The Promise (7 page)

“It was a last-minute decision,” Conall said, leaning down to kiss his mother’s cheek. “And Caitlin said there would be room at her table.” “Hello. Aunt Rebecca, Uncle Lucas,” Caitlin called from her position across the table.

Rebecca Deverell sent Caitlin a warm smile. “Hello, darling. ” She reached around her son and patted Nico on the shoulder. “You’re looking much better than you were when Dev was born. You were so pale that night, we were very concerned."

Nico grinned sheepishly.

Sharon had been standing, paralyzed under Lucas Deverell’s acute scrutiny, and now she felt the force of his wife’s attention. “Introduce us to your date, Conall.”

"I’ll be glad to,” he said smoothly. “Mother, this is Sharon Graham. Sharon, this is my mother and father, Rebecca and Lucas Deverell.”

The lights of the room seemed to dim. She felt herself sway, then Conall’s hand was against her back, supporting her. “How do you do,” she murmured.

Lucas Deverell nodded pleasantly enough, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that made her stomach chum sickeningly.

“Sharon Graham,” Rebecca repeated thoughtfully. “That name sounds so familiar. Have we—?” 

“No,” Conall said, abruptly interrupting his mother, “you’ve never met. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just about to dance.”

“Of course, darling. But do come by our table later, won’t you?”

“If it’s possible.”

Conall guided her out onto the dance floor and drew her into his arms.

She barely felt his left hand as it slid around her waist and pulled her against him. She didn't notice as he joined their right hands, or when he began to move in time to the music and she automatically fell in step. She didn’t even hear him when he murmured her name the first time.

“Sharon?” he repeated. She looked up at him, her face pale, her eyes pools of vulnerability. “There’s nothing to be upset about.”

A shiver raced through her. “Did you know they would be here?”

“No, but if I had, we still would have come.” 

“They recognized my name.”

“I doubt it.” He lightly stroked her back, smoothing, soothing, trying to calm her nerves. “But even if they did, you shouldn’t let it bother you. They’re nice people. They wouldn’t have created a scene.”

“Nice? They didn’t want you marrying me, and they made sure you wouldn’t acknowledge that the baby was yours.”

“Sharon, you took a giant leap over very shaky ground to draw that conclusion. I’ve already told you you’re wrong to think they lied to keep us apart, or for any other reason. Now, relax.”

“How many other people know about me? Does Caitlin? Am I the family joke?”

Her voice broke on the last word, and he pulled her closer. “No one knows," he said quietly. “We weren’t together long enough for me to introduce you to any of the family, and only my parents knew that I was dating you and that you became pregnant.”

Her lack of response didn’t fool him into thinking he had pacified her. Her body was stiff, her expression distraught. He smiled gently down at her. “I can see where my parents might appear formidable to anyone who didn’t know them, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. They’re marshmallows.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it’s true. When I was young, one used to protect me from the other, only neither ever figured out that the other one was doing the same thing. I can remember when I was about four or five, my father gave me strict instructions to stay out of his study. Naturally, like any other little boy, I regarded his warning as an invitation. One afternoon I decided it would be fun to play businessman. I sneaked into his study and sat at his desk and ‘read’ his papers. I also signed my name on every document I could find, just as I had seen my father do many times. Except, of course, I printed. But it was really
nice
printing, with good, solid, block construction of all my letters. Really, you should have seen it.” For the first time, she smiled, and, encouraged, he went on. “When my mother found me, I thought my life was over. I’d never seen her so angry. But my father came in, took one look at my stricken face, and announced he had given me permission to be in there. Later, when mother left, he told me if I ever did anything like that again, he would give me a spanking I wouldn’t soon forget.”

“And did you? Do anything like that again?” 

“Of course. I was a little boy. But he never once spanked me. Neither did Mother.” He paused. “They really are nice people, Sharon.”

“There’s no reason for you to defend them to me,” she said dully. “They protected you as a little boy and they continued protecting you as you grew older. They sound like ideal parents.”

