Only a Promise Read online

  Would she be happy with the Earl of Berwick? He had once wanted to be dead. He had even tried to kill himself. He had been taken to Cornwall to heal and recuperate, but even now he was a man who could not love, a man with cold, empty eyes. He was very different from the boy he had been. Even the duchess said so. It was as though a large part of him, all that was brightest and best, really had died. Chloe shut her eyes tightly and bent her head forward. How would she be able to live with him . . .

  There was a firm knock on the door of her bedchamber. She lifted her head sharply and looked toward the door, but it did not open.

  “Come in,” she called.

  He was wearing a long dressing robe of dark blue satin. It might have looked almost effeminate, but it somehow emphasized both his muscularity and his masculinity. Or perhaps it seemed that way merely because he was in her bedchamber and he had come to assert his marital rights.

  She ought to have prepared something to say, she thought too late. She said nothing and tried not to clutch her hands too tightly. He closed the door behind his back, and she could see his eyes take in the bed turned down on both sides for the night, the branch of candles burning on the dressing table, her bare feet, her modest nightgown, her cap. His eyes paused on that last item.

  “I hope I have not kept you waiting,” he said.

  “No.”

  There was a brief silence, and she felt her breath quicken.

  “I shall try not to hurt you,” he told her. “After tonight you should find it more comfortable.”

  It.

  “Yes.”

  His voice and manner were quite matter-of-fact, even brisk. He appeared to share none of her embarrassment.

  Now what? Too late it occurred to her that she might have had some wine brought up. She could have poured them each a glass now and begun some easy, relaxed conversation about . . . well, about something. Instead, she was as skittish as a young girl. Perhaps more so. Her age and inexperience embarrassed her.

  He came toward her and held out a hand for one of hers.

  “Come,” he said. “Pain or not, I believe you will be more comfortable afterward, will you not?”

  “Oh.” She allowed him to draw her to her feet. “Yes, I believe I will. I am so sorry. I am nervous. I do not know quite what to . . . do.”

  “It would be strange if you did,” he said, “since you have admitted to never having done this before. Lie down while I extinguish the candles.”

  He drew the covers farther back on the near side of the bed so that she could lie down, but he turned away before she actually did so. She was thankful for that. She lay down on her back and closed her eyes. Then, against her eyelids, she saw sudden darkness. She could hear him coming around the foot of the bed to the other side. There was a coolness as he drew the covers farther back, and then she felt the mattress beside her depress beneath his weight.

  Tomorrow night, she thought, and the next night and the night after that this would be a growingly familiar ritual, without embarrassment or awkwardness. Perhaps it would be something to which she would look forward. She hoped so. There had been those nameless and unladylike yearnings that had often plagued her through the last ten years or so, and she hoped it was this for which she had yearned, that it would live up to her hopes.

  It was one of those nights that was almost as bright as twilight. She could see as well as feel that he had turned onto his side and raised himself on one elbow to lean over her. His hand moved flat down her side from her waist to her hips and on down the outside of her leg until he reached even lower and grasped the hem of her nightgown and drew it upward. She had to half lift herself until it was bunched about her waist.

  He came on top of her then and she realized in some shock that he had shed his robe and was wearing nothing beneath it. His legs pressed between hers and pushed them wide, and his hands slid beneath her buttocks to lift her and tilt her. Her hands came reflexively to his shoulders, which seemed massive and hard with muscle. She was aware of the hard ridge of what must be a scar curving from the front of his right shoulder over to the back.

  And then he was pressed against her and she told herself not to hold her breath but to relax and breathe normally while he came inside her. She waited for the pain and schooled herself not to flinch. But there was only the unfamiliar feeling of being stretched and filled until, after the merest twinge of what threatened to be pain but was not, he came deeper in and she feared there would not be enough room.

