Rake's Honour

by Beverley Oakley

  “It is true, my lord, that I accompanied Lord Alverley to Vauxhall, alone, in masquerade,” she whispered, “but my virtue is unblemished.”

  “Surely the boy tried to kiss you.” In the firelight she saw Lord Slyther’s stained teeth bared with prurient interest before he burst out laughing. “You didn’t enjoy it, eh? Well, that’s good, because as your future husband it’s my job to show you how to kiss. Now stand up, Miss Brightwell, if you please, and face me.”

  Fanny rose, silent while her mind whirled at this new and dreadful situation. Her mother was in the next room with Antoinette. When Fanny emerged with Lord Slyther to announce the news of their engagement, Lady Brightwell would clasp Fanny tenderly to her bosom in perhaps the only gesture of genuine pleasure she’d ever extend towards her eldest daughter—the daughter upon whom she was pinning all her hopes. All the family’s hopes, Fanny amended silently. Either she or Antoinette was required to make a decent marriage if the Brightwell family was not to slide into worse than simply genteel poverty. If Fanny was not prepared to sacrifice herself to this horror, there would be no more rubbing shoulders with the haut ton. No, she’d be rubbing the chilblains of some crotchety old woman to whom she’d be paid companion, while Antoinette worked as a governess and their mother lived out her days beholden to her detested cousin, having never forgiven Fanny for failing in her duty.

  “Show me your ankles.”

  Fanny swallowed down her surprised outrage, only raising the skirts of her cerulean blue lutestring gown when he repeated the command, his voice now cajoling.

  He relaxed deeper into his chair with a sigh. “Such prettily turned little ankles, Miss Brightwell.” He patted his heart. “Indeed, you are going to bring me much pleasure in my dotage. Now let me feel your ankle, if you please. That’s right—raise your leg upon the footstool so I may bend forward and caress your pretty little limb.”

  At this, Fanny objected while trying not to cry. Never had she been so demeaned in all her life. “With all due respect, my Lord, I committed no sin greater than conversing alone with Lord Alverley.”

  “And kissing him.”

  “One kiss—”

  “Your reputation is besmirched, Miss Brightwell, and only I will be prepared to overlook it once it becomes public knowledge. Now, if you please, my dear, raise your little ankle over the arm of my chair so I may stroke it for you while we discuss the terms of this marriage you’re in no position to refuse.”

  Sucking in a shuddering breath, Fanny raised her leg, hooking her ankle over the arm of Lord Slyther’s chair, bracing herself against the horror of the liberties he was about to take.

  When his fat, bejewelled hands clasped her calf and began to stroke the contours up to her garters, just below the knee, she tried to transport herself back to the evening before, when in the arms of the thrilling stranger she had discovered her body’s responses to pleasures unknown. It was no use. Lord Slyther’s loathsome touch put him in the league of some wart-ridden toad, crawling, fat and oily to the touch.

  At least she had the protection of a sheath of white silk, but when he tugged at the ribbon of her garter and slowly eased one stocking down to her ankle, she felt her defences all but crumble.

  Lord Slyther rested his cheek against the bare flesh of her calf and, as if reading her thoughts, said between laboured breaths, “If you call your mother there will be no wedding and your peccadilloes, Miss Brightwell, will be all over town. Ah, such sweet young flesh. Let me press a kiss to that adorable point just behind the knee. Yes, you’ll have to turn around so I can reach it better.”

  Horrified, Fanny gasped, “You’ve already determined the terms of our marriage with my mother?” She squeezed her eyes shut as Lord Slyther put his hands on her hips and drew her closer. Clutching the hem of her skirt, he raised it thigh high and she braced for the wetness of his lips against her skin.

  “At great length, Miss Brightwell. Indeed, she was most forthcoming, offering me first your younger sister, Antoinette, whom she described as much more manageable.” He chuckled as she shuddered at the touch of his wet tongue upon the sensitive flesh behind her knee, while he steadied her, his stubby fingers digging into her thighs. “Less likely to cause me problems. I told her I had eyes only for you.” He had to stop to draw in another shuddering breath. “Turn around again, Miss Brightwell, so I can see your face. That’s right, yes…and just what I’d hoped to see. Fear. Innocent creature though you are now, I intend to keep you true to your adoring and—as long as you play your cards right—indulgent husband.”

  Fanny fought hard not to cry. She was helpless. Her mother would not come at her screams, she knew that, for her mother had all but sold her to this loathsome creature.

  “I also relish the idea of keeping such a bold and beautiful creature as you in check, my dearest Miss Brightwell. Now, sit on my lap. As I have satisfied myself that your lovely limbs are as soft and well-formed as in my fevered imaginings, it is time to satisfy myself as to your wondrous bosom. No, do not be afraid, Miss Brightwell. I plan to keep some surprises on hold. No doubt you wish to build up your anticipation for our wedding night as much as I do. For now, I wish merely to caress those magnificent mounds of creamy flesh while we discuss some of my stipulations as regards our happy union.”

  Like a trapped and hunted creature, Fanny lowered herself onto his lap while her mind screamed out at her lack of options. Escape was not possible. Even for one as bold and clever as she, there was nowhere to turn. Her mother would cast her out, meaning that, without protection, Fanny would have to resort to selling her body for a few shillings—though the whole business of what that was all about was still clouded in obscurity. However, much as she abhorred the idea, common sense told her she was still better off selling herself—for a better price—to Lord Slyther.

  Wordless, she suffered his hands to roam over her bodice before insinuating themselves beneath the fine silk, kneading and stroking her breasts. Resignation helped to dull her feelings and mute her mind to the silent screams she could not utter.

  “You have no questions, Miss Brightwell? No? Well, I am pleased you are so accepting. Like a good little debutante, you know who is master. When we are married, I shall enjoy coaxing from you a little of the fire and passion I know lurks just below the surface. I saw it in your knowing eyes the first time we met, my dear, and so was disappointed you saw fit to take such a gamble and cast a lure at that milksop Alverley when you could have had me.”

  His laugh was tinged with malice as a pinch to her nipple made her jump. He continued his taunting. “However, your little act of rashness put the ball back in my court, didn’t it, Miss Brightwell? Ah, I see you squirming. It would appear I am coaxing a little pleasure from you, after all.”

  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 glanced 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 wo
uld 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.