Love's Promise (7 page)

Phillip laughed. “How was your trip to the country?”

“Extremely interesting. Have you ever been told that you have a sister named Fanny Carrington?”

“No, why?”

“The woman I met resembles you and your father.”

“Didn’t you tell me her father was a vicar?”

“Yes.”

While Charles was despicable, it wasn’t likely that he’d stooped to impregnating vicars’ wives, but who could be sure?

Phillip shrugged. “You know my father. Anything is possible.”

Just then, Anne waltzed by, and instantly, Phillip’s attention was riveted on her, his fascination blatant and difficult to conceal.

“There’s Anne,” Michael pointed out, “dancing with Longworth.”

“She certainly is.”

“She fancies him,” Michael insisted, and he seemed to be deliberately goading Phillip. “She mentioned it at breakfast.”

“She does not
fancy
him,” Phillip snarled through clenched teeth.

“Why don’t you ask her to dance, yourself?”

“I’d rather not.”

Michael smirked.

Phillip suspected that Michael had deduced Phillip’s idiotic infatuation, but he’d never embarrassed Phillip by directly alluding to it. His preferred method was sly innuendo.

“Did you talk to Charles for me?” Michael queried.

“Yes, and you know how stubborn he is. He’s not about to change his mind.”

Michael growled with frustration. “You realize that this will force me to marry Rebecca, don’t you?”

“You poor man.” Phillip oozed false sympathy. “Imagine having to wed such a rich, gorgeous wife! It will be absolute hell having all her money in your bank account.”

“Oh, do be silent.”

A fuss erupted at the top of the stairs, as the next guest was announced, and Phillip chuckled with malicious glee.

“Speak of the devil,” Phillip said, “here she comes.”

“Yes, she does.” Michael sighed.

“Do you expect she’ll be wearing her tiara?”

“I hope not. I can’t abide such silliness.”

“Lady Rebecca Talbot,” the butler intoned, his melodious voice cascading across the cavernous space.

All heads turned, and for a few moments, Rebecca froze until everyone was watching her, then she descended, taking the steps slowly, holding them rapt with her splendor and poise. With her flawless face and perfect skin, she was a celebrated beauty, more exquisite than any debutante in years.

Her white-blond hair shimmered, her icy blue eyes sweeping the room, searching for and immediately honing in on Michael.

Phillip chuckled again. “It appears that she’s left the tiara at home.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Very much.”

“I thought we were friends, so have pity on me. How about if
you
marry Rebecca?”

Phillip gave a mock shudder. “I wouldn’t have that ice maiden in my bed. She’d freeze my vital parts and I’m very attached to them.”

“Yet you think
I
should make the sacrifice? What about
my
vital parts?”

“She’s very pretty, and you have to pick an heiress. And don’t forget: They’re all the same in the dark after you blow out the candle.”

“But I always envisioned I’d have a bride who was...was...”

“A bride who was what?” Phillip said when he couldn’t finish.

“Well, I assumed I’d at least...
like
her.”

“You want to
like
your wife? I didn’t realize you were such a romantic.” Phillip chortled with amusement.

“I’m wretched enough as it is. Quit harassing me.”

“I can’t help it if you’re being ridiculous.” Phillip sobered and counseled, “You’re making this too difficult.”

“How?”

“Wed her, get her pregnant, and stash her in the country. Buy yourself a mistress. You can
like
her all you want. Then when you tire of her, you can buy yourself another and another and another.”

Rebecca had reached the bottom of the stairs, and she was crossing the floor, proceeding directly toward Michael.

“Do you ever wish you were someone else,” Michael said, “someone with no responsibilities, who lived a different kind of life?”

“That was you six months ago,” Phillip reminded him, “before John died.”

“Oh...so it was.”

Rebecca was coming closer, closer. The doors to the verandah were open, and from Michael’s pained expression, Phillip thought he would bolt, but before he could escape, Rebecca neared and slipped a proprietary hand onto his arm.

“Hello, Rebecca,” Michael said. “When did you arrive?”

At his claiming not to have witnessed her grand entrance, she was very aggravated, but she tamped down her irritation, not wanting Michael to notice that she had a temper—which she did.

“I expected you to be waiting for me at the foot of the stairs,” she complained.

“I didn’t see you,” Michael lied. “Sorry.”

“Rebecca, where is your tiara?” Phillip inquired.

Her eyes narrowed, her displeasure clear. “Is there some reason you feel it appropriate to comment on my attire?”

“No,” Phillip replied. “I simply like to annoy you.”

She bit down on a furious retort, and she gazed up at Michael, struggling to appear cool and composed.

“Michael”—her voice was a practiced, grating feminine purr—“I don’t care for the company in this part of the ballroom. May we mingle with the other guests?”

“Certainly.”

Michael hated their bickering, and he flashed Phillip an exasperated look, then led her away, and as Phillip watched them saunter off, he huffed out a relieved breath. There were many advantages to
not
being his father’s legitimate son and heir, and avoiding marriage to a girl like Rebecca was the biggest benefit of all.

“Have you seen the boy?” the Duke asked.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Michael said.

The morning sun was very bright, and Michael rubbed his forehead, desperate to alleviate the ache. He’d spent the prior evening at Rebecca’s side, only able to tolerate her prattle by drinking too much, and he had the worst hangover ever. His mood was foul, his disposition raw.

“And...?”

