“Missed me, eh?” he repeated, patting the mattress at his side. “Come and tell me how you missed me, Miss Brightwell. Such pretty words, but empty unless you elaborate.”
Fanny had resolved not to shrink from him. His odious person, reeking with decay, and his words, foul and disrespectful, would not find their mark. Tonight, Fanny would do what she had to in order to play for the time she so desperately needed.
Sinking beside him, she looked at the hand he placed upon her thigh and said, demurely, “My mother is in the next room so you must not take liberties, Lord Slyther.”
He let out a crack of laughter. “Got your spirit back, have you? My, but I enjoyed our last little session, teaching precocious Miss Brightwell her place. I see you are not so easily cowed as I’d thought. Good, more sport for me—for you will learn how to behave in my company, Miss Brightwell.”
Fanny lowered her eyes. He liked her spirit, for he enjoyed breaking her down. She saw that. The issue was how she should play her behaviour so that he would grant her the few days’ delay she needed.
“I am a lady, my Lord, and I will not have my reputation besmirched, even if we are due to wed in the morning. It is late and I am surprised my mother acceded to your unconventional request.”
“Your mother is so eager for all I can confer on her daughter and the benefits to herself that she’d accede to anything.”
It required no play-acting to look as desolate as she felt. Fanny had always been a dutiful daughter, desperate to achieve whatever her mother demanded, but she did not want to hear the truth laid bare in such a way.
He softened at her expression and said, almost kindly, “Let us pay no heed to your mama. You’ll be free of her soon enough and, though you might fear me now, I promise you, I shall be an indulgent husband…provided you are a good girl. Kiss me, Miss Brightwell.”
She could not show the aversion she felt, though it was appropriate to display reluctance at such a great liberty.
“You can kiss me all you like when we are wed, my Lord,” she whispered, holding her ground.
“I shall enjoy your acquiescence, then, and your dutiful enthusiasm”—he tugged on her arm—“but tonight I will enjoy showing you who is master.”
Before she could object further, he had jerked her into his arms and plastered his loose lips upon hers in a revolting, slobbery, grinding motion that made her want to scream and cry. She felt she was suffocating with the horror of it all, and didn’t know what to do that wouldn’t incite his evil desire to grind her down further.
Allowing him sufficient satisfaction before she broke free, she forced her tears into abeyance, saying briskly, almost playfully, “Let us save some surprises for after we are wed. Now, my Lord, your leg looks painful. Allow me to bring you some relief with the unguents I see beside your bed. Shall I remove the dressing and massage it?”
The suggestion took him by surprise. Clearly, even he had thought she would be reluctant at such an obviously disgusting task, for the weeping sores were evident beneath the bandages.
Holding her breath, forcing the smile to remain unwavering upon her face, Fanny unwrapped the stained linen and laid the limb beside her. She’d thought to place it upon her lap but lost courage at the last minute. She couldn’t bring herself to come that much into contact with it, for the suppurating flesh would stain her dress and the stink she’d have to carry home with her was more than she could bear.
Oh, dear Lord, she thought, briefly closing her eyes, the sacrifices she had to make. It was a brief lapse. Almost immediately the smile was back in place and she was rubbing in the ointment and murmuring, “I hope this eases the discomfort a little, my Lord. My grandmother said I was a very good nurse when I used to massage her painful old legs.”
Lord Slyther grunted. His eyes were closed and, judging by his expression, he’d all but given himself up to the soothing sensation.
Fanny tried to separate herself from the hateful present and return to the thrilling past. She would not feel shame. Perhaps in the eyes of her mother she’d done a terrible thing but no punishment could take away from her the satisfaction that she’d given her virginity to a man who set her senses on fire. She’d exercised free will and she’d pleased herself.
Please, dear Lord, don’t make it for the last time.
For so long did she gently knead Lord Slyther’s white, pestilential flesh and rub ointment into the sores that Fanny fervently hoped he’d gone to sleep. But when she paused to return sensation to her aching hands, he opened his eyes.
