagine you can coax a proposal out of him. You can’t, and if that’s what you’re hoping, you’re deranged.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I’m not stupid. I realize that he would never pick me.”

“Do you? Do you, really?”

“Yes,” she quietly replied, knowing it was the trust, saddest word she’d ever uttered. Why couldn’t Michael pick her? Why couldn’t she be the one he loved? The one he cherished?

“Well, the longer he loafs in the country with you, the less time he has to concentrate on what matters. So I ask you again: What is your price?”

“For what? I haven’t requested anything from him. I don’t want anything from him!”

“But
I
am another story altogether. I want you gone. What will it take to be shed of you? How fast can we accomplish it?”

“It’s futile to converse with you. Goodbye,” she said again.

“Let me see your wrist,” he absurdly commanded.

“What?”

“Your wrist! Your wrist!” He held out his hand, eager to examine the appendage, and when she balked, he snapped, “I haven’t got all day to fuss with you. Let me see it.”

Deeming him mad, she extended her arm. She had an odd birthmark on her wrist, shaped like a figure eight. He assessed it, then scowled.

“Phillip was wondering about you,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her, “but I thought he was joking.”

“Joking about what?”

“You were adopted, weren’t you?”

She almost denied it, then stopped herself. It was common knowledge that her parents had found her on the church steps. There was no reason to lie.

“Yes.”

“But you’re aware of the identity of your birth parents, aren’t you? You know who your father is.”

“No, I don’t.”

He snorted. “Don’t toy with me. I won’t tolerate it, and it’s beneath you.” He pointed at her wrist. “Your father is Lord Trent. You bear the stain.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All his misbegotten brats carry it. It’s how paternity is proven—when his bastards come begging for a handout. You’re one of his, all right. The hair, the eyes; it’s all there.”

At having him blithely mention the man who might be her natural father, she steeled her emotions. Could it be true? Or was the Duke merely spreading more of his venom?

She knew few details about her sire other than the fact that he had been an infamous nobleman and libertine. Could it be Lord Trent? How could it matter who it was? But still, she couldn’t disregard the spark of hope it ignited. Did she belong to someone? Was there someone out there who might claim her?

Trent...Trent...Trent...

With each beat of her heart, the name pounded through her veins, and she could barely keep from clapping her hands over her ears to shut out the sound.

The Duke scrutinized her, pondering, and when he spoke, he was cajoling, coaxing. “What if I told you that I could convince Lord Trent to acknowledge you? What if I told you that you could go to London and live with him?”

“My
father
was a parish vicar. He died three years ago. He was a simple, poor, and honest man who’s buried in the cemetery next to the church where he ministered.”

He ignored her. “Trent and I are closely acquainted. I can persuade him to provide you with a dowry. I can have him find you a husband. Would you like that?”

He was triumphant, positive she’d snatch at his offer with greedy fingers.

“You’ve miscalculated,” she said. “I don’t want a husband—especially not one that you would help me locate.”

“Nonsense, girl. Every female wants a husband. Think of it: a home of your own, children to mother, and status in the community. It’s your every dream come true. And you’d have your real father tossed into the bargain.”

To her surprise, he’d actually voiced her most essential dreams—a home, a family—but she’d never admit that he was correct.

“You don’t know anything about me, so you couldn’t begin to guess what I might
want
.”

“He’d take you under his wing. Wouldn’t you like that? Isn’t it what you get down on your knees and pray for every night? You’d have your father—your rich, handsome, aristocratic father—standing by your side.”

His tantalizing words ignited such a storm of yearning that she grasped how Eve must have felt in the Garden when the snake was tempting her.

After all, what—precisely—did Fanny have? For the moment, she was fed and clothed, and she had access to Thomas—but it was all at Michael’s discretion.

If she angered him, he could rescind every boon. Then where would she be?

If she accepted the Duke’s proposal, she would be abandoning Michael and Thomas, but would receive a new life in their place.

It was a prudent solution. It was a rational solution. She was on a sinking boat, and she should have leapt at the Duke’s rescue.

Yet, she shrugged. “No thank you. I have no desire to meet Lord Trent. If he is my natural father—which I seriously doubt—I would never foist myself on him like some detested charity case.”

Rage flared in the Duke’s eyes and mottled his cheeks. He rose, shaking his finger at her.

“You pathetic hussy,” he hissed. “I’ll ruin you for this.”

“I’m already ruined. There’s nothing you can do to me.”

“If that’s what you suppose, you’re an even bigger idiot than I suspected.” His lascivious gaze dropped to her stomach. “If you think you can lounge around, fucking my son”—she blanched at the crude term—“until you spit out another Carrington bastard for me to support, you can just think again.”

“You needn’t worry,” she casually said as if she were a fertility goddess who could control procreation, even though she and Michael consorted every evening. “It will never happen.”