Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2)

by Beverley Oakley

  “That I want to kiss you again, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured, dipping his head slightly, as if he were cooing to the child. He swallowed, feeling himself harden, his voice gruff as he admitted, “I feel enslaved by this need to know how you would regard me if…”

  “If what, Mr Grayling?” Her voice was also strained with desire; for he could recognize desire in a woman’s voice and the wondering, wanting expression in her luminous eyes confirmed this.

  “If you were completely alone with me. If you would trust me to—”

  The impromptu arrival of Mr George Bramley cut short her rejoinder but Sylvester was relieved to note that shortly afterwards she whispered something in Lady Fenton’s ear and was rewarded with a quick nod.

  Arranging an assignation? Lord, he hoped he was going about this the right way.

  The christening party was a large affair and this enabled less scrutiny. The fine weather had held, and like Lady Umbrage’s name-giving ceremony, the event was being held outdoors.

  Several dozen guests were now converged about the trestle tables between the river and Quamby Park further up the hill which was reached by a series of rambling terraced walkways. It was a brisk, five minute walk along the river’s edge before the path skirted sharp left, twisting a little up the hillside to where the Oriental Pavilion nestled amidst a copse of trees with its magnificent view of the surrounding countryside.

  Few guests would know of its existence and besides, they were more interested in the jellies, pies and tarts laid on in abundance, so Sylvester had no difficult in slipping away at the appointed time. He’d not be noticed.

  When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Lady Fenton and Miss Brightwell walking companionably along the wooded path in the direction of the Oriental Pleasure Pavilion, and a little spurt of excitement spurred him on. Lady Fenton would abandon her charge, ensuring she was not seen to be alone at any point. She was cunning, that one.

  Sylvester hastened his steps, arriving breathless at the pagoda-like structure which was fully enclosed, and immensely private, despite its magnificent view.

  He pushed open the door and gazed about him. Bertram Brightwell had not lied when he’d informed Sylvester that its layout and location were ideal for what was required.

  And what was required?

  With a jolt of surprise, he saw that a very commodious bed covered by a Chinese-inspired counterpane and an abundance of cushions took up much of the space. Window seats lined the walls however it was clear that the Oriental Pavilion was used as a secret trysting place for Lord Quamby and his countess—no doubt with their respective amours.

  His skin felt suddenly highly sensitive and his breathing came with difficulty as desire slammed through him. Bertram knew exactly what he was talking about when he suggested to Sylvester that this would be the ideal place to lure his cousin.

  Not that Miss Brightwell needed much luring. Every glance and uttering confirmed the fact that she would be relishing just as much as he, what lay ahead.

  Otherwise, why would she be colluding with all three of her cousins to escape her smothering chaperonage to be with him—alone?

  And sure enough, a few minutes later, there was Miss Brightwell, with no one else in attendance, hurrying the last few yards towards him as he opened the door of the pavilion to welcome her.

  Instantly she was in his arms, clinging to him and offering her mouth while he responded with equal ardour. Two small stained glass windows illuminated the bed, bathing the room in a soft, intimate light.

  Still kissing her, he circled her waist with his hands, picked her up and settled her on the edge of the bed, his hand travelling up her skirts in one fluid movement. For a moment he was confronted by her utter shock but as his probing fingers skimmed her heated inner thigh, she arched into him with a soft moan.

  What an extraordinarily erotic sensation it was to find an untutored virgin suddenly so very willing. Willing to throw herself into lust with him while throwing caution to the wind.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t… Oh…goodness,” she gasped as he skimmed the slickness between her legs before intensifying the pressure.

  Her eyes widened even more and for a moment she looked on the point of objecting, but as he redoubled his efforts to pleasure her, she sagged upon his shoulder, her breath hot against his ear.

  Meanwhile he was all but bursting his breeches, but for now, this was all for her. As if it had been a sacred duty, he’d taken upon himself the duty of showing her what pleasure was, and he’d do it without compromise. Later, he could show her how it might be beautifully mutual.

