The reason for Fanny’s squirming was the hard, uncomfortable bulge she was sitting on. Lord Slyther had something in his trousers that appeared to be wriggling.
He must have understood her confusion, for he burst out laughing and grabbed her wrist, shifting her bottom aside to force her hand onto his crotch.
“Meet my Magnificent Member, Miss Brightwell.” His eyes gleamed. He seemed suddenly far from infirm. “As you can see, my Magnificent Member is in far better health than the rest of me. You and he are going to enjoy great sport together.”
Fanny stared as her horror mounted. Beneath her hand, the shiny gold satin of his breeches was raised like a tent—one that was rising ever larger and more rigid.
“That’s right, give him a little stroke. He likes that, as you can see.” Lord Slyther’s hand was still forcing hers against his crotch and now he curled her fingers around the mound while he ground his hips beneath her and uttered a sigh of ecstasy.
Never had Fanny been closer to suffering a fit of the vapours. She wanted to run screaming from the room, but she was trapped, words and shrieks no use to her in this nightmare from which there was no escape—would never be any escape.
Lord Slyther, reclining in his chair with his eyes closed, patted his heart. “In my coat pocket I have the special licence that will see us married tomorrow, my pretty.” His words were laboured as he gave himself up to the pleasure he was experiencing beneath Fanny’s forced hand.
“Tomorrow! Oh no, Lord Slyther, it is too soon! I…I need to prepare.”
“The day after that, then—and that’s as long as I’m prepared to wait. The anticipation of my Magnificent Member to feel the smooth, slippery wetness of your caverns of delight, Miss Brightwell, can be put on hold no longer.”
Fanny was almost sick upon the spot. Last night was the first time in her life she had experienced the ‘slippery wetness’ to which he must obviously refer. The exciting young body of her mystery rescuer had evoked desire like she’d never known—sexual desire, though she’d not been prepared to label it as such. What inexperienced debutante would?
Lord Slyther intended to strip her naked, feel her all over, then thrust his disgusting Magnificent Member right into her, tearing her apart, body and soul.
“Tears, Miss Brighwell?” He jerked forward and released her hand, muttering, as he smoothed the silk over his crotch, “No time to get too carried away when there are appearances to be maintained, eh?” After an initial pained look while he straightened his breeches, his sigh was one of immense satisfaction as he regarded Fanny slumped on the footstool. She covered her face with her hands to hide her distress. Nevertheless, he must have been aware of the sobs shaking her shoulders.
“I am a kind master, Miss Brightwell,” he said, his tone fatherly as he patted her shoulder, “who shall govern you appropriately, as will be my duty as your new husband. As long as no whisper regarding unseemly conduct on your part ever comes to my ear, and no suspicions as regards your straying interest lodge in my brain, you shall have all the pretty clothes and indulgences you could wish for. Your mother will have her own residence and, in view of her willingness to please me as regards the terms of this marriage, her own carriage. I shall also bail out your wastrel brother, Bertram, for we can’t have him following in his father’s footsteps, can we? Your father owed a lot of money when he died, and it was just as well, some would say, that he chose the time and method of his death—else there were others prepared to help him along.”
She tried to block her ears to Lord Slyther’s chuckle but could not. It would haunt her. There was no way out. She was doomed and he spoke nothing but the truth when he insinuated there were no other contenders prepared to overlook the collective Brightwell failings.
He pulled her around to face him.
“So, Miss Brightwell, the day after tomorrow will be the happy day, eh? You can think of nothing to stand in the way of our happiness, I trust, after this very satisfying little discussion? No? Good. Then call your mother through, so we may impart the happy news.”
Wearily, unsmiling, she rose, but he stopped her as she had her hand upon the doorknob.
“Appearances, Miss Brightwell”—his voice was warning, his expression evil—“are everything. You will be my joyful bride and my constant wife.”
A green log in the fire hissed. Fanny forced her lips into the required smile, wondering how far it was possible to pretend joy when her soul was all but dead.
