Only a Promise (6 page)

It was
not
vanity that made him believe it would have been that easy. He had an earl’s title and fortune, after all. More than that, though, he was heir to a dukedom, and the incumbent was an old man well into his eighties. Ducal properties, all of them extensive and prosperous, were spread across large swaths of England.

Most of his dancing partners had been pretty. All had been young and graceful, with polished, pleasing manners. A few had been vivacious. One or two had appeared intelligent and had had some conversation—as far as one could judge in the distracting setting of a ballroom. All were eminently eligible. Only one had looked noticeably repelled by his facial scar.

As soon as the final set drew to a close, he had gone home to bed. How had his fellow Survivors done it—Hugo and Vincent first, and then Ben and Flavian? How had they been able to give up everything to take on a lifetime commitment that might well bring them nothing but misery, and, equally important if not more so, that might bring misery to their wives? How could they
know
? Or did they not? Did they merely hope for happiness and gamble the rest of their lives on a risky possibility?

None of them, as far as Ralph knew, had been forced into marrying out of any sense of duty. Well, Vincent had,
perhaps. But none of them had stood in a ballroom, knowing that within its walls he must find his lifetime partner.

There had not been much of the night remaining after he returned home from the ball. He had spent it staring upward at the intricately ruched satin canopy over his bed thinking, not about any of the very real candidates for his hand that he had met in the course of the evening, but about the very ineligible Miss Muirhead.

Ineligible by her own admission. She was not technically illegitimate, of course, even if the rumors were true, since Sir Kevin Muirhead must have acknowledged her as his own at her birth, but she had the misfortune to have the distinctive coloring shared by Hitching and his legitimate daughter, which fact made it difficult
not
to believe what the gossips had said last year. And there was the other baggage she carried about too. Her sister, at the age of seventeen, had eloped with Freddie Nelson while his wife still lived, and then Graham Muirhead had got himself embroiled in a farce of a duel. Her father, instead of disowning his wayward daughter, had taken her back and then presumably paid the newly widowed Nelson a fortune to marry her before her child was born. Miss Muirhead meanwhile had been publicly humiliated and jilted and equally publicly denied admittance to Almack’s.

To call her ineligible was to understate the case. Ralph’s duty was to marry. And since he expected no personal satisfaction from marriage and therefore did not much care
whom
he married, it behooved him to please his grandparents and his mother by choosing a young lady who was both eligible and accomplished, someone who
would adjust smoothly to her future role, someone over whose name not a whisper of scandal breathed.

He had met at least half a dozen perfect candidates at the ball. Yet he had lain awake thinking of Miss Muirhead and her absurd, impertinent suggestion that they agree to . . . What had she called it? A bargain.

Some bargain.

He had called on his mother the following day. Obviously she
had
spoken to Lady Livermere, though she had not been at the ball herself. She had heard of his triumph, of the buzz of interest and excitement he had caused, of the partners with whom he had danced. She had drawn up a select list of young ladies with whom it would be unexceptionable for him to strike up an acquaintance, soon to become a courtship. There was a neat dozen. He had danced last evening with four of them. She would invite four more, with their mamas, to tea one afternoon soon, along with some other ladies so that her purpose would not be vulgarly obvious, and Ralph would happen to call in upon her on that particular afternoon. The remaining four . . .

Ralph had stopped listening.

Four days after leaving Manville Court, he had found himself on his way back there to seek out Miss Muirhead. Suddenly her so-called bargain had looked like the best of his options. At least neither of them would be hurt by it. How could one suffer disappointment when there were no expectations? She wanted a husband and a home and family, a perfectly understandable ambition for any woman. He needed a wife and family. Neither of them expected or even wanted love or romance or any of those finer sensibilities some people of a romantic
disposition deemed necessary for a good marriage. He had nothing whatsoever to offer along those lines, and she did not want anything. She was done with love.

He carefully kept his mind away from what George had had to say on the topic.

