Only a Promise (22 page)

“I saw Max Courtney’s young sister a few times after I left Penderris,” he said, reaching a hand beyond her shoulder to close the curtains as the flaming torch of the night watchman came bobbing into view in the square below. “And she wrote to me. She saw me as a final link to the brother she had adored and lost. She fancied herself, I believe, in love with me. I did all in my power to avoid her without being openly cruel. I even offered to fetch her a glass of lemonade at one ball but left the house instead and then London itself the next morning. She was the only one I saw, though. Her mother died a couple of years after Max did, and it was her aunt who was bringing her out into society. She—Miss Courtney—wrote to me earlier this spring when I was staying at Vince’s home to inform me she was about to marry a clergyman. I let her down. I had a chance to comfort
someone,
for the pain I had caused, but I did not do it.”

Miss Courtney, it seemed, had not blamed him for her
brother’s death. Had he realized that? But something else occurred to Chloe.

“Was she at the theater tonight?” she asked.

“Miss Courtney?” he said. “No. But Viscount Harding and his wife were. Tom’s parents. He was their only son, their only child. They doted on him.”

His muscles had tightened again. Chloe set her hands on his shoulders and tipped back her head to look up at him. Her eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and she could see the hard, bleak emptiness of his expression as he gazed back.

“They begged and pleaded with him not to go,” he said. “The viscountess, his mother, even wrote to me to beg me to use my influence with him. And I did.”

Chloe tipped her head to one side. “And afterward?” she asked him.

He stared back. “There was no afterward.”

“You did not hear from them?” she asked. “Or write to them?”

“No.”

“Did they see you tonight?”

“Our eyes did not actually meet,” he said. “But, yes, I believe they might have seen me.”

Without stopping to think what she was doing, Chloe cupped his face between her hands.

“What are you going to do?” she asked him.

“Do?” He frowned. “Nothing. What is there for me to do? If they recognized me, I ruined their evening. I
know
I have ruined their lives. I owe it to them to stay out of their way. If they do not leave London, then I may have to—
we
may have to. That ought to please you.”

He curled his fingers around hers and removed her
hands from his face. He held them clasped between their bodies, and the blanket slithered off his shoulders to the floor.

“We will run away?” she asked. “Because you saw the parents of one of your friends and I saw Lady Angela Allandale?”

“Run away.” He laughed softly, but there was no amusement in the sound. “Did you not know, Chloe, that that is an impossibility? You ought to know. You have tried it a few times. The trouble with running away is that you must always take yourself with you.”

“You must face them, then,” she said. “You must call on them. Perhaps, as with Miss Courtney, they will see you as a link with their son and be delighted to see you.”

He dropped her hands in order to brush her hair back from her face, to cup her cheeks as she had done his, to tip her face closer to his own.

“No,” he said softly.

“You are content, then,” she said, “to live out the rest of your life in hell?”

She had not planned those exact words. She heard their echo as though someone else had spoken them. His eyes looked like large pools of darkness.

“Content?” He laughed again. “It is as good a word as any, I suppose. A wife is a troublesome thing to have, Chloe.”

“An interfering baggage, do you mean?”

“As I recall saying once before quite recently,” he said, “if the glove fits . . .” But he did not speak with irritation this time.

“I cannot help caring just a little bit, you know,” she told him. “I care that you are unhappy.”

“And you?” He moved his head a little closer. “How could I not have known Lady Angela Allandale was at the theater? You are sure it was she?”

“Yes,” she said. “And even if I could not be sure, the reaction of the audience would have told me I had not mistaken.”

“And I missed it all,” he said, “selfish brute that I am. I am sorry, Chloe.”

“It does not matter,” she said. “We bear a coincidental likeness to each other. People will soon grow tired of remarking upon it.”

“Yes. They will.” He closed the distance between their mouths and kissed her.

It was not a sexual kiss. Or, rather, it
was,
but it was more than just that. There was warmth in it and something else. Need, perhaps. Yearning, perhaps. Or perhaps something that went deeper than feelings and therefore deeper than words.

Her arms went about him and his came about her, and the kiss deepened as his tongue sought the inside of her mouth and she felt his hardening erection against her abdomen.

