Promise Me Forever Read online

  LORRAINE HEATH

  Promise Me Forever

  With my heartfelt appreciation

  to Robin Rue,

  who is everything an author

  could wish for in an agent.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  “They say he’s devilishly handsome.”

  Chapter 2

  “I saw what you did.”

  Chapter 3

  Lauren stared at him, his words registering but hardly making…

  Chapter 4

  Lauren’s announcement hit Tom like a solid punch to the…

  Chapter 5

  Lauren could hardly believe that she was lying with a…

  Chapter 6

  Tom’s long-ago promises echoed through Lauren’s mind. He’d kept the…

  Chapter 7

  Lauren sat beside her bedroom window, the curtain drawn aside…

  Chapter 8

  Lauren stared at the portrait of the last Earl of…

  Chapter 9

  “Tom is the Earl of Sachse.”

  Chapter 10

  “I can’t believe you’re going out this evening with a…

  Chapter 11

  “I inquired. He’s been invited.”

  Chapter 12

  Tom was so angry that he could have chewed nails.

  Chapter 13

  Tom awoke to find her sitting on the floor in…

  Chapter 14

  Tom wanted out of London. He wanted time with Lauren.

  Chapter 15

  Lauren gazed out the window on the magnificent gardens. She…

  Chapter 16

  She awoke to the sound of an irritating tick, tick,…

  Chapter 17

  It was all madness and mayhem when Lauren arrived home.

  Chapter 18

  “My lord, I must ask that you leave.”

  Chapter 19

  “They say he fell in love with her when they…

  Epilogue

  “Y ou’re English!”

  About the Author

  Other Books by Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  London

  1880

  “They say he’s devilishly handsome.”

  “They say he’s frightfully uncivilized!”

  “No surprise there. He’s American, after all.”

  “Not quite. He may have grown up in America, but his blood is as English as yours or mine.”

  “Thank God for small favors, I say.”

  “I’ve heard he has more money than the queen.”

  “I daresay he’ll need every ha’penny in order to secure himself a suitable wife. Quite honestly, who among us has any desire to marry a savage?”

  Who indeed? Sitting within her stepfather’s drawing room, having contributed not a single word to the ludicrous conversation based on speculation and the latest round of gossip, Lauren Fairfield couldn’t help but think that her four uninvited guests were doing exactly what they claimed they wouldn’t be caught dead doing: entertaining the notion of marrying a savage. If not marrying him, then at the very least gleefully consorting with him. Their eyes were filled with mischief, their cheeks were flushed, and they were studying her as though they thought she had firsthand experience at being ravished and might advise them on the best recourse for pursuing the possibilities.

  She hardly knew how to respond to these ladies who had been among the first to accept her into their prestigious inner circle. They were known to swoon upon occasion, at will, their performances worthy of a standing ovation. And why not? They’d held numerous swooning parties in their youth, so they could hone their skills. It was, after all, expected: to be so delicate and fragile that one was always in danger of being broken, to leave no doubt in gentlemen’s minds that the men were the stronger of the sexes. It was a ghastly way to live, keeping one’s true self hidden behind a screen of expectations that transformed into obligations.

  When the looming silence became rather uncomfortable, Lady Blythe reached out and lightly touched Lauren’s hand. “Oh, you must forgive us, dear friend, if we offended you by referring to the barbaric nature of Americans.”

  “We meant no offense,” Lady Cassandra concurred. “One wouldn’t know by your mannerisms that you’re American, and thus we always seem to forget that you are. Which is a grand compliment, I would say.”

  The other two young ladies in attendance bobbed their heads and murmured their agreement. Like them, Lauren wore the latest fashion: a slenderizing skirt that accentuated her tiny waist and narrow hips. She was grateful the bustle had at last disappeared from fashionable clothing, but she suspected that Ladies Blythe and Cassandra missed it. Their hips weren’t well suited to the narrower skirts. A cruel thought that was most unlike Lauren. Perhaps she hadn’t quite lost her American mannerisms as much as they thought.

  Or perhaps she was simply too weary to extend the proper courtesies. The ladies had arrived right on her heels, after a particularly challenging day, and Lauren had barely had time to greet her stepfather, the earl of Ravenleigh, before she found herself in the role of hostess, since her mother and sisters had gone out for a bit of afternoon shopping.

  “I’m deeply flattered that you hold me in such high regard,” she finally responded, more out of habit than anything else. She and her sisters had spent hours practicing their replies to insincere compliments, so they at least appeared sincere. Sometimes she felt as though her life had become an elaborate play, scripted, rehearsed, performed, words spoken because they were the predictable response. She’d recently taken to doing the unpredictable, and while she was doing it in secret, it still brought her a measure of satisfaction to be doing it at all.

  “As well you should be,” Lady Cassandra acknowledged. “I daresay nothing is worse than a crass American. While you, dear friend, pass as English with no effort at all.”