“Tomorrow you shall wear my ring—the Slyther ring—to Lord Quamby’s ball, where you shall have eyes only for me and my comfort. The morning following that, we shall be married.”
Fanny curtsied. “Yes, my Lord.” “One other thing, Miss Brightwell…”
“Yes?”
“If I hear a word to suggest that your behaviour is anything but beyond reproach, and your heart and body are not wholly dedicated to me, then I shall cut off your mother’s pension and refuse all assistance to your siblings. You will discover I am not the kind and indulgent husband you thought you’d married. Is that understood?”
Fanny met his eye, even as she felt the boldness of a lifetime drain from her. Lord Slyther held all the cards. She was powerless to resist. All she could hope for was that salvation would come before she was a dried-up prune of a creature with all her joy in life sucked from her.
Once more she curtsied, before she offered Lord Slyther the response required of a dispirited, subjugated bride-to-be when she’d so hoped to be happy.
Through constricted airways, she forced her words past the threatening tears, “Yes, my Lord.”
CHAPTER THREE
Felix Linley, Lord Fenton, cast his roving eye over the gathering. Now that he was in the market for a wife, after a decade of idle dalliances, he’d never been more spoilt for choice.
And he’d never been more dissatisfied with what was on offer.
His companion, the undiscerning libertine George Bramley, was doing his best to acquaint Fenton with the dazzling debutantes new to society since Fenton’s return to England after two years abroad. The truth was that Fenton was too busy reliving his nocturnal adventure at Vauxhall Gardens to pay attention. He far preferred amorous intrigue to a roomful of eligible maidens parading their wares. Scowling at a Titian-haired miss whose smile faltered as she scuttled away, he realised he was comparing them all against a new standard—the exquisite ingénue he’d scooped up from under Alverley’s nose. As he watched the redhead’s return to the safety of her mama, his resolve hardened. Once he’d paid his respects to Lord Quamby this evening, he’d return to Vauxhall and see if the mysterious creature of the night was parading her far more delectable wares in one of the garden’s serpentine walks.
Excitement surged through him at the thought, for he was certain she was very new to the trade—though her lines had been very polished. “I am destined to marry a man I do not love.” Ha! What sort of credulous fool did she take him for? Nevertheless, he’d been a fool not to have snared her when he had the chance. He might be in the market for a wife but enjoying the pleasures offered by an enthusiastic and diverting mistress was a far more enticing prospect.
“And passing by is the Baby Brightwell Beauty,” Bramley remarked as a golden-haired debutante crossed his line of vision. “Unleashed this season to rival her sister in the fortune-hunting stakes, she is yet another to beware.”
Fenton watched the girl join a bored Corinthian wearing such ridiculously high collar points that the chafing of his neck could be seen from five yards away. Beside him stood a dark-haired girl, partly obscured by her companion’s posturing, though he could see she filled out her gold-flecked gown very nicely.
With peculiar grace, she turned, setting off a chain of events that had Bramley thumping Fenton on the back and sympathising, “Ah, the Brightwell Beauty. One glance from her azure blue eyes will damn a man to eternal restlessness. Have nothing to do with her, Fenton. She can only cause you grief.”
The young woman had not even g
lanced at him and already Fenton was in the grip of a maelstrom of powerful emotions, not all of them pleasant, as he watched the girl he’d abducted from Vauxhall Gardens sip her champagne and laugh with her companions. Mesmerised, he feasted his eyes upon her lithe and lovely figure in a gown that was both modest and alluring. Her eyes were most arresting, dancing with liveliness in a heart-shaped face framed with dark ringlets tumbling from the crown of her head. Her cheekbones were high, her mouth a delectable pout of a rosebud he remembered only too well grazing his jawline before he’d plundered it with fierce kisses of his own.
The young woman’s hair he remembered as having been powdered. Now, reflecting the light from a thousand beeswax candles, it had the sheen of a raven’s wing.