  He held still in her while his hands slid free and he half raised himself on his elbows. It was only then she realized how heavy he had been on her. She kept her eyes closed and slid her hands partway down his back. The scar extended downward to the edge of his shoulder blade—on the opposite side of his body from his facial scar. That particular cut must have come close to taking off half his face and his arm with half his shoulder as it slashed down across him.

  He withdrew almost completely from her and pressed inward again before repeating the action, slowly at first, almost tentatively, as though he was being careful not to give her too much pain, and then with firmer, swifter strokes that had her squeezing her eyes more tightly closed and knowing that nothing in her yearnings had quite matched this.

  She lay still beneath him and let it happen. He was her husband and he was making her his wife. Perhaps he was also impregnating her. There was some pain, a growing soreness that she guessed would remain with her for the rest of tonight and probably into tomorrow. But it was a lovely pain. And this was lovely. She was no longer embarrassed or apprehensive.

  His weight descended full on her again after a while, and his hands slid beneath her again, and the thrusting of his body was harder and deeper until she felt him releasing his breath against the side of her face on what was almost a sigh, and he held deep and she felt a gushing of heat inside.

  It was absurd to feel that this was the happiest day of her life. It was a chill bargain into which they had entered today. What had just happened was merely a part of it. Even in her inexperience she could not convince herself that they had just made love. There had not been any love involved with anything that had taken place today. He had married a breeder for his heir, and she had got a husband and home so that she would not live out her life as a dependent spinster. That was all, according to their bargain.

  Oh, but it was the happiest day of her life nonetheless.

  After a minute or two, he lifted himself off her and moved to her side. He lowered her nightgown and pulled the bedcovers up over her. She wondered if he would return to his own room now, but he lay down and pulled the covers over himself too.

  “Thank you, Chloe,” he said.

  She turned her head his way and only just stopped herself from thanking him too.

  “I hope it was not too painful for you,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “No, it was not.”

  “I will try to see to it,” he said, “that you do not regret today.”

  “A wedding without guests or any pomp?” she said. “I rather liked our wedding.”

  “I meant our marriage,” he said. “I will try to see to it that you do not regret marrying me.”

  “I will not,” she assured him. “It is all I have ever wanted, you see—a respectable marriage and a home and a family. I will not regret our marriage.”

  She thought of the emptiness of his eyes and hoped she spoke the truth.

  “I will try to see to it that you do not regret it either,” she added.

  “I will not,” he told her. “It is over.”

  He did not explain what he meant. But it was a chilling little phrase—it is over. As though, once he had begotten an heir and perhaps another son to provide a spare, his duty would be done and there would be nothing further for which to live.

  Surely he had not meant that.

  She wished the duchess had not to
ld her that he had once been suicidal. It had been many years ago, after all, and his injuries had probably been such that the pain had come near to driving him out of his mind. But three years to heal? And an empty soul afterward?

  Head cases, that is.

  She waited for him to say more or to decide after all to return to his own room. But she became aware after a while of the evenness of his breathing and realized that he had fallen asleep.

  It is over. Perhaps all he had meant was that now he was married he would no longer have his relatives and his own sense of responsibility constantly pestering him to do his duty and choose a bride. No doubt that was all he had meant.

  Or perhaps he had merely meant that today was over.

  Had she just imagined that his voice as he spoke the words had been utterly bleak?

  Chloe closed her eyes and concentrated upon the soreness—the lovely soreness—he had left behind inside her.

  She was married. In every way.

  She hugged happiness to herself as she fell asleep.

  * * *

  Ralph was staring up at the canopy over the bed. He guessed he had slept for an hour or two. He rarely slept longer at a stretch and often had a hard time going back to sleep after he woke. He was wide awake now and feeling a bit claustrophobic. Although this was not a small bedchamber, it was considerably smaller than his own. And the canopy seemed lower and the bedposts heftier.

  It was not those facts that made him feel closed in, though, he knew. It was the fact that he was sharing the room, sharing the bed. He was not touching her, but he could feel her body heat along his right side, and he could hear her soft breathing.

