Only a Promise (24 page)

“At least all the eyes of the
ton
would not be upon you there,” he said. “The inevitable meeting would come at a time and place of your own choosing. You would have some control over it.”

“But it would be utter madness.” Her eyes were wide and fixed upon his. “To walk up to the door of his
home,
Ralph? To ask for him by name? To come face to face with him? To speak to him? To speak the truth openly? It would be madness.”

“I would come with you,” he said.

She was shaking her head from side to side.

“No,” she said. “I will face them all in public. I will be civil, as I daresay they will be too. They will be as anxious as I not to initiate any closer contact than that. But go deliberately to call upon him? No, Ralph. Do not ask it of me.”

“I do not,” he assured her. “I merely made the suggestion. Did you not tell me of a sermon Graham once gave about confronting your worst fear, walking into it and through it, and thus conquering it? Or something to that effect?”

“But
you
will not do it,” she said.

He froze.

“You will not go to call upon Viscount and Lady Harding,” she said.

“That is altogether different,” he told her.

“Is it?” She was gripping the edges of her chair arms. “How?”

“Forget that I made the suggestion.” He wished to God he had not. “It probably
was
madness. And Graham was right and you were right, nothing really has changed. And there is no reason why you on the one hand and the Marquess of Hitching and his family on the other cannot coexist with civility during the times when you are in the same place at the same time. The
ton
will tire of speculating. Forget that I spoke.”

Her fingers were playing the edges of her chair arms like a pianoforte. Her face was still pale. She was gazing fixedly at the carpet between them. After a minute or two of silence, during which he tried to think of something to say that would distract her and relieve the tension, she looked up at him.

“You will come with me?” she asked.

Not
would
come, but
will
come.

“Yes.” He nodded.

Ah, Chloe.

She said no more for a while but returned her gaze to the floor. Then abruptly she got to her feet and came hurrying toward him. He got up quickly from his chair and opened his arms just before she collided with him and wrapped her arms about his waist and burrowed her head into the hollow between his neck and his shoulder. His arms closed about her and held her tight.

“How many sons are there?” she asked after a while, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

It took him a moment to understand what she was talking about. Hitching’s sons. Her half brothers.

“Two or three. I am not quite sure,” he told her. The eldest is Gilly—Viscount Gilly. He is my age, I believe, or perhaps a little younger.”

“And just the one daughter?” she asked.

“I believe so.”

He really did not know the family. Until last year they had never been in town when he was there, and last year he had avoided them. Or at least he had avoided Lady Angela Allandale for fear someone would try a bit of matchmaking.

She pressed even more tightly against him.

“I have you close,” he told her.

“Have you?” He heard her inhale slowly and release the breath again on a sigh. “You cannot know how I longed to have someone to hold me close last year and again at Christmastime. Forgive me for clinging. I thought I could be brave.”

“Pardon me,” he said, raising one hand to cup the back of her head and turning his own to murmur the words into her ear, “but I think you
are
being brave. Do you or do you not intend to call upon the Marquess of Hitching in his own home?”

“I do.” She laughed softly, though he did not believe she was amused.

You cannot know how I have longed to have someone to hold me close . . .

A wave of the familiar yearning swept over him as he held her through a lengthy silence.

She drew back her head to look into his face.

“You must not fear,” she said, “that I will make a habit of leaning heavily upon you. I beg your pardon for doing so now. It is silly really. I
knew,
after all. And the Marquess of Hitching is just a man. After tomorrow I can cheerfully meet him anywhere and nod courteously in his direction when we cannot avoid being in the same place. I will not burden you, Ralph. I promised I would not, and I will keep my promise.”

She smiled at him.

He should have been relieved. He wanted no emotional involvement after all. Except that . . . Well, it was already too late.

“You misconstrued my silence,” he told her. “I am your husband. When you feel lonely or afraid or unhappy, it is to me you must come, Chloe. My arms are here for you, and my strength too for whatever it is worth. You will never be a burden to me.”

