What You Promised (Anything for Love, Book 4) Read online

  “Perfectly.” She was an optimist at heart. An ability to converse honestly would stand them in good stead. The rest was in the hands of Fate.

  Mr Chandler sat forward and shrugged out of his coat.

  “The night is far too cold to sit in shirtsleeves,” Priscilla said, sounding more like a mother than a prospective wife.

  He threw his coat onto the seat opposite. “I doubt I’ll be cold with you at my side. We have twenty minutes until we reach Berkley Street and I thought we could use the time to become better acquainted.”

  Priscilla straightened, unable to keep the grin from forming. No gentleman had ever asked about her hobbies. “What would you like to know?”

  A sinful smile touched his lips. “It is not what I want to know, Priscilla, but more what I want to do.”

  “Oh.” For the umpteenth time this evening her cheeks flamed.

  “Don’t worry.” He tugged at the ribbons of her cloak, pushed the thick material from her shoulders. “I’ll need a comfortable bed when I claim your body. For now, I would like to test a theory.”

  “What … what theory?”

  He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “That a raging passion lies beneath your prim exterior. That our wedding night will prove to be more than satisfactory.”

  Chapter 3

  A dull thud echoed through the study. Lord Callan banged the mahogany desk with such force the lids of the ink pots rattled on the hinges. The man's eyes bulged. His complexion resembled a rainbow of hues: pink, red, purple with a hint of blue.

  “You have the nerve of the devil, sir!” Saliva bubbled at the corners of Lord Callan’s mouth. He stabbed his fat finger at Matthew, seated on the opposite side of the desk. “I’ll not agree to it. Do you hear me? I’ll not sentence the girl to a life with a scoundrel.”

  Lord Callan was a blasted hypocrite. The man owed so much money his creditors were liable to tear the breeches from his bulbous behind to raise a shilling.

  “Would you prefer to see her scrubbing floors in the workhouse?”

  Lord Callan’s cheeks ballooned. “Workhouse! Good God, man, it will not come to that.”

  “Then you possess the funds to pay your gambling debts?”

  The man’s mouth opened and closed numerous times. “My … my private business is no concern of yours. Everything would have worked out perfectly had it not been for your untimely intervention. Lady Morford assured me her son would make my niece an offer of marriage.”

  Suspicion flared.

  Had Lord Callan approved of Lady Morford’s plan to force a betrothal? It certainly explained why he allowed Miss Smythe to roam the garden freely.

  “I see.” Matthew narrowed his gaze. “You risked your niece’s reputation in the hope of settling your debts. Lord Morford is a generous man and would not allow his wife to suffer the shame of an uncle sent to debtors’ prison.”

  The chair creaked under the pressure of the lord’s squirming buttocks. “You insult me with such a remark.”

  “It is only an insult if it is not true. Desperation has a way of suppressing a man’s morals. Those with an addiction often justify abandoning their principles.”

  “And you would know.” Lord Callan gave a contemptuous snort. “Condemn me if it satisfies you, but I’d rather my niece wed a respectable gentleman than a reckless rogue.”

  Surely the lord was not naive enough to think Miss Smythe had a better option. Only a disreputable man would offer for a woman compromised in a garden.

  “Reckless rogue?” Matthew scoffed. “Jibes don't offend me. I recognise there’s an element of truth to your words.”

  The lord’s face flamed. “So you admit you’re a libertine?”

  “I find restraint is not a word in my vocabulary. But we digress. I am assured Lord Morford will not offer for your niece. The lady will tell you so herself. I, on the other hand—”

  “I’ll rot in hell before I let you ruin the girl.”

  Matthew put his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “It is a little late to worry about her virtue. I ravished Priscilla in front of witnesses.”

  “God damn you. How dare you speak of it so blatantly. Have you no shame?”

  Shame? After his father’s dishonourable conduct, shame had been his constant companion. But he was a man now not a boy. He’d let the devil damn him before he gave the emotion merit.