He gave a silent, colorful curse. He had meant to divert her, not remind her. Instantly he decided on another tactic. “I think I can safely say we’ve accomplished a great deal here tonight,” he said.

Slightly wary but nevertheless curious, she asked, “And what would that be?”

“Well, for instance, you don’t seem the least bit self-conscious about my holding you.”

She tensed, then, realizing he was right, she slowly relaxed again. While her mind had been on other things, her body had adjusted to his.

A silence that was oddly companionable fell between them, and as they continued to dance, her gaze wandered to the other people on the dance floor. She saw Angelica DiFrenza, vivacious and full of life, her dark eyes sparkling with gaiety as she laughed up at the man with whom she danced. Then there were Caitlin and Nico, matched in strength and love, very much involved with each other. And Amarillo Smith, a man with a stillness about him even when he was moving in time to the music, a man apart, even though he was holding a gorgeous woman in his arms. Finally there were Conall’s parents, standing at the edge of the dance floor, a group of people surrounding them. To her mind they all seemed larger than life; they were part of Conall’s life but would never be part of hers.

Conall . . .

“Conall?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for trying to make me feel better.”

It had seemed natural at the time to try to vanquish the vulnerability he had seen in her eyes, but he supposed under the circumstances he could see why she felt It unusual. “You’re welcome.”

“And thank you also for intervening when your mother thought she recognized my name.”

Again it had seemed a natural thing for him to do, but now he realized he had been protecting her. How curious.

An incredible weariness came over Sharon all at once. The past few days had taken more out of her than she had realized, and it wasn’t over yet. She leaned her head against Conall’s shoulder and felt his arms bring her closer against him. The clean, spicy scent of him invaded her senses. His strength comforted and assured her. The music drifted through her mind and began to clear away the disturbing events of the evening.

She closed her eyes and remembered again the moment she had met his parents. It could have been awful, but he had chosen not to let her be humiliated and hurt. Most likely, he had only been trying to avoid a scene, but whatever his reason, she was grateful. And now she was in his arms, pressed against his body, and for the moment at least she saw no reason to leave.

Four

Sharon’s breath caught in her throat as the car she was riding in rounded a curve in the long drive and suddenly she saw SwanSea.

Autumn winds were gusting, bending the tree limbs halfway to the ground, and sending brilliantly colored leaves scurrying while waves pounded into the shore. Dark brooding clouds hung low. And amid it all, the great house of SwanSea—immense and magnificent—stood on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It seemed at one moment a living force, at another a work of art.

Conall had insisted they use his private plane to fly to Maine. But when Sharon had arrived at the airport, the pilot had handed her a message from Conall saying that a business emergency prevented him from joining her until later in the evening. Her first impulse had been to wait for him, but the pilot informed her that he had specific instructions to fly her to SwanSea and then return for Conall. The plane had flown into a small airport south of SwanSea’s closest town. A car and driver had been waiting for her.

And now she was there. She had read about the house, had even seen pictures of it, but nothing had prepared her for it.

As soon as the car rolled to a stop, a tall, dignified, silver-haired gentleman came out of one of the two carved black-walnut-front doors and descended the steps. Waving aside a waiting attendant, he opened the car door for her.

“Miss Graham?” he said in a clipped British accent, helping her out. “I’m Winston Lawrence, manager of SwanSea.
Welcome.
We are so pleased you are going to be with us for a while. ”

“Well, thank you.” She was somewhat taken aback by the personal greeting, since her usual greeting whenever she traveled was a polite request, accompanied occasionally by a smile, to sign the register.

“I hope your trip was pleasant,” he said, managing to supervise the unloading of her luggage while giving her his complete attention.

The wind whipped at her, pulling free the pins that had secured her hair at the back of her head. She brushed a heavy haze of hair from her face and inhaled the tangy scent of the sea. “The trip was fine. A bit bumpy because of the weather, but very short.”

“Yes, Mr. Deverell’s plane certainly makes quick work of the distance between here and Boston, doesn’t it? They notify us when it takes off from Logan, and then again when it lands here, so we’ll have a timetable with which to work.”