  Her arms tightened around him but he prized open her grip so she could lay her back down upon the bed and curl her against his side.

  Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to cage her beneath him and to release himself from his breeches and plunge inside her when the time was right.

  Except the time wasn’t right. This was for her.

  She hadn’t closed her eyes but stared at him, as if unable to either object or voice her excitement for excitement was clearly what she was experiencing. He saw it in the flare of her large, dark pupils, through her labored breathing, her barely audible moans of pleasure and the sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her jaw was clenched and the concentration in her eyes was intense.

  So was his own need and desire but for now he was orchestrating all this for her, for soon she’d be dead. A wave of the greatest sadness settled upon his shoulders which he tried to banish with the knowledge that at least Miss Brightwell would go to her grave knowing she’d been worshipped as a desirable woman; and that she’d experienced the greatest bodily pleasures.

  But the sadness persisted, lodging in the core of his being as a terrible grief. Yes, the emotion was, indeed grief as he realised that Miss Brightwell was the very woman he’d been searching for his entire life. Not only was she beautiful, but she was genuinely kind, maternal, nurturing, and, he truly believed, deeply in love with him.

  “Oh…oh…” She was panting softly now, her hands clenched into fists, her hips moving gently in rhythm to his ministrations.

  “Come, my darling,” he whispered as she shattered into his arms, gasping her astonishment and then her shock, too, for in taking such pleasure she knew that she had sinned.

  He kissed her lips, helping her to sit up, to climb off the bed—for he knew they had so little time—smiling as he murmured, “Did you enjoy that?”

  “I had no idea.” Shaking her head in wonder, she looked down at her skirt, now demurely at her ankles. “But is that…oh, what have we done?” The dim light of the room and the muffled silence, punctuated by birdsong, lent an air of unreality to the situation.

  “You’re still a virgin, if that’s what you mean?” he reassured her, holding her against him before quirking his eyebrow. “However, there’s plenty of variation on that theme if you want to explore more of such territory with me.”

  Her obvious inner turmoil tugged at Sylvester’s heart. She’d be calculating how much time the doctor had given her before her decline became debilitating. Right now, the glow from her recent experience imbued her features with a softness that was almost mystical. Various renditions of Madonna without her child raced through his mind and the residual sadness that had lodged within him roared back to life as something so much more.

  How cruel it was that Miss Brightwell, so full of life now, would soon decline so rapidly. She deserved better. She certainly deserved to be a mother for she’d love her offspring in a way Sylvester’s distant mother never could.

  The idea of a wife who’d love their children, shower them with affection, and also adore her own husband had never seemed more important than right now.

  And Miss Brightwell was that woman.

  As he stared at her, connecting the images of Miss Brightwell’s concern for the foundling babe, her maternal softness holding the Quamby heir and her enthusiasm for his ministrations just now, he imagined what it would be like to combine all that and pa
ckage it up in his own life.

  The only way he could even start by quelling the consequent dismay that Miss Brightwell’s impending death made this impossible was by reminding himself that he could not, of course, marry someone without a penny, no matter how charming he found her. He simply could not afford it. Not only would the privations make them both miserable, but the rambling estate he was more than likely to inherit from a great uncle needed a great deal of money poured into it if it were to be restored to its previous grandeur and family honour restored. A wife with a more than respectable dowry was absolutely essential.

  Besides, not only did Miss Brightwell deserve better than he, the truth was that even if she were in robust health, she’d be lucky to win the hand of a poor clergyman, having no portion whatever.

  He gazed at her sadly then reordered his features. He could not let her see his pity.

  “A virgin still? Oh, thank the Lord,” she whispered, putting her hands up to her face. “I completely forgot myself. What was I thinking? What have I done?”

  “You’ve had a taste of what pleasures are to be had between a man and a woman who share a deep attraction for one another.”

