Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

A barking dog outside; a quarrel between a couple on the pavement, and the crackling fire were the only sounds as Faith waited for Crispin’s response. When she glanced at him, his sloped shoulders and bent head as she stared into the flames suggested he was as deeply aggrieved as any man could be.

But when he turned suddenly to face her, there was a glow in his expression that was so at odds with the dire scenario Faith had conjured up, that her heart leapt with hope.

“Do you love me, Faith?”

She clenched her fists. “More than I love anything on this earth.” And it was the truth.

“And you would marry me if I had nothing? Nothing, that is, other than prospects. I mean, would you love me if I were disowned, for example? If my father cut me out of his will?”

Faith hadn’t considered this possibility, but it honestly didn’t matter for the fact was, she would. She’d grown up with nothing, and while her expectations had been altered by the events of the past three years, she didn’t suppose Crispin meant that living in a hovel was a likely outcome.

Nevertheless, she’d do even that, if she had to.

But she said, “As long as you had enough to feed me…and our family, it would be enough for me.”

Tensely, she waited.

Then in two long strides, Crispin was holding her tightly in his arms, and his mouth was on hers as he communicated so very thoroughly the extent of his love.

Chapter 20

He had nearly everything for which he’d ever dreamed. His hard work, conducted for so long in secret, then put on hold while he obeyed his father’s strictures, had now made him a sensation.

And his love for the woman who inspired his creative impulses, and filled him with joy and the greatest desire to protect her from anything at all unpleasant in the world, was returned.

So, when he received news that his father intended travelling to London the following day, Crispin should have felt in a strong position to defend his decision to pick up a brush and paint.

Unfortunately, he had every fear that his father would question at what cost to his real career this ten-day hiatus had taken.

As he directed his valet on what to pack in the trunk that would go ahead to Germany, his chief fear was that his father was about to burst into his townhouse in his usual bombastic manner and do his best to destroy his hopes and dreams.

He would not succeed. No, Lord Maxwell would not destroy Crispin’s future happiness. Crispin’s future was his own to decide.

Which was all the more reason to make tonight the night he whisked Faith off, so they could be secretly married in advance of whatever objections Lord Maxwell might have to his son’s choice of wife.

It would not be a marriage that could be publicly disclosed.

Well, they were both in agreement on this point. They’d travel on the same packet, but not as husband and wife. Crispin would take up his posting, and in the weeks that followed, they’d contrive an excuse whereby she could be introduced as a suitable contender for his suit.

He’d been dismayed by her revelation; there was no doubt about that. She’d portrayed herself as someone she wasn’t, and yet the essence of her was pure and true, and that’s all that mattered to Crispin right now.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps it was better that she had divorced herself so completely from her peasant roots. She could pass as the finest lady in the land, and that’s what was required if she were to be accepted by society as a diplomat’s wife.

Besides, having such a fine actress might very well suit Crispin’s purposes, he thought as he nodded for the first trunk to be sealed shut. It was pushed against the wall of his bedchamber and, like a dozen others currently stored in a spare bedchamber, it would travel ahead and be in situ when he reached the handsome dwelling in Leipzig that had been bespoken on his behalf.

Crispin moved about his room, staring at the familiar objects that made it so masculine. He imagined a lady’s dressing table by the window; its mahogany surface littered with feminine objects. A silver-backed hairbrush like the one Crispin had already bought for Faith. A row of little bottles whose contents he couldn’t begin to imagine though he could imagine the setting. He’d like to paint the beautiful Faith seated at her dressing table, having her hair done, perhaps.

A surge of great affection edged with desire made him straighten and try to cast his mind back to what he must do. The fact that Faith’s apparent shyness concealed a sharp intelligence and keen observation powers might indeed make her the perfect helpmate.

He certainly had no doubts about the wisdom of marrying her. However, with so much to do in so little time, he had to put aside his desire to spend every moment possible in her arms.

“Benson, do you suppose my father will go riding before he gets in his carriage to come down to London and give me a verbal whipping?”

“That would depend if he wants to take the edge off his mood, sir.”

Benson could be relied upon to be honest.

“And do you suppose this mood you speak of will be predominantly prideful or…not?”