Rakes and Rogues

by Boyd, Heather

  He’d spent a sleepless night castigating himself for his lack of finesse. Miss Brightwell had every reason to feel insulted at the direct manner in which he’d proposed to set her up. To feel furious, even. To add insult to injury, he’d referred to their need for discretion to protect her sister’s reputation. As if Miss Brightwell hadn’t suffered enough on account of the no doubt constant fear that her previous liaisons would be discovered—though clearly she hadn’t realised he was cognisant of the extent of her misdemeanours. Since sampling her charms he’d heard whispers from various quarters, and the expertise with which she had enslaved him was surely proof in itself.

  He had to keep reminding himself that the only wrong he’d done was the crude manner in which he’d proposed to set Miss Brightwell up as his mistress. He could not have asked her to be his wife. He’d witnessed her nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther, in addition to which his mother had rammed it down his throat that she was not marriage material—said outright that she was so decidedly unsuitable that she’d never even receive her. His mother was harsh but she was not unjust. She would not have hinted at factors that precluded Miss Brightwell as wifely material had she not had good reason.

  Yet the last twenty-four hours had been an agony. He wanted Miss Brightwell at any cost and he’d have been prepared even to defy his mother. Yet if Miss Brightwell was here, surely it meant she…

  “My Lord.”

  The demure set of her lips and her regal curtsy was a powerful contrast to their heated encounter three evenings ago. Blood pounded behind his eyes and rushed to his extremities, and he would have put the sofa between them to hide his fierce arousal had she not immediately glided forward and—oh, joy—placed her dainty, gloved hand upon his shoulder and raised her perfect heart-shaped face to his.

  It was all the answer he needed. In paying a call unchaperoned upon a bachelor, she was making it clear that she accepted his proposition.

  Expectation made him lightheaded. For a moment he was robbed of breath as his erection swelled in memory of the last time it had sheathed itself in the beautiful, alluring woman before him. He would have snatched her to him right there and greedily devoured her, were it not for the proud, vulnerable way she bore herself. What a tragedy he could not make her his wife. She was magnificent, both inside and out, and he wasn’t only referring to the regal bearing she projected to the world, which concealed the affecting kernel of vulnerability he had glimpsed. Losing himself inside her was like losing himself in Heaven.

  Briefly, she closed her eyes and with a sigh brushed her hand across her forehead. “How hot it is in here,” she murmured, turning away from him to glance around the room.

  She wore a dove grey bonnet adorned with white flowers and a matching pelisse-robe trimmed with white fur that obviously covered her walking dress.

  “The hooks are so difficult,” she said with another sigh, raising her chin and stepping up to him. “Won’t you help me?”

  It was only after the third fastening that he realised her daring little ploy. Dear Lord, she wore nothing beneath the fine, woollen garment. No petticoat, no chemise, no stays. He swallowed. No undergarments of any kind. Only neat, half kid boots in green with matching garters to hold up her white silk stockings.

  He was on his knees by the time he’d worked loose the final button.

  “My God, you are perfection,” he managed through constricted airways as he gazed up at her, trembling with the knowledge of all she was offering him.

  She smiled as she rested her small, ungloved hand on his head. Groaning softly, he wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his cheek against her smooth, gently rounded belly, sniffing appreciatively. “Musk and ambergris,” he murmured.

  She giggled and bent down to kiss the top of his head as she shrugged off her pelisse. “Yours for the taking, my Lord,” she whispered, giving a provocative wriggle, then arching slightly.

  It was all the invitation he needed.

  Mesmerised, he gazed up at her from where he still knelt. She was astonishing. The most exquisite confection of womanhood he’d ever encountered in his wanton-woman-filled years as a rake. He couldn’t have torn himself from her had the walls of his town house been crashing down about their ears.

  He rose up on his knees, and she placed her hands upon his shoulders, throwing back her head and gasping as he took one perfect, pink peak into his mouth.

  Her reaction thrilled him. She shuddered. He could feel her trembling to her very core. He was her prince of pleasure, her puppet master, pulling the strings of her passion. He’d never felt so powerful—so privileged—in all his life.