She was ineligible, yes. But unfairly so. In all the admittedly unsavory events in which she had been involved during the past six years, she appeared to have been quite blameless. And, he had recalled as a final point in her favor, she wanted to live a quiet life in the country. She wanted nothing more to do with London and its myriad entertainments. Neither did he.

However it was, no matter how much he was rationalizing instead of using plain common sense, he had come. He had sought her out, and he had told her quite baldly
why
he had come.

I came back here to offer you marriage, Miss Muirhead.

But he had said it only after she had had her own say on the subject.

I have had time to reflect upon what I suggested, and I have changed my mind. It was nothing but foolish impulse. I have forgotten it.

He liked her the better for her spirited words, for thumbing her nose at him to all intents and purposes. He liked her better for the fact that her chin had jutted upward and an almost martial gleam had lit her eyes.

“Why?” she asked him now.

It sounded like a challenge.

C
hloe’s hands were still clasped behind her back. Tightly. For some reason the third finger of each hand was crossed over the forefinger.

“I have to marry,” he said in answer to her question. “Given that fact, I would rather it be to someone who neither expects nor craves what I cannot give. I
can
give my name with all it entails at the present and promises for the future, and I can offer security and respectability and protection. I can give a home and children. Indeed, the latter is what I will work most diligently to give. But you know all this. I can offer all the material benefits of my wealth and position. I will allow you freedom within the bounds of respectability. I will
not,
however, give love or romance or even a feigned affection I do not feel, though I
will
show unwavering respect and courtesy. You informed me a few mornings ago that you wish to be married, to have a secure home of your own, to have children of your own. You informed me that you have no wish for any emotional bond within marriage. Is this correct, Miss Muirhead?”

His eyes and his voice were quite devoid of emotion.
Yet he was speaking of marriage—his own and hers. He could not have made it sound more impersonal if he had tried. But of course she was the one who had started it all. She had overheard what he said to his grandmother, and, remembering his words during the night that followed, she had seen the faint chance of improving her situation.

Improving?

I will
not
, however, give love or romance or even a feigned affection I do not feel.

What had happened to him? He had not been like this when he was a boy at school. Graham had always described him as a vibrant, charismatic figure, as a passionate leader everyone wanted to follow.

“Yes,” she said, matching the tone of her voice to his, “it is correct.”

“Then I offer you marriage,” he said.

Just like that. With a simple
yes
she could be a wife and mother. She could have a home of her own, the security and respectability of being a married lady. Never again, even if he predeceased her, would she feel essentially homeless and rootless and without identity. She would be Chloe Stockwood, Countess of Berwick. She would discover what it felt like to be with a man. For years she had wondered and ached with the secret and very unladylike longing to find out.

Then I offer you marriage.

She closed her eyes and wondered if being married under such bleak circumstances would actually be worse than remaining as she was. But how
could
it? Nothing could be worse . . .

I will allow you freedom within the bounds of respectability.

Did that mean what she thought it meant? And did it presuppose that he would take a similar freedom for himself? Would she be able to bear it?

She thought briefly of the dreams of romance and love and marriage with which she had embarked upon her come-out Season at the advanced age of twenty-one. And of the ghastly awakening that had killed those dreams. Reality was preferable. With this marriage she would at least know ahead of time just what to expect—and what not to expect. There would be no surprises and therefore no emotional ups and downs. There were always far more downs than ups when one allowed oneself to be caught up in emotion.

“A home?” she said, opening her eyes to look at him again. “In the country?”

“Elmwood Manor in Wiltshire is mine,” he said. “It is a sizable manor surrounded by a pleasingly landscaped park. I have not spent a great deal of time there since my boyhood, but I intend to change that—after my marriage.”

“You would live there in the spring?” she asked. “As well as in the summer and winter?”

“Neither London itself nor the spring Season holds any great appeal for me,” he told her. “I would be happy to avoid both. Once I am married I will be able to do just that. I wish for a wife for my home and a mother for my children, not for a hostess for my social life. I would never compel you to go where you had no wish to go.”

She almost asked him to promise. But a gentleman’s word was promise enough.