“You’re more than just the pretty face I thought you, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured. “Your grandmother was right—you have a nurse’s touch and the sooner we’re wed the better.”
Fanny accepted the compliment with a gracious smile. “You are kind, my Lord.” She couldn’t let him see that she was cowed. Bullies preyed on weakness, she knew, and she would display no more weakness in front of Lord Slyther. She definitely wouldn’t cry, though the thought of offering herself up to him as required made her want to break down upon the spot.
She put her hand gently upon his ankle. “How long do your gout attacks last, my Lord? Will you be better in the morning? At least able to walk, I mean?”
“Another two or three days in bed, if previous attacks are anything to go by. The parson arrives in the morning.” He gave her a sly look. “Unless you’re willing to wait and I’ll send for him now. I have a special licence and I can choose for myself.”
“Would it not be better, my Lord, if you were in less pain to enjoy your wedding night”—she lowered her eyes—“so you could be more…yourself?”
He grunted again. “Don’t know I can wait that long, Miss Brightwell.” He struggled upon his pillows and his hand went out to touch the bare skin above her décolletage. Fingering the ring upon its chain, he hesitated as he added, “Though you are right…”
Fanny’s heart lurched at the concession. “In three days’ time, my Lord, you would be well enough to stand by my side and”—she swallowed—“be the bridegroom of my desires.”
For a second he appeared to consider her suggestion. Suddenly, he jerked forward and pulled her to him, though he immediately released her, despite the fact that she had not squealed. He seemed angry when she straightened, staring wide-eyed, shocked by his surprising strength and his erratic behaviour.
“Three days, then, Miss Brightwell. I see the good sense in a short delay. In the meantime, you can stand up and come to my side. You’ve had the pleasure of running your hands over my tender flesh. Now it’s my turn.”
When Fanny was reunited with her mother her recent horrors must have been evident, for, as she rose to greet her in the drawing room, Lady Brightwell hissed, “I hope your smile was pleasanter than that for Lord Slyther.”
“Oh, Mama, the things he did to me,” she nearly wept once they were in the carriage. “He put his hands—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” her mother cut in, looking straight ahead as she settled herself. “I’m just sorry he couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, when you’ll be safely wed.”
“The wedding is in three days’ time—”
“Three days!” Her mother swung round sharply. “What has happened, Fanny? Why three days?” There was panic in her tone before her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Fanny hurried on. “Lord Slyther’s gout is paining him. He’ll wed me when he is a little more recovered.”
Lady Brightwell rounded on her. “You asked for a postponement, didn’t you, Fanny?
You suggested his manliness would be greater for the fact he could at least walk, when all that matters is that it is legally done and you are Lady Slyther. What possessed you, daughter, after everything I have done for you? How could you—”
Fanny was close to tears as she defended herself. “Mama, there is a gentleman, a viscount, handsome and rich, who has taken a fancy to me. I know that with a little time, even three days, perhaps, I can win his regard sufficiently for—”
“Little fool!” Lady Brightwell’s anger was accompanied by another of her stinging slaps across her daughter’s cheek. “I’ve heard that one too many times before, Fanny! Lord Alverley, remember? Oh yes, smitten he might have been, but he was young and tied to his mother’s apron strings. Only you couldn’t see that, could you? Well, what truth have you overlooked this time? You are ruled by your foolish heart, girl. It sweeps away all reason. It’ll be the same story with your latest fancy. Mark my words, he’ll tell you he’ll fly to the moon to make you his, but when his mama hears her son has fallen in love with a baron’s daughter with no fortune—in one night—the same thing will happen. Who is this viscount?”
“Lord Fenton—”
Her mother’s wail of anger drowned Fanny’s reassurance that Lord Fenton was so unlike Alverley that the comparison was laughable.
“Lord Fenton!” Lady Brightwell nearly choked on the name as she repeated it. “Why, if his mama is still alive—and unless she passed away this last week then she is—you can be assured you will not be marrying her son. Not while she has breath in her body. Of all the young bucks to pick, you have chosen the worst, Fanny! The one with the worst mama, at any rate! What have you done?”
