Stepping forward, she addressed her sister sternly. “Antoinette, your absence will be noticed unless we return you immediately to the ballroom. Good evening, gentlemen.” Nodding coldly to Bramley, she pulled her sister up from her seat.
“No one would have missed us for five minutes longer,” Antoinette muttered as Fanny hustled her along the corridor.
“A lot of things that can’t be undone are done within five minutes. Are you such a fool, Antoinette,” Fanny asked under her breath, “that you would ruin your chances—and quite possibly mine, too—because that knave Bramley sees you as easy prey?”
Antoinette tugged her arm free of Fanny’s grip, her mouth sulky, as she stopped in the middle of the passage to face her sister.
“Bramley’s next in line to inherit from Lord Quamby and we all know Quamby’s never going to produce an heir. Why, Mama would be thrilled.”
Fanny shook her head, taking her sister’s arm again and hustling her once more along the corridor. “How credulous you are. Bramley is toying with you to avenge himself against me for rejecting his advances last summer. Now, here comes Lady Harwood. If I see you move out of her sight I swear I shall tell Mama everything.”
She was already turning, barely able to contain her impatience to thank Lord Fenton, when Antoinette gasped, “Oh Fanny, I’ve lost Lady Harwood’s bracelet—”
Fanny felt like throttling her. As their mother had predicted, Antoinette was well on track to doom the Brightwell family’s chances.
“Stay there and don’t move!” she hissed. “I’ll find it. It must have come undone when…”
Now was not the time to put her sister’s misdemeanours into words. Seething, Fanny returned to the large, immoral room, hesitating before the double doors. How could she venture, alone, into a room that would shock any well brought up young lady? Indeed, she had been shocked, but she had found the scenes disturbing.
Disturbingly compelling.
They filled her with strange longings she could not put into words.
Forcing her gaze downwards, she searched the gold laurel leaf pattern of the luxurious carpet for the lost bracelet, seizing upon it with relief. It was a pity, she reflected seconds later as she picked herself up after an undignified tumble into the pit, that she had not paid more attention to the hazardous terrain.
Dismay turned to horror as she glanced down, smoothing her hands over her lovely, damaged gown. How could she possibly return to the ball when her skirt had all but been completely ripped from her bodice?
CHAPTER FOUR
With a determined squaring of his shoulders, Fenton forced his gaze away from his host’s tribute to lust. It was impossible to look upon such scenes and not become prisoner to almost uncontrollable impulses regarding the lovely Miss Fanny Brightwell.
Just as well Bramley had fumed off in the other direction and he was alone, Fenton thought wryly as he adjusted his bulging breeches and prepared to return to the ballroom. Miss Brightwell may well have been taken for the next set and he wanted very urgently to commandeer her for the rest of the evening.
He knew he had behaved badly, both two nights ago and with his teasing this evening. The time had come to offer Miss Brightwell the formal apology she deserved. The truth was, he’d not known how to treat her in view of what had transpired between them, while Bramley’s assertions…
He shook his head. Bramley was not a man he’d trust above his own instincts and he’d been a fool to concede even a jot of what he’d suggested about Miss Brightwell, as if she were no better than a tuppenny whore! It was sour grapes on Bramley’s side, he was sure of it.
No, there was something curiously affecting about Miss Brightwell’s combination of boldness and hauteur. If Fenton were to go on instinct alone, he’d venture that Miss Brightwell was only too well aware of her fragile foothold on the society ladder and that every reason she’d given regarding her conduct with Alverley was true. He also smugly believed he was her first introduction to the sensual world. Lord, she’d responded to him like he was a master violinist and she the strings his genius played upon.
Yet what else had she said? That she was betrothed to a man she found abhorrent? He needed to discover more. He needed to discover what steps to take to secure her for himself. After the experienced women whose pleasures he’d enjoyed during his two years abroad he was very responsive to Miss Brightwell’s charms. Oh yes, the European whores had flattered him, pandered to his every desire and exhibited the utmost artistry in their ability to raise him to ever greater heights of sexual gratification. He’d taken the Grand Tour to become the cultured man his mother required to take the reins and run the estate when he returned. Any culture he might have acquired had been incidental to the surfeit of lust that had consumed him after discovering how fascinating he was to women. Now it was time to settle down. He realised he was in danger of losing himself to vanity. He’d been given a long leash and he’d taken advantage of his opportunities until he’d felt tethered to nothing.
Now he wanted to return home to Grantham, the family seat for more than three hundred years, and start behaving responsibly. To do that, he needed a wife. Preferably one who would keep him interested and keep him in check.
Miss Brightwell showed every potential of fulfilling both criteria once he’d satisfied himself that Bramley spoke nothing but evil lies, that his mother had no reasonable grounds for her objections…
…and that Miss Brightwell’s attraction to him went beyond his pocket book.
Shaking his head as he passed a depiction of bedroom sport that was, even to one of his jaded experience, extreme, Fenton was about to return to the entertainment when he was arrested by a short, sharp squeal and the sound of tearing fabric. He turned, his eyes quickly becoming accustomed to the gloom until he caught sight of movement.
