greatest strength, his unwavering ability to forge on without vacillation.
“What is your view of Fanny Carrington?” the Duke continued. “It sounds as if the two of you were awfully friendly. Is she as loose as her sister?”
“Shut up, Father,” Michael seethed. “The journey exhausted me, and I’m not in the mood for your crudity.”
Anne said to Michael, “If Thomas is so terribly fond of Frances, perhaps we should leave him where he is.”
“We just can’t,” Michael replied, detesting what he was prepared to do. “His natural mother is a nightmare, and they’re living in squalid conditions. Thomas can’t stay with them.”
“Are you positive?” Anne inquired.
“Yes.”
“Wonderful! It’s all arranged.” The Duke rubbed his hands together as if they were about to sit down to a good meal. “When can you go fetch him?”
“Tomorrow, I guess,” Michael responded.
When he was through, Fanny would hate him, but it couldn’t be helped. He would do this dreadful thing to her, without regret or remorse. He would do it for Thomas. He would do it for his dead brother whom he’d loved.
Thomas would become a Wainwright, would be showered with all the pomp and grandeur that could be bestowed on a little boy. Fanny would never recover from the betrayal, and she would definitely never forgive Michael.
At the notion, he nearly balked at carrying out the Duke’s command, but the moment was lost as the butler stepped into the room and announced, “Lady Rebecca is here to see you, Lord Henley. Are you at home?”
Michael shook off his uncertainty, pushing Fanny far from his mind.
“Yes, I’m at home.”
Anne Wainwright tarried on the verandah, staring out across the park toward the river. Michael and Rebecca were strolling arm in arm, and with him being so dark and distinctive, and her so lithe and fair, they were an attractive couple. It was difficult not to watch them.
Their heads were bent close, and she was curious as to what they were discussing. Were they whispering lover’s secrets? Maybe they were debating how many children they would have.
A wave of envy swept through her, and she was surprised by its virulence. She was twenty-five now, and quickly approaching twenty-six. The Duke was a proud, vain man who’d rejected so many offers for her that she couldn’t count them all. In the beginning, he’d insisted he couldn’t find a suitable match, but as one matrimonial season had ended, then another, it had become obvious that he wasn’t doing her any favors.
The pathetic fact was that the Duke liked having her by his side. She occupied herself with the duties his wife would have assumed, so he didn’t need to remarry, and she suspected that he would never free her from her assigned role.
Off in the distance, there were sailboats out on the Thames, and suddenly, she suffered the strongest urge to run to the water’s edge. She’d like to flag down a passing captain, would like to climb aboard and sail away.
She felt as if she was choking on her boring, tedious life, and it would be marvelous to vanish. If something didn’t happen—and soon—she might start screaming and never stop.
“Anne,” someone called from behind her, and she spun to see Phillip walking outside, and he came over and balanced a hip on the balustrade.
“Hello, Phillip.”
She’d known him since she was a girl, since Michael had first dragged him home on a school holiday as if he were a stray puppy.
He was so tall and broad, and he always looked as if he was laughing at her, as if he thought her stuffy or silly, and she was never positive of how to converse with him. When she did bother to speak, he left her with the impression that she’d said exactly the wrong thing.
“Have they settled the issue?” he asked as he saw Michael and Rebecca together.
“Not that I’m aware. She only just arrived.”
“What’s your opinion? Will he propose?”
“He’s a fool if he doesn’t.”
“Michael
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