It was rare that Lady Brightwell’s anger took this despairing form. Usually she was brisk and cold, but now her railing frightened Fanny. Defending herself, she cried, “He loves me, Mama, and he’s in the market for a wife! Lord Quamby himself told me—”
“Well, you will not make it onto Lord Fenton’s list of contenders, Fanny—”
“Mama, do you know what Lord Slyther made me do?” Fanny gripped her mother’s arm but Lady Brightwell prised off her fingers, replying, “I don’t care! I’ve had to do nothing less. We’ve spoken of this before.”
The carriage rounded a corner. They were nearly home but it offered no sanctuary. Lady Brightwell would not hear her out.
Desperately, Fanny cried, “You married Papa for love. What can you know of being mauled by a disgusting old man? Yes, all over me, Mama! And he kissed me, and put his tongue in my mouth and then he made me—”
“If you’d played your cards right, Fanny, he’d be doing it as your husband, not besmirching your reputation. Your position is weak. You are a complete fool, just like your father! Do you think he was some handsome young buck I fell head over heels for? He was charming enough when I wed him, thinking to elevate myself just a little, but it wasn’t long before the drink and the gambling ruined him—and your chances. A disappointed man, when he’s drunk, is a frightening prospect, Fanny. So don’t tell me I know nothing of the horrors you’ve endured. You know nothing of horror! I’ve shielded you, like the best of mothers, and look how you repay me! You are a stupid, ungrateful girl and you will rue this day!”
Hunching back into the corner as the carriage halted in front of their town house, Fanny wiped her streaming eyes. “I’m going to marry Lord Fenton, Mama,” she muttered. “You’ll see.”
CHAPTER SIX
With senses still soaring from the unexpected entertainment he’d enjoyed at Lord Quamby’s ball, Lord Fenton peered into the darkness from the comfort of the family carriage and watched the hired hackney roll up to the front portico of Lord Slyther’s residence. The cross-eyed jarvey who pulled on the reins was, he was sure, the very one who had conveyed Miss Brightwell, her sister and their chaperone home, not ten minutes ago.
Now two cloaked figures were being ushered through the door.
Fenton’s exuberance was checked. It was long after midnight and this was the confirmation he had been hoping not to see.
Lord Slyther’s London town house. Lord Slyther’s ring. Fenton would not have troubled to discern the crest had it not been for Bramley’s words earlier that night, but it had struck him as odd that Miss Brightwell had concealed the ring in her handkerchief when earlier she’d been wearing it on a chain around her neck.
Why?
Having discounted Bramley’s libellous slur upon Miss Brightwell the moment she was in his arms, Fenton had been deeply dismayed to pick up the ring after it had fallen from his beloved’s handkerchief. They’d still been in the post-coital stage after the most incendiary lovemaking he’d ever experienced. He’d been convinced that Miss Brightwell had been a virgin for all that she’d given herself to him with such ardour and despite the fact that she’d not bled.
Although he’d tried to cast the coincidence from his mind, certain some innocent and plausible connection could be established between Miss Brightwell and Lord Slyther, he’d been unable to resist following her at the end of Lord Quamby’s ball.
Now, suspicion and dismay crowded his mind, though he could not be entirely certain that one of the cloaked figures ushered into the house was his Miss Brightwell.
Anxiously, Fenton scanned the four storeys of the building for any chink through the curtains that might give a clue to what was going on inside. Anxiously? No—angrily—for a closer look at the jarvey convinced him it was indeed the same man, and the confident manner with which the younger woman had swept past the parlour maid was Miss Brightwell personified.
The idea that she could go directly from the ball where she’d given herself to Fenton with such enthusiasm straight to the arms of…who? Her erstwhile secret lover? Though perhaps it was public knowledge, given Bramley’s lewd talk. It made him sick to the stomach.
There must be some explanation. Miss Brightwell must have a perfectly good reason for being there. Could Lord Slyther be her godfather, who’d requested her presence upon his deathbed?