Her teeth were biting down on her bottom lip. And then her eyes warmed with a smile and what looked to be genuine amusement.

“I will remind you of that,” she said, “the next time we quarrel.”

“Will we?” he said. “And will you?”

“Yes and yes,” she told him.

He took her face between his hands and wondered when the walls about his heart had been breached. For they
had
been.

He kissed her.

I
t
was
a mad idea. Chloe had thought so last night when Ralph suggested it, and she thought so now as Mavis put the finishing touches to her hair and then fitted one of her new bonnets carefully over it so as not to disorder the curls she had created.

Actually, it felt even madder this morning. Her stomach was churning and she was not sorry she had been unable to eat much breakfast.

She had had to send a note off to Lucy to postpone the proposed walk in the park until tomorrow. She hated having to do that. She had not seen her niece and nephew, Lucy’s children, since Christmas.

Had the Marquess of Hitching known of her existence before last year? The question had plagued Chloe half the night, as well as all the questions associated with it. He must have heard the rumors last year, of course. Did he believe them?
Would
he believe them when she called on him if he did not already? But he must have known of the possibility twenty-eight years ago when Papa warned him to leave London and never return. Did
the marchioness know? Did Lady Angela? And her brothers? But how could they not?

“The duke is taking you somewhere this morning, is he, Your Grace?” Mavis asked. “Somewhere nice?”

“Visiting friends.” Chloe smiled at her in the mirror and wished desperately that she could switch places with Mavis. How tranquil and uncomplicated a maid’s life must be. Which was an absurdly foolish thought, of course. No one’s life was all unrelieved tranquility and ease.

How on earth was she going to be able to knock on the Marquess of Hitching’s door and announce that she had come to see him? She must tell Ralph before it was too late that she simply could not do it.

But it was precisely what she
was
doing half an hour later—or rather what Ralph was doing for her. Chloe had to use all her willpower not to take a step back and duck sideways so that she would be half hidden behind him when the great oak door opened. She thought yearningly of the carriage mere feet behind her.

“Inform the Marquess of Hitching that I would have a word with him if he is at home,” Ralph told the servant who opened the door.

The man looked from one to the other of them, glanced beyond them to the carriage with its ducal crest, briefly consulted the card Ralph had handed him, and stepped aside to admit them, bowing respectfully as he did so. He directed them to a salon that led off the hall and informed them that he would see if his lordship was at home.

“What if he is not?” Chloe said hopefully as the door closed quietly and she was left alone with Ralph. “What if—”

“He obviously
is
at home,” Ralph told her, “or his footman would not have gone looking to see if he is.”

Ah, the logic of polite society.

It was a visitors’ salon into which they had been shown, Chloe could see, a magnificent apartment with a high, coved ceiling painted with a scene from mythology, gilded friezes, and wine-colored brocaded walls hung with dark landscapes in heavy, ornate frames. Gilded, intricately carved chairs were arranged about the perimeter of the room. There was a wine-colored carpet underfoot and heavy curtains of a slightly lighter shade half drawn across the single window.

It was a room meant to reduce the visitor to size, to intimidate him. Or her. It was certainly having its effect upon Chloe, who came to a stop not far inside the door, her hands clasped tightly over the top of her reticule. Ralph had strolled over to the window and stood looking out.

Neither of them spoke again.

There was a nasty buzzing in Chloe’s ears. Her hands felt damp, even inside her gloves.

Perhaps they should assume the marquess was not at home and leave without further delay. She opened her mouth to suggest it, but she was too late. The door of the salon opened and a man stepped inside. An invisible someone closed the door silently behind him.

He was an older man of medium height and solid build. He was quietly, tastefully dressed. He had a pleasant, though not outstandingly handsome face and thinning hair that was turning to gray, though it must have been red in his youth. If Chloe had expected a towering, sneering monster on the one hand or a handsome,
austere, thin-lipped aristocrat on the other, she was proved wrong on both counts. Not that she had tried to picture what he would look like. How did one picture in one’s mind the father one had never seen or even known about with any certainty until yesterday?