  Her radiant smile sent a completely different wave of sensation through his veins as she asked, “You have been disappointed by women before? By their reactions, I mean?”

  “I…have always tried to ensure their pleasure.” Her words took him by surprise. “Good Lord, Miss Brightwell, this is not something I wish to discuss with you.” Had he disappointed women in the past? The idea that he had even been a less than ideal lover was highly uncomfortable. He certainly would not be guilty of that when he next held Miss Brightwell in his arms.

  “Of course not,” she said, immediately pressing her lips together. She put her hand on his shoulder, her smile full of sympathy as she raised her wondering gaze to his. “I think you were wonderful. What you did…” She shook her head. “I should feel ashamed but I don’t. It was the most wonderful sensation I’ve ever felt. I thought I was on a star that was taking me though the heavens and then I thought I would die of pleasure. You were masterful, Mr Grayling, though what must you think of me?”

  He bent down to kiss the crease between her brows. “What do I think of you? Why, that I would spend every minute if I could, making you happy.”

  He caught himself up. This sounded like the prelude to a proposal and he couldn’t have that, though she’d know her health would not permit the rigours of matrimony. Still, he could let in a chink of hope before changing the subject and he was about to speak when Miss Brightwell stiffened in his arms at the sound of footsteps before she relaxed in relief. “It’s Cousin Fanny calling me. She said she’d return to collect me and take me back to the others.” Pulling out of his arms she hurried to the door, turning and putting her hands to her rosy cheeks. “Will they know?”

  “That you’ve experienced a small sum of what any happily married matron has experienced every morning she wakes up?” He grinned.

  “Would you like to do it again, Mr Grayling?”

  “I say, that’s bold.” He was impressed.

  Breathlessly, she said in a rush, “Perhaps we could meet when there’s more time so we could—”

  “Could what, Miss Brightwell?” he asked when she stopped abruptly, reddening.

  “No, I don’t know what came over me. Please, forgive me?”

  “Forgive you?” He reached out his hand and whisked her back into his arms. Gently he put his lips to hers, drawing back slightly to murmur, “I would forgive you anything, for you are irresistible.”

  Her look of coy innocence, even after what they’d just done, was charming.

  “Yes, let’s meet here again.”

  Lady Fenton’s called echoed once more through the trees as he calculated quickly. Hastily he murmured, “I’ll send you a note. We’ll have to be careful, though. This is your cousin’s estate and I doubt she’d approve.”

  “Oh, Cousin Antoinette thinks you are marvellous,” Miss Brightwell said happily as she opened the door, turning to add over her shoulder, “She’ll help us, I know it.”

  “Then wait for a sign from me. It may be cryptic for the sake of security. But know this, Miss Brightwell…” He swallowed painfully. In fact, he felt in the greatest physical pain simply at the thought of what pleasures were in store the next time they did meet, “I am your slave. You have set me on fire.”

  “Oh, Mr Grayling!” His words released a flood of feeling Thea was unable to resist. Rushing back into his arms she surrendered to the exquisite feelings his touch engendered as he brought his mouth hard upon hers.

  As he supported the back of her head with one hand, the other kneaded the bud of her right nipple. The wicked warmth between her legs made her lightheaded with desire and she couldn’t help herself from escalating the contact, pressing herself against him, taken aback by the enormous bulge she felt in the area of his groin. So this was what Antoinette and Fanny had tried to explain to her.

  To think that she’d trembled with revulsion at the thought of such a thing being pushed into her for the sake of a baby. When she’d unexpectedly glimpsed him, naked, after he’d emerged from the pond she’d thought his physique as fine as Michaelangelo’s statue, David. Back then, though she’d torn her gaze away quickly, she’d noticed nothing frightening, rod-like or rigid, as Antoinette had suggested. Now she was beginning to understand how a man’s body worked.

  And the dismaying fact was she felt the very opposite of repulsed.

  In fact, her insides felt quivery and wanting, and there was nothing more she could have desired in that moment than to feel his weight and width pressed against her.