  “Weak men feel shame, my lord.” And cowards who chose to run away from their problems.

  “Dishonourable men feel indifference, Mr Chandler.”

  Matthew gave a weary sigh. There was only one way to bring an end to the gentleman’s mindless rants.

  “I fear there is not an ounce of sense in your addled brain.” Matthew stood. “I bid you a good day, my lord.” With a curt nod, Matthew turned and made for the door.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “You have made your position clear. Allow me to inform you that you leave your niece no option but to elope.”

  “Elope? Elope!” The gentleman slapped his hand to his chest. “Heavens, are you determined to send me to my grave?”

  Matthew grasped the handle. “Good day.”

  “Wait! Wait.” Lord Callan cleared his throat. “If you profess to love my niece as you say, you would not put her through the indignity of an elopement.”

  Matthew turned to face him. “If you love your niece as much as I suspect, you would not deny her a wedding in St George’s. Other than the fact you consider me a rogue, do you have any other objection?”

  Lord Callan waved to the empty seat. “Loath me to point out the obvious, but you are not the sort of man to … to settle.”

  Confident he'd made his point and that the lord realised he had limited options, Matthew dropped into the chair. “Nor am I the sort who falls in love. But one never knows what Fate has in store.”

  Lord Callan jerked his head. “You expect me to believe you love the girl.”

  Girl? Matthew had touched Miss Smythe’s soft curves, cupped her round, full breasts. The lady was a woman in every sense of the word. Well, in all but one. And he would soon rectify that problem despite never having deflowered a virgin.

  “Love is not an easy emotion to feign,” Matthew said. Although when one was skilled in the art of seduction, many ladies had been known to mistake lust for love. “Call the lady down. Draw your own conclusions.”

  A weary sigh breezed from Lord Callan’s lips. “The girl’s upset with me. I assume you were the one who told her of my losses at the table.”

  “I refuse to lie to her. If she is to marry me, we must have complete honesty between us.” Whether either of them accepted the truth was another matter entirely. “You may be interested to know I have my suspicions about the credibility of the card game.”

  “I knew it!” The grey-haired lord leant forward, his countenance suddenly improving. “You suspect cheating?”

  Matthew nodded. “Cheating on a grand scale. Did you intend to play so deep?”

  “Oh, I like to have the odd flutter, a small wager here and there.”

  The odd flutter? The man had more of a problem than he cared to admit.

  “Forgive my directness, but fifteen thousand pounds is by no means a small wager.”

  “I never meant for it to go that far. I was on a winning streak and thought it a prime opportunity to repay my vowels. One minute we’d won eight tricks the next …” The gentleman dragged his hand down his wrinkled face. “Do you think they marked the cards?”

  “Not that I’m aware.” Matthew had observed the cards during the first few hands of whist. Cheating to that degree required skill in deception. It required a group of men working together, collaborating. “But I intend to look into the matter.”

  He would do a damn sight more than that.

  “Then I shall make a few discreet enquiries of my own.” Lord Callan narrowed his gaze. “You asked of my objection. It is your predilection for illicit pursuits that leads me to doubt your ab
ility to commit to my niece.”

  Matthew had no problem with commitment. It was love and trust that chilled his blood. “I have made a promise, and I am a man of my word. I make my living catering to other people’s illicit pursuits. My skill lies in that of a generous host, nothing more.”

  “Everyone knows all the best hosts participate in the evening’s entertainment,” Lord Callan countered.

  Matthew chuckled to himself as it was rather a naive view. “I am not a great lover of horses, yet I own a stable full of them. Pretence is often necessary for survival.”

  “That is what I fear. My niece thinks with her heart, not her head. It would not take much to convince her of your affection. The girl is as foolish as her mother.”

  The sudden urge to defend Miss Smythe took hold. “What is foolish to you seems sensible to me. The heart never lies, my lord.”

  “Damn it all,” Lord Callan snorted, “you must be in love with the chit if you believe that nonsense.”