“He’s the spitting image of John.”

“You have no doubt?”

“None.”

“Damn,” the Duke cursed. “I was hoping he’d have red hair and brown eyes.”

“There’s no way you can deny paternity, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“What if it was?” the wily old bastard snapped.

“He has every Wainwright feature. There’s not a court in the land that would believe you. You’d be a fool to try.”

“So what now?” Anne spoke from across the room where she was seated at a writing desk and finishing her correspondence.

“Now,” the Duke cut in, “we bring him to London. What would you suppose?”

“Have you talked to the mother?” Anne queried.

“No, but I chatted with the aunt several times.”

“What was her opinion?”

“I couldn’t ask her.”

“What?” the Duke gasped. “Are you daft?”

“They’re very close, and Thomas is very attached to her. She’d never agree.”

“Who the hell cares?” the Duke protested. “She’s irrelevant to the entire issue.”

“Father!” Anne groused, but as usual, the Duke ignored her.

“For God’s sake, Michael,” the Duke fumed, “get back to Sussex and retrieve him. Why all the delay?”

Michael went to the window and peered outside, and he saw Rebecca’s coach arriving. He glanced over at the Duke. “Before I stir this hornet’s nest, I need to hear that you’re still resolved. Are you?”

“Of course. Have you ever known me to change my mind once I’m set on an idea?”

It was the Duke’s greatest fault and greatest strength, his unwavering ability to forge on without vacillation.

“What is your view of Fanny Carrington?” the Duke continued. “It sounds as if the two of you were awfully friendly. Is she as loose as her sister?”

“Shut up, Father,” Michael seethed. “The journey exhausted me, and I’m not in the mood for your crudity.”

Anne said to Michael, “If Thomas is so terribly fond of Frances, perhaps we should leave him where he is.”

“We just can’t,” Michael replied, detesting what he was prepared to do. “His natural mother is a nightmare, and they’re living in squalid conditions. Thomas can’t stay with them.”

“Are you positive?” Anne inquired.

“Yes.”

“Wonderful! It’s all arranged.” The Duke rubbed his hands together as if they were about to sit down to a good meal. “When can you go fetch him?”

“Tomorrow, I guess,” Michael responded.

When he was through, Fanny would hate him, but it couldn’t be helped. He would do this dreadful thing to her, without regret or remorse. He would do it for Thomas. He would do it for his dead brother whom he’d loved.

Thomas would become a Wainwright, would be showered with all the pomp and grandeur that could be bestowed on a little boy. Fanny would never recover from the betrayal, and she would definitely never forgive Michael.

At the notion, he nearly balked at carrying out the Duke’s command, but the moment was lost as the butler stepped into the room and announced, “Lady Rebecca is here to see you, Lord Henley. Are you at home?”

Michael shook off his uncertainty, pushing Fanny far from his mind.

“Yes, I’m at home.”

Anne Wainwright tarried on the verandah, staring out across the park toward the river. Michael and Rebecca were strolling arm in arm, and with him being so dark and distinctive, and her so lithe and fair, they were an attractive couple. It was difficult
not
to watch them.

Their heads were bent close, and she was curious as to what they were discussing. Were they whispering lover’s secrets? Maybe they were debating how many children they would have.

A wave of envy swept through her, and she was surprised by its virulence. She was twenty-five now, and quickly approaching twenty-six. The Duke was a proud, vain man who’d rejected so many offers for her that she couldn’t count them all. In the beginning, he’d insisted he couldn’t find a suitable match, but as one matrimonial season had ended, then another, it had become obvious that he wasn’t doing her any favors.

The pathetic fact was that the Duke liked having her by his side. She occupied herself with the duties his wife would have assumed, so he didn’t need to remarry, and she suspected that he would never free her from her assigned role.

Off in the distance, there were sailboats out on the Thames, and suddenly, she suffered the strongest urge to run to the water’s edge. She’d like to flag down a passing captain, would like to climb aboard and sail away.

She felt as if she was choking on her boring, tedious life, and it would be marvelous to vanish. If something didn’t happen—and soon—she might start screaming and never stop.

“Anne,” someone called from behind her, and she spun to see Phillip walking outside, and he came over and balanced a hip on the balustrade.

“Hello, Phillip.”

She’d known him since she was a girl, since Michael had first dragged him home on a school holiday as if he were a stray puppy.

He was so tall and broad, and he always looked as if he was laughing at her, as if he thought her stuffy or silly, and she was never positive of how to converse with him. When she
did
bother to speak, he left her with the impression that she’d said exactly the wrong thing.

“Have they settled the issue?” he asked as he saw Michael and Rebecca together.

“Not that I’m aware. She only just arrived.”

“What’s your opinion? Will he propose?”

“He’s a fool if he doesn’t.”

“Michael a fool?” he mused. “Why? Because he won’t marry Rebecca?”

“She’s lovely,” Anne declared, “and she has the appropriate ancestry.”

She sounded like a parrot, spewing the Duke’s phrases without conscious reflection. She glanced at Phillip, to check his reaction, and it seemed as if he’d rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Do you imagine Michael will be happy with her?” he inquired.

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

Happiness had nothing to do with marriage. Michael would choose his bride for the typical reasons: money, property, and to sire an heir to continue the line.

“Wouldn’t you like him to be happy?” Phillip pressed, and from how he was assessing her, she felt it was a trick question that had no right answer.