After Bramley’s talk, he doubted it.
He was shivering, though his blood was boiling by the time the two cloaked figures reappeared nearly an hour later. He saw the older woman hurry into the carriage while the other paused for a moment upon the top step. Straining, Lord Fenton tried to identify the lonely, straight-backed figure as Miss Brightwell. Actually, he hoped to discount his suspicions, so when she raised her lovely, familiar face to the light spilling from the lamps he nearly wept aloud with disappointment.
Miss Brightwell’s perfect, high cheekbones cast shadows over her rosebud of a mouth and her dimpled chin as she gazed into the darkness.
Thinking of what? Fenton, or the man who kept her? Disappointment roiled in his gut. He’d been in the market for a wife and Miss Brightwell had seemed a gift from heaven—a creature who combined everything he desired. He’d had enough of transient pleasures. Spending so much time in the country, as he would from now on, he wanted a wife to please him in bed as much as she did over breakfast and…well, during every other part of the day.
He was about to turn away in disappointed disgust when he saw her put her hand to her neck; to the chain upon which she kept Lord Slyther’s ring. She had secreted it away for the brief duration of their own clandestine tryst, but now she had returned it to its original position. With a sharp tug, she tore the chain from her neck. The ring skittered to the flagstones at her feet.
Lord Fenton watched her stare at it, as if undecided.
Then, slowly, like an old woman, she bent to retrieve it before putting it in her reticule.
~ * ~
In his mama’s Mayfair drawing room the following morning, Lord Fenton paced between fireplace and window, his thoughts in turmoil. His mindless activity clearly infuriated his mother, who eventually snapped, “What is wrong with you, Fenton! Spit it out, for I cannot keep my mind on my stitching while you’re behaving like some lovelorn schoolboy…unless you’re dunned and too afraid to tell me.”
Fenton stopped by the stuffed mongoose in its glass box atop a round table and managed a wry smile. “I’m not the gambler I used to be, Mama.” He let out a deep sigh as he looked out of the window, his gaze taking in a couple in the park across the street. Newlyweds, by the look of them, their fair heads bent towards one another as they discussed something in animated fashion, their bodies suggesting a companionable union.
“So, no, I’m not dunned.” Though, to tell the truth, he might be accu
sed of lacking the courage to tell his mother the exact nature of his distraction. Anyone would consider it a gamble to stake his happiness on a bold young woman whom he’d met for the first time when she’d encouraged his all but complete seduction of her. The truth was, despite everything he’d heard and the scene he’d witnessed in the dead of night at Lord Slyther’s residence, he still held out hope that Miss Brightwell remained a contender for the position of his viscountess.
He ran his hand around his shirt collar and sighed again. What was the truth behind what he’d seen last night?
Until he’d witnessed Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther, he’d convinced himself that Bramley’s spurious words were borne of spite and a need to avenge himself on a woman who more than likely had spurned him.
He’d taken Bramley to task for his heedless behaviour towards Miss Antoinette, but perhaps it had not been so heedless. Perhaps Bramley had every indication that Miss Antoinette was in the market for nefarious activities if so inclined—that, like her elder sister, she was indeed willing to barter her body if the price was right. He imagined Fanny allowing Lords Bickling and Slyther the same liberties she’d allowed him the previous night and pain tore through him like a sabre.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the young couple reach the gates of the park, where the woman stopped and laughed, as though her companion had made a joke. She raised her head, touching the young man’s cheek, revealing her age to be at least two decades older than her companion—perhaps mother or aunt.
Fenton nearly laughed out loud. Appearances were not always what they seemed. The observation ignited a spark of hope that made him raise his shoulders and turn towards his mother. No doubt there was some perfectly acceptable reason for Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther. The young woman had been chaperoned and there was every possibility of some family connection that Bramley, with his vulgar talk, had discounted. His imagination had conjured up all manner of lurid possibilities the night before because he’d been tired and had had too much to drink.
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