  Under present circumstances, Matthew did not wish to correct his misconception. “Then am I to take it you agree to the match?”

  “Agree? Of course not. But what choice do I have?” The man threw his hands in the air. “The girl seems smitten and will come of age in a few months. Her head is so full of romantic hogwash she’s liable to flee to Gretna.”

  A profound sense of relief filled Matthew’s chest. Miss Smythe’s dowry was within his grasp. But oddly that was not the primary reason for the sudden rush of excitement coursing through his veins. He wanted the golden-haired beauty in his bed. He wanted her curvaceous form sprawled between his sheets. Damn. It had been an age since he’d lusted after a woman.

  Once he’d satisfied his sinful cravings, he would need to handle the situation delicately. They could be friends, occasional lovers, but never more than that.

  Chapter 4

  After a glorious week of sunshine, their wedding day suffered a torrential downpour with puddles deeper than a copper bath tub. A loud crack of thunder echoed beyond the roof of St. George’s. A sudden gust rattled the doors. The wind found a way through the gaps and crevices and rushed down the aisle to whistle its objection. Two gentlemen hurried from the box pews and pushed against the doors as though fighting to keep the Devil out.

  Despite the formidable storm, the rector’s monotone voice recited the relevant passage from the Book of Common Prayer.

  Priscilla’s hands shook. Perhaps it was an omen. Perhaps their lives were to be as bleak as the weather. She struggled to hold Mr Chandler’s assured gaze. Needing to rouse an ounce of faith in the future, she glanced beyond the altar at the painting of the ‘Last Supper’.

  The biblical scene brought little comfort.

  “You’re allowed to smile,” Mr Chandler whispered whilst holding her hands. “This is a love match after all.”

  “Promise me all will be well.” Her chin trembled though it had nothing to do with the draughty stone building. “Promise me we’re not making a mistake.”

  “I promise.”

  The pledge was oddly reassuring, totally believable. The firm grip of his hands, the playful grin illuminating his handsome face, gave her the confidence to continue. With her mind in a bit of a daze, she went through the motions, speaking when required, not really listening to the rest of the service. Once the declaration was made — the pronouncement that they were joined in the eyes of God — her fears faded.

  Still, she felt lightheaded, dizzy, detached from reality. Had she not been able to hold Mr Chandler’s arm while passing through the group of well-wishers hugging the door, she would have crumpled into a heap.

  “Come,” Mr Chandler said as they hovered under the shelter of the portico. “A little time alone in the carriage will lift your spirits. We’ll circle the park to give our guests time to reach the house before we arrive.” He cupped her elbow, and they raced down the steps. After fumbling with the wet handle on the carriage door, he assisted her inside.

  “The rain is coming down so hard one might think the Lord wants to wash away our sins.” Priscilla shook a few droplets of water from her fingers and dabbed her cheeks.

  “It would need to rain for forty days and nights to rid me of mine.” Mr Chandler sat back in the seat opposite, removed his hat and brushed his hand through his hair. “But you have done nothing to warrant His censure.”

  “Have I not just sworn to love you?”

  “And you will.” He squirmed in the leather seat, but she doubted the movement had anything to do with a broken spring. “If only in the physical sense.”

  Heavens, he would expect her to share his bed this evening. The thought brought conflicting emotions. While nerves created a hollow cavern in her stomach, the promise of more kisses heated her blood.

  “Is that how you interpret the vow?” she asked. As a man who stressed the importance of honesty, she had wondered how he wrestled with his conscience.

  “The ancient Greeks recognised six different varieties of love. I intend to follow the theory of Eros and worship you with my body. I lack the ability to give more than that.”

  It was an odd conversation to have on one’s wedding day. “You believe yourself incapable of any deep and long-lasting affection?”

  “The poets claim that love is the pinnacle of happiness. In my experience, love brings nothing but pain. Therefore, one must cultivate happiness in other ways.”