“I see.” She didn’t really, but she supposed it had something to do with the perks of being a Deverell. “Have you been informed of Mr. Deverell’s delay?”

He gave a brisk nod. “Our latest word is that he will arrive sometime this evening. Now, if you’ll just come this way, we’ll have you settled in no time.” He glanced over his shoulder at a young man dressed in a bellman’s uniform. “Peter will bring your bags.”

Instead of following right away, she hung back and gazed up at the house. It loomed before her with an aura of strength and indomitability. And she had the sudden, distinct impression she should proceed cautiously.

She was being absurd, she told herself in the next moment, and attempted to shake away the feeling. By the time she entered the grand entry hall, she had met with only limited success.

But everywhere she looked there was beauty. Dominating the entry hall was a huge marble center staircase with a Tiffany stained-glass window of a peacock gracing its first landing. Above her, flower-shaped light fixtures hung on forty-foot chains from the two-story vaulted ceiling. And as a complement to the splendor and grace, harp music floated out of a nearby room, wandered in and out of the thin green leaves of the palm trees that filled the comers, and whispered across the works of art on the walls. Wide-eyed with admiration, she took everything in.

She and the manager reached the fourth floor by a private elevator tucked beneath and behind the grand staircase. There, Winston Lawrence led her to the end of a long, wide hall and ushered her Into a suite.

“Mr. Deverell uses these rooms when he is with us. The suite at the other end of the hall is set aside for Mr. and Mrs. DiFrenza. The staff and I are hoping they will soon be bringing the young master for his first visit.”

She blinked. “You mean their new baby?”

“Yes. SwanSea will be his one day, you know.” It was a different way of thinking, she realized, and one in which she had had no experience. Winston Lawrence was gazing expectantly at her.

“In which bedroom would you like Peter to place your things?” he asked.

“Uh, which bedroom does Mr. Deverell normally use?”

“The one to your left.’”

“Then I'll take the other."

“Very good,” he said, his only expression one of a willingness to please. He motioned to Peter, and the young man vanished through a cream and gilded door with her luggage. “The staff is at your disposal, Ms. Graham. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”

“Thank you very much,” she said, feeling a wild desire to tip him but knowing it wouldn’t be proper. She would be extra generous with Peter, she decided, but several minutes later when she tried, she met with refusal.

“We do not accept tips from the Deverells and their guests,” he said with a smile. “Have a nice day.”

And then she was left alone, feeling slightly shell-shocked by the place that would serve as her home for the next two weeks.

Gazing around her, she saw the sitting room of the suite was done in green, burgundy, and blue. French doors that opened out onto a terrace banked a marble fireplace carved with fluid, arabesque lines.

Out of curiosity, she made her way to the bedroom Winston Lawrence had said Conall used, and peeked in. A massive sleigh bed sat in the center of the room, covered by a royal purple spread with accent pillows of Chinese blue, deep green, burgundy, and red. A wrought-iron grapevine with leaves and twisting stems grew across the width of the wall above the bed. Springing from this fantasy grapevine were lights of different shapes and sizes, hanging like exotic blossoms. An oil painting commanded a second wall, its subjects a bare-breasted woman and the sea. The woman was partially dressed in red and gold flowing, diaphanous veils, and her long hair streamed sinuously out to blend with the sea and the veils.

The colors of the room were rich, muted, its texture sumptuous, sensual, and luxurious, its ambience unbearably erotic. She quickly left, crossed the sitting room, and opened the door to the bedroom she had chosen for herself.

This room had been done in the same colors as the other, only softer and with a sheen of iridescence. The oak and mahogany bed had been crafted with a flower-patterned marquetry of ash, satinwood, sycamore, and holly inlays. Stacked atop the lavender satin bedspread were pastel aqua and plum velvet pillows.

On a large bedside table, ten iridescent lilies, gold laid over green, drooped from gilt bronze stems—the lamp unmistakably the work of Louis Comfort Tiffany. A pearly opalescent vase filled with fresh cut orchids graced a dresser. Frieze figures of nude women encircled the vase.