He ignored Ralph, who had turned from the window though he did not move away from it. He—presumably the marquis—stood looking at
her
, his lips pursed, a slight frown between his brows, his arms clasped behind his back. If he planned to feign ignorance, he was not making a good start.

It did not occur to Chloe to break the silence.

“Despite all that I have heard about you,” he said at last, “I expected that you would bear some resemblance to your mother. You do not. Not at first glance, anyway.”

“I wish I did,” she said. “Then I might have gone through life without ever learning the truth.”

“You did not know it?” He looked surprised. “You were not told?”

“Not until last evening,” she said.

“Last evening?” His eyebrows rose higher.

“My
papa
told me,” she said, laying slight emphasis on the one word.

“Yet last year’s gossip sent you scurrying home,” he said.

“The gossip was my first inkling,” she told him, “though I refused to believe it, and Papa denied it.”

He nodded his head slowly.

“I was sorry,” he said, “to hear last year of your mother’s passing—
Chloe,
is it not?”

“That happened more than three years ago,” she told him.

“For years I did not leave the north of England,” he said, shrugging apologetically. “I did not hear. I am sorry. I hope she did not suffer unduly.”

Chloe felt suddenly light-headed. Could this man, this polite stranger, possibly be her
father
? She could feel no connection to him.

“Your papa,” he continued when she said nothing, “made it very clear to me when he married your mother that he would consider it a personal insult if I should ever try to offer any . . . assistance or support for your upbringing or if I should ever try to see you or her. I respected his wishes.”

He
had
known, then. But he had never tried to see her—because he had respected Papa’s wishes. Or perhaps because he did not care. He had not even known until last year that Mama was dead. Or, presumably, that she was still alive. Had he even known that she herself was a girl, not a boy?

“You have recently made a brilliant match,” he said, glancing briefly and for the first time at Ralph. “I am happy for you.”

Chloe’s chin came up. By what right was he
happy
for her?

“I did not come for your congratulations,” she said. “Or for your approval.”

“No,” he said with a faint smile. “I do not suppose you did.”

Dizziness threatened again. Without this man, she thought, she would not even have life. He was her
father
.

“I came,” she said, “because we move in the same social circles and will almost certainly find ourselves at many of the same functions. Your . . . daughter was at the
theater two evenings ago when we were there too, though we did not come face to face. I imagine she was as aware of my presence as I was of hers. It would be just too absurd if we were all going out of our way to avoid one another for the rest of the Season and pretending that there was nothing between us when we failed. There
is
something. I am your daughter.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm as she put the relationship into words, and she did not believe she imagined the way he flinched slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “You are. You came to confront me in private, then, so that in public we may acknowledge each other with apparent ease and unconcern for what everyone knows to be the truth? It may very well prove to have been a wise course of action. You are far more courageous than I, Chloe. I would feel proud of you if I had a right to such a feeling.”

She raised her chin again.

He opened his mouth to continue but hesitated before doing so.

“Allow me to say this, if you will,” he said. “Your mother was
not
a woman of loose morals, Chloe. I had assured her of my enduring affections and of my firm intention to marry her. I even believed at the time that I
would
defy all the factors that dictated I do otherwise. Perhaps I would even have done so if I had known in time that she was . . . Well, if I had known that there would be you. Though perhaps not. None of us is ever as free to follow inclination as we would like to believe ourselves to be. Please be assured, though, that any and all blame for what happened between your mother and me
was entirely mine. I would not have your newly acquired knowledge sully your memories of her.”

She clenched her teeth hard as she stared at him. How dare he tell her how to remember her mother. She turned her head to look at Ralph.

“I have said what I came to say,” she said. “We may leave now. I daresay I will be seeing you again . . . sir. And you may expect an invitation to attend the ball we will be hosting within the next few weeks.”

Ralph looked gravely back at her with eyes that were no longer empty, she half realized. He had made no attempt to say anything and still did not, but his very presence was full of reassurance.

When you feel lonely or afraid or unhappy, it is to me you must come, Chloe. My arms are here for you, and my strength too for whatever it is worth. You will never be a burden to me.