  The comment proved enlightening. To speak of such a pain, he must have loved once. The thought roused a flicker of hope. There was every chance he could learn to love again. But what was his story? Had a lady broken his heart? Had his father’s death left a permanent scar?

  “When you speak of cultivating happiness are you referring to your love for gambling and a crowd of dissipated debauchers?” She hadn’t meant to mock.

  His raised brow conveyed an air of displeasure. “I speak of my love for independence, for a mind free from worry and a heart free from shame.”

  Shame? It was an odd word to use.

  Priscilla studied his profile as he gazed out of the window. His full and wickedly sensual lips were drawn thin. His muscular shoulders sagged. No doubt his eyes swam with sadness as he observed the rivulets of rain running down the glass pane. Somewhere inside he harboured a profound sorrow.

  Priscilla’s heart thumped against her ribs as the need to soothe him took hold. “So, my new home is to be on Grosvenor Street,” she said hoping a change of subject would lighten the mood.

  When he turned to face her, his mask of indifference disguised any hint of sadness. “I live at number twenty-six, or should I say we do. The house is the only one in the row with a long garden and access to the mews. Both aspects have proved useful for entering on a grand scale.”

  “Then I must assume there are topiary hedges tall enough to conceal any activity beyond.” One did not need experience in illicit liaisons to know why some couples favoured the garden. “No doubt you have a small summerhouse and auction the key to the highest bidder.”

  Mr Chandler’s eyes widened. “That is an excellent idea. I have a wooden garden room but never thought to charge for its use.”

  She gave a satisfied sigh. “Perhaps a gentleman will be so desperate to spend time alone with his mistress he’ll cover the cost of repaying your vowel.”

  “There are men foolish enough although ten thousand pounds is rather a big ask.” A chuckle left his lips. When he smiled, his emerald eyes glistened like dew on a blade of grass.

  Goodness, she really should rein in her romantic musings.

  “You’d be surprised,” she said dragging her thoughts away from the dimple on his right cheek. “I imagine the gentlemen who attend your parties are full of their own importance. You only need to persuade one of them to offer an extortionate sum, and the rest will follow. You could decorate the space in a theme that might prove enticing.”

  Mr Chandler rubbed his chin. “And what would you find enticing, Priscilla? Where would a man take you if he hoped to lure
you into temptation?”

  The rich, languid tone to his voice sent a shiver racing from her shoulders to her toes. How was she to answer? Other than the few kisses she had shared with Mr Chandler she knew nothing of intimate relations. Even so, she imagined somewhere warm, sumptuous, comfortable.

  “Aunt Elizabeth told me that Lord Banbury has a sultan room. The exotic always draws a crowd. Have you seen it?”

  “No. I’ve heard tales of Banbury’s extravagance but suspected they were overrated.”

  “Reams of red silk line the walls. Plush velvet cushions litter the floor. Those who enter must remove their shoes. The ladies can try on bracelets with charms, anklets that jingle. The theme lends itself to decadence. Whenever Lord Banbury opens up the room, there is always a crush.”

  “And you suggest I create such a place at home?”

  “It would certainly prove to be an attraction.”

  Mr Chandler studied her. “I didn’t realise I’d married a woman with a head for business.”

  Most men would not allow their wives to speak so freely. “If you object to my input, then please say so.”

  “On the contrary,” he snorted. “I welcome your opinion. Never feel you cannot be open and honest.”

  She tilted her head. The man surprised her at every turn. “Perhaps I might be useful to you occasionally.”

  His gaze travelled slowly over her. “I’m sure you will.” The simple statement sounded like a lascivious promise.

  A vibrant energy filled the air. The mutual attraction was undeniable. With his hungry gaze and parted lips, he gave every indication he eagerly awaited the intimacy married couples shared.

  “What a shame we must join our guests this morning,” he continued. “A private celebration would have been a far better option.”

  Priscilla breathed deeply. Her husband had a way of heating her blood with a few innocent words. Then again, he was skilled in seduction.

  “There is no need to keep up the pretence when we are alone, Mr Chandler.”