  And it would be no one-off encounter. She’d pledged herself to him as surely as if in marriage. Yet she’d taken all the risks. How he adored her for it. How he intended to honour her sacrifice.

  Starting with the truth.

  “I think I love you, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured, burying his face between her full, soft breasts. They were his. She was offering him her all.

  Her gasp as he began to suckle one of them nearly drove him to the brink. He could feel her temperature rise, the warmth and moistness of her skin acting on him like a red rag to a rutting bull. Her trembling and the constricted way she managed to reply, “I think I love you, too, Lord Fenton,” could not be feigned. She had come back for him because he, of all the men she’d ever enjoyed, was her chosen, consummate lover.

  It was time for the second delectable mound of lily-white flesh. Taking the delicate rosebud peak in his mouth, he toyed with it, delighting in her moans and sighs while his fingers tangled in the soft, damp curls at the juncture of her legs. He couldn’t wait to pay a more intimate visit there. He was nearly bursting out of his breeches with the need to do so.

  But the time was not yet right.

  When her breath came in short, staccato bursts and he glanced up to see that her eyes were glazed, he paused just long enough to divest himself of his own clothes. Then he was back on his knees wearing only his linen shirt and, he suspected, a grin like the village idiot. This creature had stepped from another sphere into his life, as if a fairy godmother had waved her magic wand and granted him the elixir of love.

  He kissed his way up the smooth white silk of her stocking, sucking at the damp, heated flesh above the garter, revelling in her moans—more intense now—and the way her hands fisted in his hair. Her cries of rapture when his tongue found the swollen nub at her centre, slick with desire, nearly undid him.

  “More,” she whimpered when he released her before sweeping her into his arms and depositing her upon the hearthrug. The impatient grinding of her hips, the thwarted desire that flared in her eyes, were enough to convince him hers was no mere performance.

  Still, he was careful not to move too fast. If she was comparing him with past lovers he didn’t want to come up wanting.

  “What can I do for you, my darling Fanny?” he muttered, pausing in the midst of rolling one rosy red nipple around his tongue. “Just name your desire.”

  She said nothing for a moment and he watched, mesmerised, as she tore her eyes from his face to rove over his flanks. The flare in their sapphire depths when they reached his cock suggested she liked what she saw and his tremor of anticipation echoed hers.

  Grasping her by her elbows, he raised her so that they were kneeling, facing each other, raw longing surely in each look during this brief hiatus in proceedings.

  For a second, she looked uncertain, as if this was new territory. What a consummate actress she was. What a consummate lover! Then, experimentally, she weighed his long, rigid shaft in her hand, gently moulding his balls. He held his breath as she ran her finger round the tip. Lord, it felt good, this prelude to what promised to be the most exquisite pleasure of his life. Lowering her head, she flicked her tongue over the tip of his prick. He gasped and gripped her shoulders, pushing her back, gasping, “No, I won’t last a minute and right now, Miss Fanny Brightwell, I want to brand you as mine, to claim you, body and soul.”


  No, Fenton was nearly past the brink and this vixen was about to make a fool out of a man known for his sexual endurance.

  Cradling her shoulders, he lay her upon the hearthrug and covered her fine-boned body with his, revelling in the moist warmth of her skin and the heart-rending way she looked up at him. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes full of love.

  His heart answered, full to bursting with the need to honour her gift to him. She had forsaken her position in society to be with him and he intended that she should never regret her decision.

  “Whatever happens, I shall keep you safe,” he promised hoarsely, closing his eyes and kissing her lips while his cock nearly burst at its proximity to her wet, velvety entrance. Her response, eager and childlike as she dug her little fingers into his flesh and kissed him back, was like a spark to straw.

  With a groan, he plunged deep within her, the roaring in his head competing with her cries and the fury of their mingled breathing. She was tight and smooth and slippery and her excitement was as great as his. Miss Fanny Brightwell was the consummate lover, rocking with him and arching against him in their race for the summit. At each thrust he felt he was burying himself ever deeper into her welcoming, molten core, branding her as his.