“My wife and daughter are upstairs in the morning room,” the Marquess of Hitching said. “I was with them when Worthingham’s card was brought up and my footman informed me that the duchess had come with him. I have not been the most popular of husbands or fathers since last year, I must confess. I doubt my wife and daughter would have returned this year if they had not felt confident that after your hasty retreat last year you would certainly not be back. Word of your marriage did not reach us until after we arrived here and my daughter saw you in Stanbrook’s box. She was severely shaken. You are quite correct, though, Chloe. If we are all to remain in town without any of us fleeing and stirring up a renewed storm of gossip, it will be as well if we can all
come to a point at which we are able to meet with some . . . civility at least. Will you and Worthingham come up to the morning room with me?”

Chloe gazed at him in dismay. How could she possibly . . . ? But seeing and speaking with the marquess—her father—alone like this was dealing with only half the task she had set herself. She had hoped that perhaps
he
would undertake the other half and explain to his family.

She looked at Ralph again, but though he was frowning, he did not intervene. He was there to support her, his silence seemed to say, but not to act for her. And then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled.

You can do it.

Though how could she possibly know what that smile meant?

“Very well,” she said, looking back at the marquess.

He offered her his arm, but she did not take it or move closer to him. Instead she turned to Ralph, and he came toward her with firm steps and drew her arm through his. His free hand came up to cover hers and pat it a couple of times.

The marquess led the way up a broad staircase.

*   *   *

Ralph had mentally castigated himself all night. His suggestion had been an impulsive one. It might also have been a disastrous one. He had had no idea how Hitching would react to having his by-blow turn up at his door while the rest of his family was in residence there. And he had had no idea how Chloe would stand up to the ordeal. He had half expected, half hoped that she would change her mind when morning came. But she had not done so.

She had acquitted herself magnificently. He had been poised to intervene from the moment Hitching set foot inside the salon but had not needed to do so. He had watched her with admiration and pride—and an uneasy feeling that she was far more courageous than he would ever be. She had run in the past, it was true, most notably last year when she had first got wind of the possibility that Muirhead was not her real father. And she would have avoided coming back to London if she could this year. But she
had
come. And now she had come here.

Ralph had not thought beyond the meeting with Hitching, however. He had assumed that the marquess would himself undertake to speak with his wife and daughter and sons. Yet here they were, on their way to meet the women of the family.

Hitching opened a door at the head of the stairs.

Three people—not two—looked toward the doorway, and all three looked suddenly startled to see that the marquess was not alone. One was a plump, square-faced older lady with florid complexion and dark hair turned mostly to gray. Behind her chair stood a young man who had her dark coloring while in features and build he resembled Hitching. The young lady who sat on a love seat was fashionably dressed in russet brown, a color that emphasized the vivid redness of her hair and the green of her eyes.

She did not really look like Chloe after all, Ralph thought. Her face was narrower, her mouth smaller, her eyebrows straighter. She was not as beautiful despite the fact that last year, according to George, she had been known as the Incomparable. He was partial, of course. And she was noticeably younger than his wife. There was
enough of a resemblance, however, to account for the rumors that had sprung to life last year.

“My dear,” Hitching said, stepping to one side and addressing the older lady first, “Angela, Gilly, allow me to present the Duke and Duchess of Worthingham. My wife, my daughter, and my eldest son,” he added, turning to his visitors.

Viscount Gilly’s fingers closed about the handle of a quizzing glass though he did not raise it all the way to his eyes. His mother sat very still. Lady Angela Allandale tipped back her head and fixed Chloe with an arctic stare along the length of her nose.

“How do you do, ma’am.” Ralph bowed to the marchioness as he advanced farther into the room, one hand firm beneath Chloe’s elbow. “Lady Angela? Gilly? I hope we have not interrupted you at an inconvenient moment. It seemed to my wife and me, however, that we really ought to call on you privately, and the sooner the better, since it is almost inevitable that we will meet in public very soon.”