“Very well, then.” She gazed steadily at him while her fourth and little fingers crossed behind her back too. “I accept.”

He did not smile or toss his hat exuberantly skyward. Indeed, he looked almost menacing, with his hat’s brim shading his eyes and the scar slashing diagonally across his face. And he looked very large, perhaps because he was standing slightly higher on the slope of the lawn than she. Had she really just agreed
to marry
this morose stranger?

“I have brought a special license with me,” he said.

If he had closed one hand into a fist and driven it into her stomach she could not have felt more robbed of breath. She could not possibly be ready . . .

But what was there to wait or prepare for?

“My father?” she said. “Your mother?”

Oh, and a million other persons and considerations. A wedding outfit. Bride clothes. A church and invitations. A wedding breakfast. Betrothal notices. Time to
think
. None of which was essential. This was to be a marriage of necessity for him, a marriage of great convenience to her. It was not a match to be celebrated with family and friends and feasting and dancing. It was not an occasion a bride might be expected to look back upon for the next half century as the happiest day of her life. Their nuptials would be a mere formality, the sealing of a business arrangement to which they had mutually agreed.

“You are of age,” he said. “I assume you do not need your father’s consent. My mother may learn of our marriage after it has been solemnized. She would want a hand in the proceedings if she knew in advance. I would prefer to marry you without fuss or further ado.”

“Before you can change your mind?” she asked.

“I will not change my mind,” he assured her. “Why should I? If it is not you, Miss Muirhead, it will have to
be someone else. At least I can be sure of not hurting you.”

Yes. He could be sure of that. Illogically, she felt hurt.

His eyes were very steady on hers and saw perhaps deeper than she had intended.

“I will
not
hurt you, Miss Muirhead,” he said. “It is a promise. After we are married, I will treat you with all the deference and respect due my wife and my countess. I have already drawn up a written agreement, which I will present to your father for discussion after our nuptials. It will give you all the future security you could possibly ask for, even in the perfectly likely event that I should predecease you. You suggested our bargain to me and I have accepted it on your own terms since they so nearly match my own. You are certain this
is
what you want?”

She uncrossed her fingers and moved her hands to the front in order to smooth out the skirt of her dress. For the first time she realized she was without either bonnet or gloves—just as she had been a few mornings ago.

She would have a husband, a quiet, secluded home in the country, children, security. Whatever else could she possibly ask for, when just a few days ago, even an hour ago, she had been looking forward to a bleak life of dreary dependence? And it had indeed been she who had suggested their very bloodless bargain.

“I am quite certain,” she said, looking up into his eyes.

“Good.” He nodded briskly. “Now we have only the hurdle of informing my grandparents to clear before I go to make arrangements with the vicar. For . . . tomorrow, I hope.”

Tomorrow?

She felt that somersaulting in her stomach again.

“They will not like it,” she said. “They will hate it. And they will despise me and see me as nothing but a fortune hunter. Perhaps they will even be right.”

His riding crop had been tapping against his boot again until it stopped abruptly and he looked around.

“Walk with me, Miss Muirhead,” he said, and he turned to stride across the grass in the direction of the falls and the steep stepping-stones beside them that she had descended earlier. He did not look back to see if she was following him, and that inherent arrogance, that assumption that he would lead and others follow, was more as she had expected him to be when she first met him.

She went after him and fell into step beside him. He made no attempt to offer his arm or engage her in any sort of conversation.

Climbing the steep path was very much more strenuous than going down. She had never done it in this direction before. She ignored the hand the Earl of Berwick offered to help her up the steeper, more perilous parts, pretending not to notice it. He did not press the point but went on ahead of her until they were up the steepest part and had only the rapids to pass before coming to level land. He had stopped walking to look back down, and Chloe stood beside him, the sound of rushing water half deafening her again.

“This was my favorite spot in the park when I was a boy,” he said, his voice raised. “I was strictly forbidden to come here alone, so of course I came all the time.”

She almost laughed. “It
is
dangerous for a child,” she said.