He tried to master his desire, or at least the effect it was having upon him, shifting position, his discomfort exacerbated by the deepest dismay. He’d assumed the girl he’d carried off from Alverley to be a fair Cyprian—or close enough—yet her presence tonight confirmed her status among the haut ton. For all his eccentricity, their illustrious host Lord Quamby did not invite members of the demi mondaine to the same entertainments to which he invited his gorgon of a mama.
If he was lucky, the dark-haired beauty would not recognise him. If he wasn’t so fortunate he’d be fronting up to a dawn appointment on Hampstead Heath with some irate brother or father.
“Not marriage material, old chap, though that’s what she’s been angling for the past two seasons.”
Bramley’s leer aroused Fenton’s chivalry. Turning, he said icily, “I well recall Baron Brightwell’s fall from grace, and his subsequent exile.” The kernel of dislike he’d always felt for Bramley hardened and grew. There was something unpleasantly brutal about the man, despite their loose friendship. “Lord Brightwell’s pecuniary embarrassment and the nature of his death are not stains to be borne by his daughters.”
Bramley chuckled and scratched his thick nose. “Brightwell’s fall from grace has nothing to do with society’s low opinion of his daughters.” His tone was suggestive.
Ignoring him, Fenton resumed the pleasant occupation of gazing upon Miss Brightwell, and felt again the swell of his manhood. Unconsciously he licked his lips, unable to rid himself of memories of her mouth, captive beneath his, responding with delightful passion. The softness of her curves, the lushness of her body, were branded on his thoughts and it took all his willpower not to groan aloud. What had he done? He’d compromised an innocent! He’d whisked her away from Alverley, thinking it no more than a game that would teach the silly boy a lesson, and before he knew it he’d been bewitched by his captive.
At first he’d not believed her insinuations about her inexperience, for what kind of young woman would allow herself such liberties with a strange man in a boat? Then he’d realised that even that kind of young woman had to start somewhere. He shuddered at the delicious, almost painful, recollection of her willingness to succumb to his ministrations—her body soft and pliant, her mouth yielding with growing eagerness. And…the wetness of her desire. Good God! She’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her, though she’d known nothing about the mechanics of desire. Now that she was presented to him in an entirely altered light, he was sure of it.
Fenton tried to breathe evenly. He’d abducted the girl and, despite their respective disguises and lack of knowledge of one another, they’d discovered some powerful, unexpected chemistry between them. Until Fenton had muscled in on her quiet dinner with Alverley—and who knew but that there had been some discreet chaperone hiding in the wings—Miss Brightwell had had no experience of relations between men and women.
Now she was here, a respectable debutante, and if word got out as to what he’d done he’d be pilloried. It would be no more than he deserved. The thought that he’d compromised an innocent was not something that sat well with him. However, the more he thought about it, the more appealing was the idea of atonement.
He felt the irregular beat of his heart, the suspended pause as, glancing up, she locked eyes with him. Holding her gaze, he watched the play of emotions flit across her lovely, mobile face. God, she was a beauty. He longed to cross the floor and offer the most abject of apologies.
Except he could not do that. He could say nothing in company that would suggest she was guilty of any impropriety, yet he was screaming inside to whisk her away to some secluded arbour so he could determine her feelings for him after two days of sober reflection.
On the short ferry crossing, he’d been taken aback by the unexpected sizzle of excitement that had been lacking during his numerous encounters with other women. Miss Brightwell was as charmingly refreshing a contradiction as had ever crossed his path.
Just then, her attention was claimed by her companion and Fenton returned reluctantly to Bramley’s unflattering monologue.
“…likes to think she’s a cut above the rest, though she’ll be lucky to snare a rich merchant prepared to overlook her reputation. She’s more than willing to make discreet compromises when a fellow makes her a good offer.”
Fenton unleashed a cold, level stare upon Bramley, then allowed him to drone on while his thoughts ran their own course. Oh, but he had so much more to teach Miss Brightwell and he would do so…without compromising her reputation. For the novel notion had popped into his head that he’d far prefer to take the enigmatic beauty for his wife than his mistress. He’d had plenty of mistresses, whose transitory excitement had quickly given way to an air of jaded experience he found quite unpalatable.