Even when he took her back to bed and stripped off her nightgown and laid her down and came directly on top of her and into her—even then, as he moved in her and she twined her legs about his and moved with him, it was not really a sexual coupling. Or not just, or not primarily. Nor was it only about the begetting of a child.

It was . . .

Ah, no. There were no words.

But he needed her. He did not just
want
her. He needed her. As she needed him. She had been more
upset by the events of the evening than she had realized at the time.

And so she opened to him as she had not done before, even during that one night of unbridled passion. She opened everything that was herself and gave. She gave her heart and her love, without speaking a word. And she received too. For when he finally stilled and spilled his seed in her, the warmth and the wonder of it spread to fill her whole being.

Or so it seemed. Neither of them spoke.

But though he disengaged from her and moved off her, he stayed within her arms, his head nestled against her bosom, his legs entwined with hers. And she heard him sigh and felt him relax into sleep.

She nestled her cheek against the top of his head and closed her eyes and felt a strange, seductive happiness.

“A
unt Julia is coming in the carriage for me at ten,” Chloe explained at breakfast when Ralph asked about her plans for the day. “We are going shopping. I need new clothes. I hope you do not mind.”

“Of course not,” he said. “You have carte blanche.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “You may regret that.”

“I think not.” He did not actually smile in return, but there was a certain warmth in his eyes. They had woken at the same moment early this morning. He had still been in her arms, his head pillowed on her shoulder. He had sighed with what had sounded like contentment, kissed her breast, and proceeded to make lingering, almost tender love to her.

It had
seemed
like tenderness. It had seemed like lovemaking.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I have wildly expensive buying habits. And perhaps I have a quite uncontrollable attraction to the gaming tables. Perhaps I adore glittering objects, especially if they are made of diamonds.”

He leaned back in his chair, his coffee cup in one hand, and actually
did
smile.

“And that puts me in mind of all the family jewels locked away at Manville,” he said. “They are ancient and priceless, and no modern woman would be caught this side of the grave wearing any of them. I have not bought you anything except your wedding ring, which we really must have made a little smaller for you. I will buy you jewels for our reception and ball.”

“Oh,” she said, “there is no need.”

“On the contrary.” He raised his eyebrows. “There is every need. Besides, it will give me pleasure. I hope it will give
you
pleasure to wear them.”

Chloe was sure her cheeks were flushing. “It will,” she said. “But there is still no
need
.”

“I looked in at the study on my way here,” he said. “Lloyd was not there yet, but there was a formidable pile of mail on his desk. Mostly invitations, I would imagine. He should be there by now. Shall we go and look? And I asked him yesterday to start compiling one of his famous lists of what must be done in preparation for our ball. It would be strange indeed if the list is not already as long as my arm. Shall we see it?”

It felt lovely, she thought as she took his arm, doing things together, planning together, being part of each other’s lives. It was more than she had expected.

There were indeed invitations. Mr. Lloyd had already divided them into three neat piles, one for probables, another for possibles, and a third for improbables. Chloe read every one, as did Ralph, and discovered that the secretary’s judgment was nearly faultless. They decided to accept all but one from the first pile, only one from the second, and none from the third.

“And the ball, Lloyd?” Ralph asked.

Mr. Lloyd produced two lists. One was for all the preparations he could think of. Chloe looked it over and added a few more points. The second list, a very long one, was of prospective guests. It was divided into the same three categories as the invitations: probable, possible, improbable.

One set of names on the improbable list caught Chloe’s attention.

“The Marquess and Marchioness of Hitching and family?” She looked inquiringly at Mr. Lloyd.

He looked downward in apparent confusion. “I thought it possible, Your Grace—” he said. “That is—”

Ralph came to his rescue. “I would have put the names on that section of the list too,” he said, “if I had put them anywhere at all.”

“You will be sure to send an invitation to the marquess and his family, Mr. Lloyd,” Chloe said.

“Are you quite sure?” Ralph was frowning at her.

“Yes,” she said, though her legs felt distinctly unsteady. “I will not allow a little mischievous gossip from last year to cause me—or you—to slight perfectly innocent people by excluding them from our guest list.”

“Very well, then, Lloyd,” Ralph said. He tapped his finger on another name, one on the main list. “But here is someone you may exclude.”

Chloe leaned forward to read the name. “Lord Cornell?” she said. Did Ralph
know
, then?