  No effort? Had the lady forgotten how often they’d rolled their eyes at her when she’d first arrived in London? How they’d grimaced at her drawl, snickered at her poor choice of words? How often she’d been the object of hurtful gossip, because she hadn’t known the difference between an earl, a duke, or a marquess, and had once—upon being introduced to a knight—asked if he would show her his suit of armor? Did Lady Cassandra have no idea as to how often Lauren had fallen asleep on a pillow soaked with her tears?

  Why every aspect of Lauren’s behavior was an effort: to sit properly, walk properly, speak properly…to remember titles and correct forms of address, to know when to curtsy and when to smile at a gentleman, how to subtly flirt without being brazen, how to tamp down boldness. Always, always to comport herself as the most refined in polite society, above reproach, rumor, or innuendo.

  She’d practiced, studied, observed, and emulated until she was no longer an embarrassment to herself or her stepfather. Until all her American idiosyncrasies were buried so deeply that she thought she was in danger of never again finding them. Until she’d become, as Lady Blythe had alluded, so near to being the perfect English lady that few remembered the uncultured family Ravenleigh had possessed the audacity to bring back with him from Texas when he’d gone to visit his twin brother, Kit Montgomery.

  Until she feared that she might have even lost herself. Although she’d recently begun to take actions to rectify that possibility, she could only hope that she hadn’t waited until it was too late.

  “So tell us,” Lady Blythe prodded with characteristic exuberance, “did you ever meet the latest Earl of Sachse?”

  Ah, at last, the true purpose behind their visit: to discover what she might be able to reveal about the man who had only a short time ago arrived on England’s shores to claim h
is rightful title.

  Lauren was quite unclear regarding the particulars. She’d been too involved with her own plans to give the rumors much credence or attention. Still, she was aware that London was all a titter about the earl who had been lost in America and only found a short time ago. Everyone had believed that he’d died of illness when he was but a boy—after all, almost twenty years earlier his mother had made that very claim, and no one had reason to doubt her, especially in light of how much she had grieved over the loss of her only child. Recently, however, a letter had been discovered that revealed the astonishing truth: The lad was alive, to be returned to England upon his father’s death.

  Lauren thought the true miracle was that Archibald Warner, a distant cousin who’d been granted the title, had actually possessed the decency to hire private investigators to search for the rightful heir. She knew many lords, having once tasted the power, influence, and prestige granted to them by virtue of their exalted position, would have held on to it until the devil was tossing snowballs in hell.

  “I never had the plea sure of meeting him,” Lauren confessed. “But, then, America is an extremely large country. The chances of our paths crossing are astronomical.”

  “But it’s rumored they found him in Texas,” Lady Cassandra said. “Surely that increases the odds of your knowing him, since you lived there for a time.”

  “Texas is a big state, the biggest in the nation,” Lauren told her. “So I doubt where they found him makes any difference to the chance that we’d met. And as you say, I lived there for only a short time.”

  With the discussion turning to odds, she wondered if they’d made private wagers as to whether or not she knew the newly discovered earl. It seemed these people bet on everything. Last Season, the majority of the wagers had centered on whom the Duke of Kimburton would favor with a marriage proposal: Lady Blythe or Miss Lauren Fairfield. By the close of the Season, he’d chosen Lauren, which in the end had turned out to be a rather unfortunate selection on his part.

  When faced with the reality of staying in England forever, Lauren had been unable to accept his earnestly delivered proposal. As a gentleman, he’d graciously accepted her refusal, but it was rumored that he had no plans to come to London for the coming Season. Pride and all that. She deeply regretted that she’d hurt him, caused him embarrassment, because of all the English gentlemen she’d met, he’d come closest to claiming her heart.

  Lauren was actually surprised that Lady Blythe, having failed to gain Kimburton’s final favor, had seen fit to pay a visit this afternoon. Of course, the opportunity to learn a bit more about the new earl was apparently a strong enough incentive for Lady Blythe to forgive her rival almost anything. That and the fact that Lauren surely wouldn’t be any serious competition for her in the new Season. Having turned down the duke’s offer, Lauren knew it unlikely that any other man would favor her with his attentions, and while she acknowledged that she’d miss the flirtations, she was looking forward to the freedom of pursuing her other endeavors more earnestly.

  “Besides, it has been almost ten years since I lived in Texas. If he and I had met, I doubt I’d remember, especially since he most likely wasn’t introducing himself as Sachse.”

  “I daresay he certainly wasn’t. Apparently, he had no earthly idea that he was titled or that he had anything at all waiting over here for him,” Lady Cassandra said.

  “Can you imagine your mother abandoning you in America, of all places?” Lady Blythe asked. “Simply leaving you there among the heathens?”

  She spoke heathens as though referring to a delightful dessert glazed in chocolate, and Lauren was beginning to have her suspicions confirmed: These ladies weren’t nearly as put off by the American raised peer as they were letting on. As a matter of fact, as she’d observed earlier, excitement and anticipation danced within their eyes at the mere mention of the mysterious lord.

