All Chapters of Promised to the father, married to the son: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

*Skye* While Ben left me feeling sated, I have been unable to fall asleep after he left. I have rung for Cullie and dressed for dinner, although I do not much like dining alone. Now feeling rather like a wraith, I wander through the hallways striving to get a better sense of the place. The difference between this residence and the country one is striking. Not a single door is locked. I don’t need keys to access anything. Every room, even the ones not in use, holds flowers. But they don’t hold what I am truly searching for: company. I miss Ben, damn it all. Something about the night makes me all the more lonely and bereft, makes me question if I should be here not so much in New York, but with him. While living in New York, I harbored so many dreams of love. Once I left, I thought I would give up on them, but they are working hard to surface. The love of my child would be enough to sustain me, or so I hoped, because I am finding myself yearning for the love of a man. I make my wa

*Skye* I should have made an excuse to avoid coming to New York, but the truth is that sooner or later, I have to return and confront my demons. Sooner is better; I need to get it behind me. I ask the driver to take me to a dressmaker's … one of the more posh establishments that cater to rich upper east side ladies, according to the gossip pages … and tell him to return for me in four hours. Once I'm fitted for a lilac ball gown and another blue gown, I walk out and hire a taxi to bring me to the outskirts of New York. I regret that the blue gown won't look exactly like the one before it, but what I described to the seamstress doesn't look quite right when she finished sketching it out. Still, I can't risk going to Lola, the woman I used before, I can't take a chance on someone recognizing me, spreading the word that I'm here, and the truth of my past coming to light. Lola's clients don't include noble ladies, but those for whom she does sew clothing keep quite a few aristocratic

*Ben* As a husband, I of course have the right to sit beside my wife in the car, but I prefer sitting across from her because it affords me the opportunity to gaze on her more fully, to watch her more closely. Every now and then, the light from the streetlamps we pass reflects off the pearls. I bought them because I wanted to lavish her with gifts, wanting her to have everything she has ever desired. It's crushing me to realize how much I care for her. She looks gorgeous in the blue. Whenever she looks at me, there is always a sultriness to her gaze that causes my body to react as though she has stripped herself bare. But it's more than the sex that appeals to me. It's her generosity of spirit, the way she's uncomfortable accepting something as simple as pearls. Those who meet her tonight will be captivated. She can hold her own. Of that, I have no doubt. “It didn’t occur to me to ask if you dance,” I say. Her lips curl up into a soft smile. “I attended a country dance or two.

*Ben* I am not jealous. I have always known that men would want to dance with her, and I have even encouraged her to dance with other partners. So this irrational need coursing through me to rip off limbs whenever a man takes her in his arms is not jealousy. I don't know what it is, other than dark and irritating. "Here, drink this," Tom orders. "You look as though you are on the verge of murdering someone." I glance over at the glass containing amber liquid, take it, and enjoy a long swallow. "Where did you find that?" "Card room. So who has earned your ire?" He asks. I don't know if the man has earned it. "Sheridan." "Ah, dancing with Skye, I see." He grins. And before Sheridan, it had been Avendale, who everyone knows is madly in love with his wife. No danger there of him seeking a dalliance with Skye, and even if he did, she would decline. If there is one thing regarding my wife of which I am absolutely convinced, it is her loyalty. "You made quite the splash with your arr

*Ben* I can't stomach the thought of being in the residence with her. I consider going to the club, but I can't abide the notion of inflicting my foul mood on others or dealing with the possibility of running into Beaumont. I might truly kill the man if our paths ever again cross. So I sequester myself in the library, with the door locked so no one can disturb me, and drink straight from a bottle of whiskey as though I'm a barbarian. Everything makes sense now. Why she answered my father's advert. Why she refuses to speak of the past. Why her family wants nothing to do with her. She had been a married man's mistress. I sling the bottle toward the fireplace, taking no solace as it shatters in the hearth, glass flying, whiskey splashing. I should be grateful there are no flames to catch the liquid alight, but at the moment, I'm hard-pressed to be thankful for anything. I stalk to the liquor cabinet, retrieve another bottle, and down half the whiskey before coming up for air. Damn h