Yet wasn’t there was something about the Brightwell name to which his mother had also taken exception?
Brightwell… Fenton racked his brains to capture the elusive drift of memory. What had his mother’s caveat been, following her joy at his admission that he’d decided to find himself a wife?
“Just so long as it’s not a Brightwell.” Lady Fenton’s elegant nose had wrinkled with disgust. “They came back from exile last year, trying to insinuate their way into society. Like pretty, common dandelions dressing themselves up as exotic tulips.”
The recollection of his mother’s aversion was dampening, but of course no reason not to make up to a beautiful girl this evening. He would discover the truth for himself, and act accordingly.
Unable to drag his eyes away, he watched as the beautiful Brightwells, one so fair, the other so dark, were led into a cotillion. “If you’re trying to warn me off, Bramley,” he said, coolly, “you’ve not succeeded.”
“I was thinking of your poor mama,” Bramley assured him. “Mine had heart palpitations after I paid court to Miss Brightwell. When I learnt more of the young woman’s—er—colourful history, and her willingness to meet me halfway in the hopes she’d gain a wedding band, I’m afraid I shared Mama’s disgust.”
“Why does Quamby invite them if they are so beyond the pale?” Fenton’s bored drawl masked the tumult in his breast.
Bramley had clearly been awaiting an opportunity to elaborate. Adjusting a cufflink below his coat sleeve with exaggerated care, he said, “It’s been suggested by some that the lovely Miss Brightwell made it into this world before the church register was signed—”
“Good God, Bramley, that can be verified easily enough without your evil assertions!” “I have heard it said that Miss Brightwell enjoys her status purely on account of a little bribery and doctoring of dates in the church register.”
Fenton grappled with the ramifications of this. The stain of illegitimacy would be an all but impossible hurdle for a young woman to overcome—if what Bramley said was true.
Reason returned. Miss Brightwell’s presence here this evening was proof she was accepted into society and that was good enough for him.
“The Beauty of Blackfriars, as the mother was known in the trade, was an engaging little Ladybird Lord Brightwell whisked off to France with him from some house of ill-repute. You know our good baron’s proclivities for spice and scandal.” Bramley’s nostrils flared. Slanting a look at Fenton, he added, “It’s not j
ust the uncertainty of Miss Brightwell’s origins, my friend, which need to be investigated if you are serious about paying her attention, for there are other toes you must beware treading upon…”
Fenton curbed the desire for a more forceful response to the smug manner in which Bramley delivered his cautions, as if he were the arbiter of what was morally acceptable.
“Miss Brightwell is very adept at playing the untutored innocent. Just ask Lord Bickling, whom she provided with some much-appreciated nocturnal diversion during his wife’s confinement last year.”
Bramley lied. And yet…
Fenton watched the Brightwell sisters perform their figures on the dance floor with as much grace as any duke’s daughter. Could she be such an actress? He imagined the dark-haired beauty pretending the same ecstasy she’d shown with him in the ferry as she writhed beneath the fat and leering Bramley and the philandering Lord Bickling.
Fenton’s heart pounded. If Bramley was spouting evil tales with no foundation, he should stop him now—but what if they were true? Was that why his mother had taken so against the Brightwell females? Because they pretended one thing while being quite another?
“Rumour also has it that Lord Slyther has just offered her a carte blanche.” “Lord Slyther! That fat old toad?”
Bramley inclined his head. “You sound sceptical, but I speak the truth. Gout has him laid up in bed this evening, but if you wish to keep Miss Brightwell in your sights you’ll discover she’s prepared to trade her favours for a little pecuniary respite. All of London knows the creditors are pounding at the door while the brother is under the hatches and persona non grata at his club.”
During Bramley’s denunciation, Fenton’s eyes never left the lovely creature who moved with such fluid grace, who spoke to her companions with such animation, and whose every gesture conjured up in him the almost unbearable urge to whisk her away so he could have her all to himself. Again.
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