“He is not welcome in my home,” Ralph said. “Or within half a mile of my wife.”

Ah, he
did
know.

They spent a few minutes longer discussing both lists. But Chloe could not delay long. Her aunt would be coming soon.

She went about the rest of the day with something of a spring in her step. Her marriage was progressing far better than she had expected when she suggested it, even if it would never be the stuff of which dreams were made. This morning she was going shopping with her aunt, something she always enjoyed. And this afternoon she would go visiting with her mother-in-law and Nora, who may not like her yet but would go out of their way to smooth her entry into society as the Duchess of Worthingham. And she would hold her head high. She had nothing of which to be ashamed, after all.

*   *   *

Ralph could not take his seat in the House of Lords before he received a Writ of Summons from the Lord Chancellor’s office. It had not come yet. He was to attend one of the formal levees at court next week. George, Duke of Stanbrook, had arranged it and had agreed to accompany him. In the meantime, Ralph carried on with his life much as he had before the death of his grandfather, grateful that he was not expected to accompany his wife either to Bond Street or on the round of visits his mother had planned for the afternoon.

He was looking through the morning papers in the reading room at White’s Club when his father-in-law stepped into the room. Sir Kevin Muirhead looked about him until his eyes alit on Ralph, and then came toward him with purposeful strides. Ralph stood and they shook hands.

“Your butler thought you had come here,” Sir Kevin said, his voice hushed so as not to disturb the other readers. “I am glad he was right. I need to have a word with you.”

“Perhaps you would care for some luncheon, sir.” Ralph gestured toward the dining room.

“Graham is busy with parish work,” Sir Kevin explained when they were seated. “And Lucy is walking in the park with a lady friend of hers and their children and nurses. Nelson is deeply immersed in the writing of one of his plays, or rather in sawing the air with one arm while he proclaims each speech before he writes it. He is ever hopeful of penning the masterpiece that will immortalize him. Julia has gone shopping with Chloe, and Easterly is at the House for what he considers an important debate. You were the only one left to keep me company, Worthingham.”

“It is my pleasure, sir,” Ralph said as a waiter arrived to take their order.

“Hitching is in town,” Sir Kevin said abruptly when they were alone again, “with his whole family. They came a day or two ago.”

“Yes,” Ralph said. “Lady Angela Allandale was at the theater last evening.”

“And you . . . ?” His father-in-law looked appalled.

“We were there too,” Ralph said. “There was no unpleasantness. Chloe behaved with great fortitude. So, I suppose, did the other lady. They did not come face to face.”

Sir Kevin closed his eyes briefly and exhaled audibly.

“I once informed Hitching,” he said, “that he might retire to his estates in the north of England and live out his life there with my blessing, but that if he should ever dare show his face in London again, he could expect me to rearrange the features on it. Or words to that effect. I was young and foolish enough to believe that he would
heed the warning and live forever after in fear and trembling of my wrath.”

He had to pause while the waiter set their food before them.

“That was twenty-eight years ago,” Muirhead continued, frowning down at his plate as if in disbelief that he could have ordered such a hearty feast. “If he was ever afraid of me, clearly he is afraid no longer. Though I daresay he never was. Now he is here with his wife and daughter and one of his sons.”

“It
was
all a long time ago,” Ralph said. “There may be no need of any unpleasantness, sir. We are to host a ball at Stockwood House. My secretary presented us with a list of prospective guests this morning, and Chloe insisted that Hitching and his whole family be included on it. She seems determined to prove to everyone that last year’s gossip was so much nonsense.”

His father-in-law had eaten only one mouthful of his roast beef. He set his knife and fork down across his plate with something of a clatter. He closed his eyes and rubbed two fingers up over his forehead from a point between his eyebrows. Ralph held his peace, and the silence between them stretched for what seemed a long time. There was a hum of conversation from the tables around them.

“I suppose,” Muirhead said at last, lowering his hand and looking across the table at Ralph, “she ought to know the truth. Do you think?”

“I answered that question at Manville, sir,” Ralph reminded him.

“Does
she
know, I wonder?” Muirhead said.
“Hitching’s daughter, I mean? Has he ever told her? Or his wife? It has not occurred to me until this moment that they too must have been affected by the gossip last year. Yet they have returned this year.”

