Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  Of course she would never see this man again. But what he’d done for her was immeasurable. He’d shown her that she did indeed possess a heart that could flutter with desire when the right man came within her orbit.

  The tragedy was that Lord Slyther, for whom she was now definitely destined, was not that man and after tonight her life would never be the same.

  Chapter 3

  Fanny tiptoed across the threshold, her heart pounding as much from fear of meeting her mother as from the tumultuous events of tonight.

  She’d had both the disappointment and the thrill of a lifetime, and at that moment she wasn’t sure if she would ever recover from either.

  The scullery door had been left unbolted by special arrangement with her maid, and made little noise as she closed it behind her. All was silent and dark within. If she was lucky, her mother would wake in the morning without having suffered a moment’s disquiet over Fanny’s possible misdemeanours outside the careful chaperonage of Cousin Isadora.

  She was not lucky. She felt the stinging slap of her mother’s hand across her cheek as she rose from shooting the bolt.

  “Little fool!” hissed Lady Brightwell, flinging her daughter into the hallway. “What have you been up to? Winning back Mr George Bramley I’d have hoped. But no, you prefer to play cribbage with his uncle whom we all know is not in the market for a wife. And in that scandalous rig-out! Helen of Troy, indeed. It’s a gossamer web that leaves nothing to the imagination! Answer me, girl! Have you brought our good name into disrepute?” Lady Brightwell, her thin lips pressed into a bloodless line, hustled her daughter into the dim, candlelit drawing room, slamming the door behind her.

  “I knew Mama would be cross.” Appearing out of the darkness from the other side of the room, Fanny’s younger sister resembled a pale ghost in her plain nightrail, her shining, golden hair cascading over her shoulders.

  “Quiet, Antoinette,” Lady Brightwell snapped as Fanny shrugged out of her grasp and stalked towards the dining table.

  “Courtesy of Alverley, Mama!” she said, tossing a simple silver ring set with a garnet onto the table.

  In the tense silence, they watched its spiralling progress across the mahogany surface. With a theatrical sigh, Fanny added, “Alas, the ring comes without security. It was merely a sop.” She didn’t care if her mother slapped her again for her attitude. Pain scoured her heart and lanced her pride. She supposed it would be even more painful if she’d loved Alverley though she’d liked him well enough. Her mother had fiercely counselled her daughters from infancy to hold onto their virtue until marriage and their hearts forever; and indeed Fanny had believed she didn’t have a heart until it had started to make all that fuss inside her chest when she’d got close to that piratical stranger. The river crossing had set the stage for more than her first experience of a proper kiss.

  Tingles of excitement coursed through her just at the memory but of course, she couldn’t be thinking of that. She must relegate her pirate stranger to her past, just like Alverley if she were to carry out her mother’s orders.

  What choice did she have?

  So with a challenging look, she said, “Invite Lord Slyther to call, mother, but do not blame me if he does not make an offer. I’ve lost my touch, as you can see.” She nodded at the ring. “Perhaps you’ll have to look to Antoinette to fill the family coffers. Or Bertram.” Her voice broke.

  She was suddenly desperately weary, though she felt she’d never sleep again—and not because of Alverley’s humiliating betrayal.

  “Don’t be saucy with me, girl.” Lady Brightwell pocketed the ring. “We may be poor but we are respectable. You asked for this chance with Alverley on account of the interest he’d already shown and I had every reason to hope you would fulfil our expectations.” Her face looked haggard in the guttering candlelight as she sank into her chair. “Now let us hope Lord Slyther will be as forthcoming in his interest as he was three months ago. You know we depend on you, Fanny. Bertram is a wastrel, just like your father was.” She fixed her sharp eyes on the last of the glowing coals. “And Antoinette’s beauty won’t make up for the fact she is a pea goose. She’ll likely take her pleasure in a haystack with a footman and ruin us all.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Mama, it’s only because of me we’ve been invited to the Earl of Quamby’s ball the night after next.” Antoinette, warming her hands by the fire, looked up, offended.

  “That was luck, not cunning, Antoinette,” Fanny objected, kneeling beside her sister, for the room was freezing and their breath clouded in the guttering light.

  The girls had first made the acquaintance of Lord Quamby the previous year when they’d inadvertently come upon him in Green Park after he’d been attacked by footpads.

  “You only returned his walking sticks,” said Antoinette. “It was my screams which frightened away the villains.”

  “Girls, girls!” Lady Brightwell admonished wearily.

  Antoinette giggled, pushing aside the curtain of her glorious hair as she simpered, “Lord Quamby likes me immensely. I make him laugh.”

  “I’d rather you made him your husband”—Lady Brightwell’s lip curled—“though I fear Lord Quamby is not about to marry anyone. Otherwise I’d relent, Fanny, knowing the aversion you feel for Lord Slyther, and send you after the earl instead.” She paused, meaningfully, before adding, “Though the fact you’ve outright rejected his nephew makes me despair. Will you reject Lord Slyther, too?”

  “At least he’s half in his grave,” said Antoinette cheerfully. “That’s why you’d consider him and not Mr Bramley, isn’t it Fanny?”