  Forever.

  Until at last he came with a gasp of rapture and triumph and love, because in this woman’s arms he’d finally found the fount of happiness.

  For several minutes he was unable to move. It was the most stupendous love-making he’d ever experienced and he felt he’d run the race of his life. Exhausted, with eyes still closed, he lazily licked the salty sheen of sweat from her heated skin. Finally, he rolled off her and onto his side, resting his elbow on the rug and cushioning his head on his hand. She looked dazed when he drew her against him but she chuckled happily when he kissed her almost reverently on the forehead and whispered, “I do not take lightly the sacrifices you’ve made.” He looked wonderingly at her. “I am the happiest, most satiated man alive.”

  With a languid stretch she sighed and snuggled closer, smiling and murmuring, “I’ve made no sacrifices, my Lord.”

  He rose to help her dress, understanding her concern as she tensed when she heard the clock chime the hour. He knew what risks she had taken to be with him. She could have chosen respectability with a wealthy merchant. There were enough of them who’d have overlooked her lack of dowry and reputation to wed the bold and beautiful daughter of a disgraced baron. Instead, she’d followed her impulsive desires to be his mistress, to be with him.

  The fire in the grate hissed and crackled. He could not bear to see her leave.

  “I want to see you…be with you every moment of the day,” he whispered, securing the last hook beneath her chin, which he cupped in his hands. He meant it, too. Clearing his throat he added, “But you must dictate the terms, for I know you have considerations other than me.” He adored the delicate blush that swept her cheeks.

  When she lowered her face demurely he could not contain his excitement as he said in a rush, “Tomorrow I must show you the charming residence in Mayfair I have selected, which I’m sure you’ll adore—though I understand it is prudent to wait a while before you install yourself.” His impatience to set her up, permanently, as his was killing him.

  She touched his cheek and his heart swelled at the tenderness in her eye as she murmured, “Mayfair? How…convenient.”

  “And I shall provide you with a carriage,” he promised, his generosity fuelled by her kindling look.

  “Oh, that will not be necessary, as I shall have my own.” Leaning in to him, she raised her hand to stroke the curls at the nape of his neck as he tied her bonnet. He was taken aback when, sighing, she added, “My love, I have much to organise during the next few days. I will send a note around when I’m free to see you again.”

  Free to see you again?

  He did not understand her meaning. “Of course we must be discreet but, my darling Fanny, I want to be with you every moment of the day.” He was surprised at how anxious he suddenly felt. Had she not considered their coupling the most extraordinarily exciting experience of her life?

  He certainly had.

  ~ * ~

  Rain slashed against the windowpanes. It was a fitting tribute to his mood. Like a caged beast, Fenton paced the hearthrug, his mind able to turn upon only one thing—Miss Fanny Brightwell. For three days she had been unobtainable, neither at any of the fashionable watering holes or even, when in desperation he’d begun calling in person, at her London lodgings.

  He turned, heart pumping in hope and expectation at the sound of crashing upon the front door, though it was not a ladylike entrance.

  Instead, Bramley thundered past a clearly distressed Brimble and burst into the library. As he removed his hat a great torrent of water splashed from its brim and joined the droplets from his multi-layered coat in a puddle on the Wilton carpet.

  “Perhaps, Brimble, you’d divest Mr Bramley of his sodden garments,” Fenton said with pointed disapproval to the hovering and clearly enraged butler. The fact that he had hoped it might be Fanny made him even more disinclined to entertain Bramley, who was obviously in one of his moods.

  “No time.” Bramley sucked in a breath, running a hand through his rain-darkened hair as he fended off Brimble’s discreet ministrations. His eyes burned like coals in his pallid face, his agitation clear as he rasped, “You have to come quickly, Fenton. The news is all over town. I heard it just now at my club. Miss Brightwell is betrothed to the Earl of Quamby.”