  Into her.

  Yes, it was madness, but she truly felt emboldened and if he wanted final proof that she was the wife for him, she’d gladly give it to him.

  “Thea!” Fanny’s voice came again, this time more insistent. “Aunt Minerva is asking for you.”

  Thea pulled herself away.

  “Goodbye, Mr Grayling.” In the doorway she hesitated, though she knew she was compelled to do Aunt Minerva’s bidding.

  “Goodbye, Miss Brightwell.” He cleared his throat and seemed suddenly slightly awkward. “I shall need a little while to gather myself before I return.”

  She nodded.

  “But we shall meet again in the Oriental Pavilion Room. You are not afraid to come?”

  “Oh no, Mr Grayling,” she whispered. “I can’t wait.”

  Chapter 15

  “TELL me what happened? I hope he did more than just whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Is he as charming as you believed?” Fanny fired off the questions like a volley of cannon fire, for they were fast approaching the gathered throng.

  Thea’s flesh heated to combustible levels it seemed for the second time that day. “Oh, he was…amazing. He was so sweet and clearly wanted to show me that matters between the sexes are not at all the dreadful, labouring affairs Antoinette made them out to be.”

  “Antoinette did not say that! She explained it just as it is.”

  “No, she did not! She made it sound a lot of panting and awful parts going into places we…don’t talk about. And—” Thea turned her head away, realising she’d said far too much.

  “Oh my Lord, you didn’t!”

  “Of course we didn’t. I’m still…pure, if that’s what you mean,” she reassured Fanny in a hasty whisper. She could not believe she was having this conversation with her cousin yet at the same time it was catharsis to speak plainly about matters that were normally shrouded in such obscurity. Matters never spoken about. Well, not by anyone other than Cousins Fanny and Antoinette. Just to ensure Cousin Fanny had no doubts, she added, “At least, Mr Grayling assures me I am still a…a virgin.” She dropped her voice to a hush as the vista of the river, and the mingling throng, came fully into view. “He seemed mighty pleased with how much I enjoyed it. I think…” Embarrassment made her squirm but if there was anyone with whom she could speak about this,
it was Cousin Fanny.

  “You think what? That he ought to be suitably satisfied that you’d make a wife who’d enjoy to the limit the debauches that are what drive most men? Unlike his first wife?”

  “No! You make it sound…so crude. It wasn’t like that. It was…” Thea halted and stared at the trees ahead as memories of the warmth and companionship she and Mr Grayling had shared seeped through her. “It was just lovely.”

  “Just lovely is exactly how I’d describe it, too. Why, Lord Fenton and I couldn’t get enough of each other when we first met. We still can’t.”

  Thea looked at her wistfully. “I’d so love to have what you and Lord Fenton have.”

  “And you shall.” Fanny spoke decisively, taking her arm and leading her on, for there in the distance was Aunt Minerva, a monstrous figure in purple, clearly on the lookout for Thea if the waving ostrich plume in her matching purple velvet toque was anything to go by. “You and he are made for each other; that’s quite clear. And you have all the credentials for a discerning fellow like that.”

  “Except a dowry.” Thea felt the weight of the truth on her shoulders like lead. Tears welled up in her eyes but Fanny patted her decisively on the shoulder, saying, “Nonsense, not every man is motivated by pecuniary interest. Love is just as important as a portion.”

  “You really think Mr Grayling would consider his feelings for me more important than what I could bring to any union?”

  “Of course! I can see it in his eyes.” Fanny’s own twinkled as she led her cousin towards where Cousin Antoinette was pressing baby George into his godfather’s arms.

  “Really, Antoinette,” protested Cousin Fanny, “surely you can see Mr Bramley doesn’t like babies. Give him to Thea.”

  Thea held out her hands, a wash of affection warming her as the baby snuggled against her chest. She cooed and murmured to it and the sweet thing rewarded her with a gummy smile.