  He fought the desire to get up and return to his own room. He had decided that for a while, until she was pregnant, he would spend the nights in her bed so that he could have her more than once. His reason for marrying, after all, had been the need to produce heirs, and he meant to do the job diligently. He would not take her again tonight, however, not even once, not even in the morning before getting up. She must be sore, even though she had said it had not been painful. He could only imagine what losing one’s virginity must feel like for a woman.

  He could have allowed himself one more night in his own bed and the privacy of his own room, then, but he had decided to stay here, to start his marriage as he meant to continue with it. He hoped she did not mind. He had not consulted her. But she had known and accepted his reason for marrying her—his only reason.

  He had been a little disconcerted by her appearance when he came to her room. Not so much the nightgown. It was pretty even if rather excessively modest. But the cap . . . Again, it was pretty. But he had been imagining to himself what her hair was going to look like. He had wondered if it would be braided or left loose. He had certainly not expected that it would be all but invisible.

  Perhaps it was just as well. He must, and did, feel some sort of sexual attraction to her, but he did not want there to be more than that. And he suspected very strongly that she did not either. She had lain passive and quiescent beneath him. It was a bit chilling to know that the pattern of his sex life had been set tonight.

  She murmured something unintelligible and rolled onto her side, facing him. He turned his head to look at her, but she was not awake. Her forehead almost touched his shoulder. The frill of her cap, he could see in the near darkness, framed her cheek and forehead and gave her a look of innocence.

  He was surprised by a stirring of desire. He would not act upon it, however. He had the feeling she would not resist him, but it would be callous . . .

  He turned away from her, closed his eyes, and willed himself to go back to sleep. He almost succeeded. He was actually drifting off when a brisk knock on the bedchamber door brought him back to full consciousness with a start.

  “My lord.” The door had opened a crack. It was his valet’s voice, low but urgent. “You are to come.”

  Chloe sat bolt upright. Ralph swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his robe.

  “His Grace?” he asked.

  “He has taken a nasty turn, my lord,” his valet confirmed. “Her Grace says you are to come.”

  Chloe was on her feet too. Ralph strode around the foot of the bed, belting his robe as he went.

  “Stay here,” he told her. “You might as well go back to sleep.”

  “What foolishness,” she said as he hurried from the room and along the corridor to his grandfather’s room, which was bright with candlelight.

  He took in the scene at a glance. His grandfather was lying on the bed, his head and shoulders propped up by a bank of pillows. Even in the flickering light of the candles it was obvious that his complexion was a livid gray. His eyes were closed, his fingers clenched on the sheet that covered him. His valet was bent over him, one hand to his brow. The duchess, very upright beside the bed, clutched the edges of a heavy dressing gown to herself.

  “Dr. Gregg has been sent for?” Ralph asked, striding into the room.

  It spoke volumes that his grandfather did not even open his eyes to protest.

  “He has, my lord,” the valet said. “Weller has gone to wake Robert. He is the swiftest and most reliable of the footmen.”

  The duke opened his eyes and looked around at the group.

  “How are you, sir?” Ralph asked foolishly.

  His grandfather’s eyes found him, and for a moment there seemed to be a glimmer of humor in them—and of affection.

  “Dying, my boy,” he said. “A foot and a half through the door at last. And not before time. I have long outlived my allotted three score years and ten.”

  Ralph would have moved around the bed to his grandmother’s side, but Chloe was already there, he saw when he looked up. She had an arm about the duchess’s shoulders.

  The valet was dabbing a wet cloth to the duke’s face. The housekeeper had appeared at the door, where she stood beside Weller. Ralph’s own valet hovered just outside the door with a cluster of other servants.

  The duke had closed his eyes again. Her Grace had taken his hand in both of hers and raised it to her cheek. Chloe stood with her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes upon the duke’s face.

  “The physician needs to hurry,” the duke’s valet said, straightening up and looking imploringly at Ralph, anguish in his eyes.