  Fenton could only blink. Stupidly, like an owl. Shock and astonishment robbed him of an intelligent response and left him physically deflated, as if the air had been sucked right out of him. Not just the air but the bones and substance that enabled him to walk tall, like a man. He gripped the sideboard for support. His Fanny Brightwell? The woman who’d played his heartstrings not three nights before like a bewitching harpist before disappearing in a puff of enchanted smoke?

  “I’ve come directly from my uncle’s house, where Quamby confirmed that he and Miss Brightwell are to be married without delay.” Bramley’s face contorted with malice as he paced. “I believe the betrothal took place three days ago.”

  “Three days ago?” Fenton repeated. Devastation gutted him. On top of wounded pride, it was a powerful combination that swept out the thick, sluggish shock that had slowed his responses.

  This could not be. Miss Fanny Brightwell could not do this to him. She could not be allowed to shake up the happy, ordered world that revolved around her making him the most important man in her life.

  What was she up to? Three days ago he’d been the happiest man alive. Miss Brightwell had been wrapped in his arms, sighing happily as he rained kisses upon her face. Dear God, she’d been beneath him on this very carpet, moaning in ecstasy as he’d thrust deep inside her. He’d assumed that the giving of her smooth, fragrant, sensual body was her ultimate gift to him. He’d felt like some great, all-powerful God. So what had happened? Had she walked straight from Fenton’s embrace into the path of Lord Quamby, who had made her an offer of marriage she couldn’t refuse?

  “Lord Quamby.” The growl came from his very depths. He was vaguely aware that Bramley was at the sideboard helping himself to brandy and, with shaking hands, was trying to replace the glass stopper. Neglecting to consult with his host, or even offer some much-needed fortification, he quickly followed the first shot with another.

  “Why have you come to me?” Fenton’s tone was clipped. Calm and reason were slowly returning.

  Bramley slammed down the glass tumbler and turned. His lip curled. “Because Lord Quamby is my uncle and I am his heir. He was never supposed to marry. A woman in his bed is laughable, yet that insinuating little baggage has sneaked right under my guard, wrapped my uncle around her little finger and is about to deny me my inheritance. Antoinette told me all about the pair of you. God knows, I’ve seen it in the way she looks at you. You’re the only one who can stop her!” In several strides he
was across the room, seizing Fenton by the arm and propelling him to the door as he called to Brimble for his Lordship’s coat.

  They found a hackney carriage, though with the rain and traffic congestion of the fashionable hour it would have been quicker to walk.

  The only one who can stop her?

  Fenton hunched over in the shabby seat, his mind in turmoil. Three days ago he’d arrogantly thought he held the upper hand. Pain mocked him while gleefully lancing his vulnerable heart. He didn’t understand any of it. He’d thought she loved him.

  Through clenched teeth he said, “It seems the Dowager Duchess of Quamby will see her son marry at any cost if she’s prepared to countenance a match with an ineligible. Why not Antoinette? She’s just as comely and willing and, unless you’ve ensured otherwise, her reputation is still intact.” He heard the snideness of his tone, an armour against the pain and turmoil within. “There’s no slur upon her past, for all that that happy truth is more due to me than to you. She’s not entertained Bickling and Slyther and God knows who else, although it matters not one jot to me.”

  There was something jarring in Bramley’s stillness. Fenton turned from his angry contemplation of the passing foot traffic as a drift of memory from the ball a little over a week ago floated just out of reach. What exactly was it Miss Brightwell had said with regard to Bramley’s conduct? It had been derisive, he knew that. He stared at Bramley’s profile and racked his brain. Something to the effect that Bramley was unlikely to have much regard for Antoinette’s best interests—that in fact Bramley was on a mission to do the precise opposite. At the time, Fenton had been too concerned with seeing to Fanny’s best interests to register that her remark indicated more than just a passing association. Yes, he knew they were acquainted and that Bramley had perhaps been put out by Fanny’s lack of interest…but was there more to it?

  “How well do you really know Miss Brightwell?” With shoulders hunched, Fenton leaned menacingly across the small space between them.