  “From what I overheard, his mother didn’t actually abandon him,” Lady Cassandra said. “She turned his upbringing over to a well-connected family in New York, and I’ve read that New York is quite modern.”

  “Regardless of its reputation, it’s not London, and, therefore, hardly a suitable environment in which to raise a future lord. Besides, the investigator didn’t find him in New York, so who knows what sort of improper influences he may have encountered along the way. I can’t help but wonder what the earl’s mother was thinking when she left him abroad.”

  “I think she was hoping to protect her son,” Lady Anne said quietly before shuddering. “Richard knew the old Earl of Sachse and could barely tolerate the man.”

  Richard was her brother, older by a good many years. The Duke of Weddington. A man Lauren had seen at only one ball. Apparently, he didn’t tolerate balls well either. His prestige, however, guaranteed that his sister was embraced by all, in spite of the fact that she was quite young, having only recently had her coming-out.

  “But America?” Lady Blythe emphasized. “Surely she could have found someplace nearer to home, where he could have gained an appreciation for all he would inherit.”

  “Whether she could or couldn’t is moot,” Lady Anne said. “The fact remains that she didn’t. We can’t know exactly what she was thinking; we can only know what she did.”

  “Is he a hateful creature like his father, do you suppose?” Lady Blythe asked.

  “I’ve heard he’s nothing at all like his father,” Lady Priscilla announced. Lady Anne’s closest and dearest friend, one seldom seen without the other, she was the authority on all things, her word always taken as gospel rather than gossip.

  “Has anyone actually set eyes on him?” Lady Blythe asked.

  The ladies looked at each other as though wondering who’d been peering in windows, again with an excitement about them at the possibility that one of them had done the forbidden. Behavior was so strictly controlled, and while Lauren had grown accustomed to it, there were times when she desperately wanted to break free of the societal restraints.

  “I might have seen him,” Lady Priscilla finally volunteered, her cheeks reddening with her confession.

  All the ladies except Lauren gasped and inched up on their seats toward Lady Priscilla, as though they might catch a glimpse of the elusive earl still mirrored in her expressive eyes.

  “Where?” Lady Blythe asked.

  “Do tell all,” Lady Cassandra urged.

  “Yes, quickly, before I expire from the anticipation.”

  “I haven’t much to tell really. My spying of him happened in Hyde Park yesterday morning. He was riding the most beautiful black. horse.”

  “Who gives a fig about his horse. What of him?” Lady Cassandra asked. “Was he beautiful?”

  “I could hardly tell. He wore only black. Black greatcoat, black hat. A very wide hat, at that, so I couldn’t clearly make out his features. I believe he was dressed as I’ve heard cowboys described. And here’s the most interesting thing…” She leaned forward, drawing the other ladies closer, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “As he rode by, his coat billowed, and I do believe I saw a pistol pressed against his thigh!”

  “No!” Lady Blythe exclaimed.

  “Yes!”

  “How intriguing.”

  How ridiculous, Lauren thought. To carry on so about the newcomer when there were lords aplenty. Their interest in him stemmed only from the fact that he was new, not yet tested. She’d been in that position once. She didn’t envy him what he would suffer as all of London took their measure of him. No doubt he would be found wanting. After all, he’d not been properly groomed for the role he would be expected to play in their society.

  “You’re familiar with cowboys, aren’t you, Lauren?” Lady Blythe asked.

  Lauren felt an unexpected pang in her heart as the question unlocked memories that she’d long ago banished. She was surprised that after all this time, all these years, they could still be so powerful, stir such intense yearning.

  “Yes,” she finally admitted.
“I’ve known cowboys, but it’s been many years, and I was a young girl, so my memories might be tainted by my youth and inexperience. My mother is constantly reminding me that we tend to remember things as being much more pleasant than they actually were.”

  Her mother’s incessant reminders usually followed one of Lauren’s frequent announcements that she’d like to return to Texas.

  “Tell us what you remember,” Lady Cassandra demanded.

  Lauren remembered a lazy smile that had made her heart race, brown eyes that reminded her of a puppy that had been kicked once too often and was now afraid to trust. She remembered a defiant stance and a challenging expression in a face that should have looked younger than it did. She remembered coal black hair, long and shaggy, always in need of a trimming. Dirty hands and worn, dusty clothes, a tall, lean body that was agile and surprisingly strong.

  “Come now,” Lady Blythe urged. “Don’t torture us so. Tell us what a cowboy is like.”

  Lauren relented only because she thought it was the quickest path to clearing her drawing room of their presence. She felt the beginning of a headache and longed to lie down before she had to begin preparing for dinner.

  “He’s respectful,” she said. Although hers hadn’t always been.

  “He tips his hat to the ladies.” Although hers never had.

  “He’s short on words.” Hers usually wasn’t.

  “To cross a street, any street, he’d rather ride his horse than walk.” Or he would have if he’d owned a horse.