Sir Kevin was still not eating. He was rubbing his temples with a thumb and middle finger as though he had a headache.

“Perhaps, sir,” Ralph said, “you would care to come for dinner this evening. Bring Graham too. I am sure Chloe would be delighted.”

Muirhead lowered his hand and looked steadily at him.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think that would be best.”

“I think it would,” Ralph agreed, and hoped he spoke the truth.

Sometimes sleeping dogs were best left lying. And sometimes not. How was one to know which choice was better in a certain situation? And, unbidden, a memory returned from last night.

You must face them, then. You must call on them,
Chloe had said, referring to Viscount Harding and his wife. And, when he had said he would not,
You are content, then, to live out the rest of your life in hell?

*   *   *

Chloe was feeling tired when she arrived home late in the afternoon. The shopping trip had gone well. Her aunt had both a good eye for color and design and a knowledge of what was fashionable and would suit her niece. Chloe had her opinions too, most of which coincided with her aunt’s. Most of the clothes she ordered for all occasions were in muted shades of her favorite greens,
browns, and creams. The gown that was to be made for the ball at Stockwood House, however, was emerald green. Grandmama would be pleased.

The afternoon had been more daunting than the morning, but without unpleasant incident. The Dowager Countess of Berwick had arrived promptly with Nora to take Chloe visiting, and they had called upon three ladies and stayed for a very correct half hour at each house. There were other visitors too, all ladies, with some of whom Chloe had a prior acquaintance from her earlier stays in London. A few of the others she had met at Manville Court on the day of the funeral. Several she had not met before. Some were more friendly than others, but all were polite. Chloe wondered if Mrs. Barrington-Hayes, who welcomed them to her home with almost obsequious deference and presented them to her other guests with open pride, remembered the time six years ago when her butler had informed Lady Muirhead and Miss Muirhead that she was not at home.

Ralph was already home when Chloe returned. He came out of the study as she was removing her gloves.

“Your mother and Nora took me to pay three afternoon calls,” she told him, “and I have arrived home all in one piece.”

“As I see.” His eyes swept over her best green outfit—the one she had worn to her wedding. “I hope you have not tired yourself out. We have guests coming for dinner.”

“Oh?” Her spirits fell.

“Your father and your brother,” he told her. “I ran into your father at White’s.”

She smiled with relief. “That will be lovely.”

“I hope so.” He inclined his head to her and turned back to the study.

There had been not a glimmering of a smile on his face or lurking in his eyes, she thought as she climbed the stairs to her room. But then she supposed having her father and Graham to dinner would be no great pleasure for him. He had invited them for
her
sake. She warmed herself with the thought.

*   *   *

Ralph did not need to make any great effort to keep the conversation going during dinner. Graham, when asked, was quite willing to recount some of his experiences in the London slums, where he did most of his work. None of the stories redounded to his glory or made the poor and the destitute sound like inferior beings, Ralph was interested to note. There was real affection in Graham’s voice when he talked of people Ralph himself would pass in the street without so much as a glance. It was a humbling realization and filled him with that old mingling of admiration and irritation.

Sir Kevin, when prompted, spoke of the time when his daughters and his son were children, and Chloe and Graham chimed in with memories of their own, sometimes conflicting ones. All of them were careful not to exclude Ralph from the conversation, however. They explained things to him that might have been puzzling and identified people he did not know. They must have been a happy family, he concluded.

Chloe described her afternoon visits when her father asked about them and amused them all with her keen observations on various ladies she had met. She was obviously enjoying herself enormously, Ralph thought,
noticing her sparkling eyes and somewhat flushed cheeks. Whatever had driven her from home a few months ago seemed to have resolved itself, and all of them appeared to be having a merry time.

Perhaps Sir Kevin was going to be content to leave it thus.

“But all the conversation has been about
us,
” Chloe said at last, looking apologetically across the table at Ralph. “How dreadfully ill-mannered we have been. We will talk of nothing but
you,
Ralph, when you join me in the drawing room with Papa and Graham. It is a promise. I shall leave you to your port now.”

Muirhead spoke up as she got to her feet.

“Chloe.” He glanced Ralph’s way and set his napkin down on the table. “I will come with you if I may.”