“Of course,” he agreed. “And for adults too. But children are far more surefooted than adults give them credit for, and the world was made for them to explore and challenge.”

“And for them to harm themselves in? Perhaps kill themselves in?” she said.

“Accidents happen.” He shrugged.

She looked at him. His eyes were squinting as he looked at something out in the fast-flowing river. His good profile was to her, and it struck her how very handsome he was. And it was not just his face and his dark hair. He had the perfect physique for his height and wore his riding clothes with casual elegance despite the dust that dulled the sheen of his boots. He looked restless, she thought, as though there were some power, some energy within just awaiting the opportunity to break free. It struck her that she scarcely knew him. And even that was an overstatement. She did not know him at all. Yet this time tomorrow it was altogether possible she would be married to him.

He turned abruptly toward her and held out his riding crop.

“Take this,” he said imperiously. And when she took it, looking at him in some surprise, he pulled off his riding gloves and thrust them at her too. “Take these.”

And he stepped out into the river, his right foot on a submerged stone while his left foot reached ahead to another.

The riverbed was sloping here. The water was flowing fast over a rocky bed. The falls began only a few yards away. If he missed his footing . . .

Chloe bit her lower lip and refrained from calling out
a warning to him to be careful. Or from demanding to know what on earth he thought he was doing.

He stopped halfway across and bent over a group of stones that poked above the surface of the river. She could not see what he was doing, though his hand went once to the pocket of his coat. After that he turned and picked his way back toward the bank.

“Whatever were you
thinking
?” she cried when he was safe beside her again. She had no choice but to speak loudly in order to be heard over the din of the falls. “You could have
killed
yourself.”

He looked at her with blank eyes, though she had the disturbing sensation that there was something hovering in their depths, something almost . . . mischievous? He took his crop and gloves back with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other. He came out with a single stone—a flat, thin, smooth, almost round pebble.

“Perhaps,” he said, holding it out to her, “the next time you are at the lake you can make this one bounce
six
times.”

She took the perfect stone and stared at him.

“You risked your life,” she asked him, “for a stone I may well pitch into the water without achieving even a single bounce?”

“Or,” he said, “for a stone that may bounce
seven
times.”

What . . . ? She closed her fingers about the pebble and knew in a flash that she would never throw it anywhere, certainly not into the depths of any lake. She knew she would keep it. One day perhaps she would show her grandchildren what their grandfather had given her on the day he asked her to marry him. Not
diamonds or gold, but . . . a stone. And she would tell them that he had risked his life quite, quite idiotically in order to obtain it.

Her own little touch of romance lay safely clasped in her hand.

“If we ever bring children to Manville,” she said, “I shall tie one end of a ribbon about their wrists and the other about my own whenever they step outdoors and not let them out of my sight for a single moment.”

His expression was totally blank.

“A simple thank-you would have sufficed, Miss Muirhead,” he said, and with a certain sense of shock she realized that he was actually enjoying himself.

And that perhaps she was too.

He turned abruptly and resumed the climb toward level ground. The sound of rushing water receded behind them, and Chloe could hear her labored breathing as the water became calm and dark green again. Through the treetops she could see blue sky and sunshine. They would be back at the bridge soon and turning in the direction of the house.

She stopped walking.

“What are you going to say?” she asked. “Both the duke and the duchess must surely know by now that you have come back but are nowhere in the house.”

“I shall say that I have been walking in the park with you,” he said, turning toward her, “and that I have been proposing marriage to you. I shall tell them you have accepted. I have always found that the truth is the wisest thing to speak when there is no reason on earth
not
to tell it.”

She drew a slow, ragged breath.

“I have agreed, Miss Muirhead,” he explained to her, “that it is my duty to marry. I have allowed my grandparents, or at least my grandmother, to urge matrimony upon me because it is no less than I must urge upon myself. I will not, however, allow anyone else except the lady to whom I have proposed marriage to influence my choice of bride. I have chosen you for the reasons of which you are aware. If the members of my family do not like that choice, that is their concern, not mine.”