  “When all is said and done, I’d infinitely prefer Lord Quamby, with his frightful red wig and his crippled legs and his brilliant wit.” Despite herself, Fanny smiled, recalling her last spirited exchange with the eccentric earl who sometimes sent for the Brightwells at the oddest times, merely so Fanny could play cribbage with him—an excuse, Fanny knew, for some lively banter—or when he was in the doldrums because he’d been required to bail out his detested nephew and heir, George Bramley, once more.

  George Bramley. Fanny’s lip curled, just like her mother’s but with far more reason. Small wonder Lord Quamby detested his nephew, a boorish young man with not one redeeming quality she could think of.

  Fanny was always carefully chaperoned during her visits to the earl, though never had she gained the impression he was even slightly interested in her feminine attributes. It was all quite confusing.

  Her mother grunted, her shoulders slumping as if she really was preparing for the end. “Lord Slyther may have lost interest after being kept waiting so long. If he declines my invitation to call, Thursday’s ball is your last chance, girls. We’ve received no further invitations.”

  Both daughters looked at her. For the first time, their mother appeared weak, her usually hard, flinty tone a mere whisper as she added, “The truth is, unless one of you contracts a good marriage by the end of this season, we have not the funds to maintain the household.”

  Antoinette gasped. “You mean—”

  “I mean that if you girls are determined to be ape-leaders like Isadora or hatchet-faced Aunt Hester, we’ll have no choice but to accept her charity—or else you will both have to seek employment.”

  But Lord Slyther did accept, with alacrity. The gleam in his eye hinted at victory as he shuffled into the drawing room, puffing at the exertion expended by his bloated body. Fanny and Antoinette had watched from the window as he’d been delivered to the front portico by sedan chair. He’d then been all but manually hoisted up the steps, causing Antoinette to remark happily, “He’s unlikely to live long, Fanny. Look at him!”

  Fanny did, then covered her face with her hands as she turned back from the window and sank into a chair with a groan. “Oh, Mama, what if he doesn’t? He’s so repulsive!”

  “Doesn’t what? Doesn’t live long or doesn’t offer?” Antoinette asked with another giggle, prompting their mother to snap, “It’s of no account
whether you find him repulsive, provided he does not find Fanny so. Now, my girl, pinch your cheeks and remember everything I’ve taught you. Hush!” For his laboured breaths could already be heard from halfway down the passage. “This is our last chance.”

  Within a few minutes Fanny found herself alone in the drawing room with her erstwhile suitor, abandoned by her mother and siblings at the request of the ageing viscount who had ‘something of importance’ he wished to say to Miss Brightwell.

  Fanny knew what this meant as she put her fingertips briefly to her eyes which suddenly stung with tears. But Fanny never cried. Her mother had taught her how to hide emotion. If only she’d taught her how to stop feeling.

  And now her whole body seemed suddenly under attack from a plethora of feeling.

  There’d been a time when she’d have done anything to evoke the gleam of approval in her mother’s eye that had been in evidence before Lady Brightwell had unctuously acceded to Lord Slyther’s request for privacy. Now Fanny experienced again that strange feeling in her chest cavity where her heart felt it was beating too rapidly to be healthy only this time it wasn’t excitement that was the cause, such as last night’s extraordinary interlude, it was panic.

  Lord Slyther was about to make her an offer and she should be overjoyed. At the very least, she should take consolation from Antoinette’s remark regarding his imminent demise. Until last night she would have—but until then she’d not known the liberties, the intimacies that would become the preserve of her new husband. Last night, she’d responded to a stranger in the most extraordinary and illogical way. She’d not even seen his face properly, yet her body and her mind had been drawn to him, purely through the timbre of his voice, his manly, musky smell, the strength of him and— undoing her completely—the intimacy of his touch when he’d taken her properly in his arms in the barge and kissed her with both passion and sweetness.

  Unconsciously, she touched her finger to her lips, her mind transporting her back to that wondrous moment. Then she clasped her hands together. It was too much to think of that, now. Too much to think of what it might be to feel something other than disgust and aversion to the man who would enjoy husbandly intimacies, conjugal rights. No—in return for the Brightwells retaining their position amongst the ton, Fanny must give herself to this disgusting, odious man mind before her, body and soul.

  As she straightened in her spindly, uncomfortable little chair opposite Lord Slyther, striving for the demure pose required, unable to rid her mind of the thrilling events of last night, she nearly wept.

  “Come here.”

  Fanny blinked with surprise. The viscount was leaning forward, indicating with an imperious wave of one bejewelled hand that she should seat herself on the footstool on which he rested his bandaged foot.

  From their first meeting at a dinner three months ago, he’d made no secret of his interest in her, and within the week had spoken to Lady Brightwell. In a gesture of unprecedented kindness her mother had not accepted Lord Slyther’s proposal upon the instant. This, though, could have been on account of the fact that as the prospective mother-in-law her mother would have known she too, would have to suffer his putrid breath whenever visits were exchanged.

  Of course, bargains had of necessity been made, Lord Alverley being the prize Fanny had failed to obtain. And this, following her rejection of Mr Bramley. Now Fanny was simply paying her dues.