  “He will come as fast as he can.” Ralph moved up beside him and squeezed his shoulder, and the man stepped away to wash off the cloth in the basin and squeeze it out until it must have been nearly dry.

  Ralph touched his grandfather’s shoulder and gazed down into his face.

  Don’t die, he begged silently. Don’t die. Please don’t die.

  But everything died just as surely as love did.

  The old, dying eyes opened again and found the duchess.

  “Emmy,” he said.

  “Ned. My dearest.”

  Ralph looked away. His eyes met Chloe’s across the bed and she half smiled at him. Strangely, it did not seem an inappropriate expression, only an apparent acknowledgement that she knew his mind was repeating the same words over and over—Don’t die. Please don’t die.

  He heard himself swallow, and then, only a moment or two later, it seemed, he heard his grandmother’s voice again, very quiet, very calm.

  “He is gone.”

  And he was indeed. He was lying as before, his eyes closed, his gray face peaceful. But something had changed. Everything had changed. There was no one there.

  He was gone.

  8

  The duchess and Ralph, on either side of the bed, were gazing numbly down upon the duke’s dead body. Chloe glanced from one to the other of them, wondering which she should try to comfort first. But of course there was no comfort. She remembered that very well indeed from the night her mother died.

  A hushed voice close to her ear broke the silence.

  �
��What ought I to do, Your Grace?” It was the housekeeper. “What ought we all to do? We can hardly just go back to bed.”

  Chloe turned to beg the woman not to disturb the duchess at such a moment, only to realize in some shock that Mrs. Loftus was addressing her. She was the Duchess of Worthingham. Ralph was the duke. It was a nasty shock that made her feel as though she was about to buckle at the knees.

  Mrs. Loftus and Mr. Weller normally kept Manville Court running with smooth precision and absolute authority. But both were rather elderly. They had probably occupied their positions for many years and had grown deeply attached to their employers. They ought, of course, to be prepared for this moment, since the old duke had been in precarious health for some time, but clearly they were not. Both were looking lost and helpless and had turned to Chloe for guidance.

  She was, after all, now the mistress of Manville Court—shocking, ghastly thought. But someone had to take charge. She stepped out into the corridor beyond the bedchamber door with Mr. Weller and Mrs. Loftus and spoke with lowered voice to the servants gathered there—and there was a fair crowd of them. Chloe doubted anyone was still in bed.

  “It will be best if Mr. Weller remains up here,” she said. “His services will almost certainly be required. Perhaps you will choose one of the footmen to remain with you, Mr. Weller. You will wish to stay too, of course, Mr. Bentley.” She looked with sympathy at the haggard face of the duke’s elderly valet, who was hovering in the doorway. “You will definitely be needed. None more so.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he murmured.

  Chloe led everyone else down to the kitchen. There she found a couple of kitchen maids and one young boy clustered forlornly about the cook. All of them curtsied to her and fell silent, looking to her for direction. They must all know far better than she what needed doing, of course, but for the moment they were collectively stunned and helpless.

  Only a matter of hours ago, they had all been lined up in the back hall, beaming with pleasure at the sight of a new bride and groom . . .

  Chloe instructed the cook to get the fire going in the big range and sent a maid to fill the large kettle and the boy to work the pump for her. She suggested an early breakfast for all the servants who were not otherwise employed, as the day ahead was likely to be a busy one and different from the usual routine, and none of them could be certain when they would next be at leisure to partake of a good meal. She directed that a tea tray be prepared and the kettle kept at the boil so that tea or coffee could be made at a moment’s notice. She suggested that a batch of scones be baked as soon as possible and that one of the footmen should check the liquor decanters in the drawing room to make sure they had been filled last night. She assigned another footman to make sure the coal scuttle in the drawing room was full and sent a maid up with him to light the fire and start warming the room. Mrs. Loftus would supervise everything else that needed doing, Chloe told them all, since Mr. Weller was otherwise occupied, at least for now.