After a pregnant silence came a deep sigh followed by Miss Brightwell’s dry, unmistakable tones. “Of all the inconvenient times to be disrobed.”
Fenton moved closer, following the direction of her voice. He melted into the shadows and watched her in a shaft of light cast by a candle set high on the wall.
She was at the bottom of the pit, sitting amongst a collection of brightly coloured silk cushions, staring with dismay at her gold-flecked skirts. The diaphanous fabric hung limply, torn almost entirely free of her bodice, exposing her chemise. The sight of the crisp linen undergarment thus revealed—so pristine, yet so shocking—was strangely erotic.
Fenton was torn, too—torn between what a real gentleman ought to do and what, in truth, he felt like doing.
The ladies’ sewing room was just down the corridor. A real gentleman would hasten there and return with needle and thread to render assistance.
By contrast, he wanted to hurl himself upon her and roll around in that pit of cushions, tearing the rest of her gown from her and running his hands over all her intimate places. He wanted to thrust himself into her moist velvet folds with all the passion of a first-time smitten green boy. His scalp prickled when he felt himself harden so quickly it was almost painful.
Such unadulterated lust was combined, however, with a healthy desire to atone. He looked down at himself and realised that with an erection the size he was sporting he was in no fit state to present himself to any young lady. Therefore, a trip to the ladies’ sewing room and the prospect of two minutes’ conversation with hatchet-faced Miss Mortimer whose domain it was would hopefully have the required dampening effect.
He turned his footsteps in that direction. He wanted Miss Brightwell but he had no intention of repeating his rash overtures—albeit delicious—of the other night if it should in any way compromise her. She featured in his more long-term plans and he wanted her to know it. Delivering to Miss Brightwell the means to return to the ballroom with her dignity intact might be one way to reassure her that his intentions towards her were honourable.
He was unprepared, upon his return, for his crushing disappointment at discovering the object of his desire gone.
Drawing nearer, he discovered it was a tent festooned with swathes of red silk woven with elaborate designs in green and royal purple. About to announce his presence as he searched for the entrance, he was taken aback to discover what could only be a series of peepholes cut into the fabric.
Fenton’s mission to the ladies’ mending room in the face of almost insurmountable temptation had surely established his credentials as a gentleman. But what gentleman could resist putting his eye to the peephole?
It was spontaneous curiosity, not the conscious intention to spy, that had him gazing upon the incredibly arousing sight of Miss Brightwell, with her hair in disarray, hitching her skirts thigh-high to adjust her garter.
Such a sight would, he felt sure, have robbed far more gentlemanly gentlemen than he of their good manners. Yet good manners demanded that he step away and announce his presence, giving her time to make herself presentable.
Indeed, he was on the point of doing just that—had moved his head away from the peephole and was stepping back—when his practiced eye was caught by a flash of creamy, womanly curves that surely not even the most disciplined of gentleman could resist. Had a marauding tiger been bearing down upon him, Fenton would not have had the power to move.
He returned his eye to the peephole, all concentration focused on the scene before him, all his energy gathering in his loins, like a cannon about to explode. His prick jumped to attention once more and the surface of his skin tingled. With breath fast and shallow he watched the strip of naked flesh lengthen between knee and thigh as she raised her arms to pull off her gown, taking with it the chemise beneath.
He saw slender hips, a triangle of dark hair, creamy, gently rounded belly and a pair of breasts so pert they almost seemed to beckon to him. His own sigh echoed hers as she sank onto an Egyptian sofa with armrests carved in the shape of sphinxes, almost instantly covering her briefly revealed nakedness as she studied the damage done to her gown.
God, how he wanted her.
The gold-flecked gossamer fabric and crisp cotton chemise pooled in her lap. Fenton could see her slipper peeking from beneath the chair and willed her to rise and allow the fabric to fall in a shimmer to her feet.
He shifted position, trying to ease his discomfort, for his prick was ready for action and threatening to part company with the rest of him.
Closing his eyes, he tried to control his heathen impulses. He had promised to act the gentleman therefore he should go.
Yet how could he tear himself away from the most seductive, sensuous sight he’d experienced—ever? He realised that even he who prided himself on his self-control was defeated, and stepped forward to return his eye to the peephole.
Miss Brightwell’s long, dark hair had come loose from its coiffure and a tendril curled around the rosy peak cresting one of her full, pert breasts, surely the most magnificent bosom he’d ever seen. His vision blurred and his cock felt hot and heavy as it strained against his breeches.
He held his breath. The anticipation was killing him but he dare not reveal his presence or the show would be over—and what would be his reward?
He swallowed. Outrage? Or would she melt into his arms if he promised to restore her dignity?
She shifted a little and he caught a glimpse of naked thigh, a shapely calf encased in its white stocking tied at the knee. He’d seen many a Cyprian in greater undress than this, but the fact that he now gazed upon a lady made the blood sting the surface of his skin. He stifled another groan.
If ever a man was close to the brink of drowning in desire…
It was time to bring matters to a head. In the boat, he’d felt her slick with want for a stranger whom she clearly desired considerably more than either Alverley or her intended groom. He’d suckled at her breast while his hands had caressed her thighs slippery with the womanly juices that indicated an unfeigned lust for her mystery lover.