  “You wish me to sit by you, my lord? On the footstool?”

  He grunted his agreement.

  It was irregular and not very courteous, Fanny thought, as she transferred herself and awkwardly lifted his leg so she could sit down. When he made it clear he wanted her to rub his leg, she gingerly replaced his heavy, swollen limb across her lap. With an effort she managed not to wrinkle her nose at the unpleasant odour of ulcerating flesh, which all the bandaging could not disguise.

  Lord Slyther grunted again as he shifted himself more comfortably in his chair. “So, you know why I’m here, and you’re prepared, are ye, Miss Brightwell?”

  Fanny blushed. She was here, of course, because she was the spoils of a bargain Lady Brightwell had made with Lord Slyther; and she ought not feel so ashamed. She was no different from any other penniless young woman seeking security in a perilous world that offered little to those whom fortune failed to smile upon. Yet most gentlemen making an offer in such circumstances would maintain the charade required by good manners.

  She hesitated before saying demurely, just as her mother would have her say, “I do not know what you mean, my Lord.” If she’d been able to follow her own inclinations she’d have leapt to her feet, told him there’d been a terrible misunderstanding and she’d decided to join a nunnery.

  Becoming a nun would be preferable to marrying Lord Slyther, except that then Antoinette would have to become a governess and there’d be no one to bail out Bertram next time he suffered a gaming loss.

  Fanny had always found that if she breathed very slowly and carefully and replayed in her mind exactly the tone in which her mother would have her respond to a would-be suitor, she could survive the ordeal. There’d been several pleasant enough gentlemen in the past whom she’d have married with little angst—young, immature boys who’d clearly been taken with her at a ball or assembly—but ultimately the marriage proposal for which her mother was angling never quite came.

  “I think you know exactly what I mean.” He chuckled. “Well, keep up the play acting, my lovely Miss Brightwell. The prospect of tutoring an innocent pleases me…for all you were not so innocent last night.”

  She gasped and her fingers tingled. The shock blanching her skin white and bloodless would be a testament to her guilt but she said nothing. Then a wonderful thought intruded. Perhaps he no longer wished to marry Fanny after all. Fanny didn’t care how he might have known what she’d been up to last night, but if he simply withdrew his offer and Lady Brightwell was none the wiser as to the reasons Fanny would be the happiest young lady in the world.

  “It’s pleasing to observe genuine contrition for such unladylike behaviour, but you failed, did you not, Miss Brightwell?” He leant forward, bringing his face close to hers, and she smelt the stink of his breath, like there was something rotting within him. Forcing herself not to recoil, she braced herself for his next words.

  “You accompanied young Alverley to Vauxhall, alone and unchaperoned, but he did not make you the offer you took such risks for, did he?”

  Fanny hung her head, the weight of Lord Slyther’s bandaged leg making her thigh hurt—like her heart and her dignity. “Who told you this, my lord?” There was no point denying it and now her brief euphoria was replaced by the knowledge of her stupidity. She had compromised her reputation.

  Survival now depended upon knowing what else and how much else he knew.

  “Never you mind, my dear. Suffice it to say it was a friend. A friend I did not know I had until he came to me shortly after your mother’s surprise and welcome visit to see me yesterday.”

  She felt rather than heard him chuckle, his body creating ripples of movement that increased her fear like a rising tide.

  “Your friend must dislike me very much.” What else could Fanny say? So she had an enemy. Someone who was clearly hoping to ruin her. But why? Surely not a jealous fellow debutante for Fanny had never succeeded where another had failed when it came to the ultimate prize: marriage.

  “On the contrary, your friend likes you only too well. Like me, he was vastly put out when the engaging Miss Brightwell felt her beauty and her wit could override her lack of dowry and the scandal of her father, putting her above the likes of…”

  “George Bramley!” She gasped the name, fury rising within her like trapped steam about to explode.

  Lord Slyther gave a grunt of satisfaction. “I’m glad his name immediately came to mind, for I’d like to think there were no others competing for the role of rejected suitor. Ah, but, Miss Brightwell, your misfortune is that you have miscalculated, and my fortune is that it
gives me all the bargaining power in the world.”

  Her already great horror was compounded as she felt his hand upon her neck, gently caressing her skin. Frozen, unable to move as she accepted the truth of his assessment, she trembled as she tried to assimilate his words. Until last night, she had conducted herself with all the decorum required by a chaste innocent, hopeful of contracting a suitable marriage. True, she wasn’t decorous by nature, but only the gleam in her eye when a handsome gentleman showed interest would give her away, surely? Not her actions. Her mother had spent her lifetime trying to subdue that reckless, adventurous streak Fanny had inherited from her ill-fated father and, until last night, Fanny could not have been accused of anything that would compromise her reputation.

  “It is true, my lord, that I met Lord Alverley in Vauxhall Gardens, alone,” 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. Lady Brightwell had made this brutally clear only last night. If neither Fanny nor Antoinette married well by the end of the season the Brightwell family would 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 tried to teach infants how to count when she could barely count to a hundred herself and their mother lived out her days beholden to her detested cousin, having never forgiven Fanny for failing in her duty.