He was that man—the man who had made her heart beat fast and furiously during the short ferry crossing.
Now he was back, and he was ready to do far more than just make her heart beat fast and furiously. Why, before he was done with her tonight, there’d be no doubt in his mind that untutored Miss Fanny Brightwell was ready to pledge herself to him, heart, body and soul. If her kisses were as sweet as the other night and her body as yielding and pliant, then he intended to woo her right from under the nose of her mystery intended. He would hustle her down the aisle and into his bed as his legal, wedded wife.
Strange what a sense of satisfaction the thought brought to a man who’d feared the shackles of matrimony for his entire life.
“Miss Brightwell?” With conscious devilry, Fenton chose that moment to announce his presence, his intonation suggesting he had not yet ascertained her whereabouts.
Observing her confusion added to his excitement. He’d atone when he handed her needle and thread. Then he’d make her reel from his tender ministrations and he’d show her how exquisite their union could be—without actually taking her virginity. That would be his reward on her wedding night.
“One moment, sir.”
The fierce blush that rose from her bosom upwards was enchanting. As was the faint tremble in her voice. Miss Brightwell was not a young lady accustomed to allowing herself to feel at a disadvantage—he’d discovered that much about her.
Now he had to rediscover what she felt like beneath the diaphanous skirts she’d raised so high. The brief sampling of her charms aboard the ferry had been enough to drive him mad to know more. His ungentlemanly spying was driving him to the brink.
~ * ~
Dear Lord, he must not see her like this, thought Fanny as she scrambled into her gown. What on earth had made her eschew undergarments? Vanity, of course. And a desperation to cut more of a dash than anyone else at the ball. Her diaphanous skirts clung far more alluringly to her limbs when dampened. Her chemise provided sufficient modesty. Yet what had possessed her to remove that as well? She’d hoped to engineer some means of joining the two garments together but now she was completely at a disadvantage.
Anxiety and urgency made her fingers clumsy in their haste, but dismay nearly struck her down as she stared at her reflection in the huge gilt mirror that formed one entire wall of the festooned tent.
How was she to re-fashion her Grecian coiffure when she had lost most of the necessary hairpins? If that was not bad enough, how could she ever make her reappearance at the ball in a gown so badly damaged?
She was conscious of his presence near the entrance and both longed for and feared his arrival.
“I… I’m not quite ready.” Would she ever be?
The insidious knot of self-doubt always lurking beneath the surface grew. It hardened, lodging in her chest cavity, and ground away at the self-assurance she’d polished to a shine. Who did she think she was, parading as a society miss, dangling her brassy powers of attraction before Britain’s ten thousand in the hopes of snaring a husband who would benefit the Brightwell family, collectively? A baron’s daughter she may be, but she had nothing other than good looks and a reputation still intact—if Fenton kept his word—to recommend her. At this moment, even that was imperilled on account of her careless pea goose of a sister. Her feverish attempts at feigning a life of leisure and frivolity in accord with those whose life she sought to share seemed suddenly stupid and pathetic. She’d be a laughing stock if people knew the long hours she plied needle and thread to clothe her sister and herself in the latest splendour.
Desperation at her plight was shredding her insides. Tomorrow she was to marry Lord Slyther, unless…
Unless what? There was not time. Lord Fenton was waiting for her and all she could do was stare into the looking-glass like some unworldly debutante frozen by fear.
A sob of grief and despair shook her. Right now, in her hour of need, she could n
ot even find a threaded needle to save her reputation. Lord Fenton would think her little better than a costermonger when he saw her with her torn skirt and disordered hair. What would he think if he could see into her shrivelled-up little soul?
It was enough to make her toes curl and her insides cleave with frustrated longing. Tonight she’d recognised in his eye the mysterious fascination she wielded. She’d wielded the same power over Alverley—puling Alverley, who was so afraid of displeasing his mama that he’d sacrifice his happiness by forsaking Fanny.
She’d not wanted Alverley but he’d offered the means of survival. Hers and her family’s. Lord, but she wanted Fenton.
With an effort she steadied her breathing as she recognised the truth, cupping her face as she continued to stare at her reflection with glazed eyes. Fenton provided the same opportunities as Lord Slyther. He had lineage, money, prospects enough to offer the entire Brightwell clan. Her mother would be as delighted over a match with Fenton as she was with Lord Slyther.
Fanny could be a wife worthy of Lord Fenton. Fanny needed a man like Lord Fenton. And Fanny wanted…Lord Fenton.
Actually wanted him, like she’d never wanted a man. The need to reconnect with him, physically, was so powerfully intense she had to grip the sofa arm to steady herself.
Beware. She closed her eyes and forced reason to prevail. Fenton had the power to make her forget herself. It had happened before and she’d been lucky.
In Fenton she’d met her match. His devil-may-care attitude mirrored her boldness. She recognised in him qualities that went deeper than the ironic façade he chose to present to the world—for she practiced the same deception. A necessary deception if she were to shield her most vulnerable self from an exacting and judgemental society.
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