“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 in a less cajoling tone.
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. Raise your leg upon the footstool so I may bend forward and caress your pretty little limb.”
Fanny shook her head 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.”
This was too much. Pushing back her shoulders, Fanny stared him in the eye and breathed out on a hiss, “I will not.”
He laughed, then raised his fat, bejewelled fingers and waggled them at her. “Well, you can play the coy maiden with me now but once we are married…”
It was true. Once they were married he could do whatever he wished to her. She’d be his property.
Dear Lord, what could she do to save herself? Lord Slyther’s loathsome touch put him in the league of some wart-ridden toad, crawling, fat and oily to the touch.
“You go too far, sir,” she said, her voice shaking. “I wish to leave, now.”
Lord Slyther gripped her arm to stop her as she turned 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.” He pulled her onto his lap. “Now, let me press a kiss to that adorable point just behind your elbow. Yes, you’ll have to move closer so I can reach it better. Such sweet flesh.” He breathed in after the kiss, Fanny having failed to wriggle away in time.
She was surprised at the surprising strength of his grip. “So you’ve already determined the terms of our marriage with my mother?” She shut her eyes as Lord Slyther moved his face forward, bracing for the wetness of his lips against her own then relaxing with a sigh of relief when instead he responded with a satisfied chuckle before answering her question. “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 began to stroke her arm. “Less likely to cause me problems. I told her I had eyes only for you. Now raise your chin 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 was determined not to him see her 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, raise your skirts a little. I want to satisfy myself that your lovely limbs and wondrous bosom are as soft and well-formed as in my fevered imaginings. 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.”
“No, my lord.” Fanny scrambled to get away but he snatched at her hand and jerked her back to him so that she landed with a thud across his thighs.
Breathing heavily, 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.
“If you please, my Lord, I would request that you keep your hands to yourself until we are married.”
With a grunt of laughter, he obediently dropped his hands and made no move to detain her as she rose. “Your final request is granted, Miss Brightwell. Like a good little debutante you know how to behave, but when you are my wife you will 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 three months ago.”
“Please, I would like to return to my mother, now.” She sounded as defeated as she felt.
“Would you now? Well, not before you rub my poor swollen legs. Your mother assured me you were an excellent nurse.” Encased in gold pantaloons, both his legs rested on the footstool she’d earlier vacated. “Kneel down,” he ordered.
What should she do?
He saw her indecision and continued his taunting. “Your little act of rashness put the ball back in my court, didn’t it, Miss Brightwell? I’m sure you don’t want your mother to hear of it. Now, kneel down.” He tugged at her wrist and forced her to her knees. “Ah, so you see there’s more to me than meets the eye. I hope you’re impressed.”
The reason for his sudden satisfaction was no doubt the horror on Fanny’s face as her gaze moved up his thighs to the tent-like structure growing at the juncture of his legs.
“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 tried to rise but he gripped her wrist tightly, ensuring she remained on her knees.
“In my coat pocket I have the special licence that will see us married tomorrow, my pretty.” He closed his eyes as if in rapture then raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Only one more night to wait, Miss Brightwell, and then you’ll be all mine.”
“Tomorrow? Please, Lord Slyther, that is too soon. I…have no wedding dress. I need to prepare.”
“The day after that, then—and that’s as long as I’m prepared to wait. The anticipation I feel…” He glanced down at his still bulging trousers and amended this to: “that we both feel, is almost too much to bear.”
Fanny was almost sick upon the spot.
“Tears, Miss Brighwell?” he enquired 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’s slumped shoulders. She covered her face with her hands to hide her distress and tried to stop her body from shaking.
“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. Provided 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 a comfortable abode for the rest of her life 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.”
He cupped her chin and forced her to look at 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 nodded 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.
Through constricted airways, she forced her words past the threatening tears, “Yes, my Lord.”
Chapter 4
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.
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 had 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 would 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?
Uncomfortably he realised he’d not put her down when she’d requested. But that had been much earlier. In the boat she’d made it clear she wanted him to kiss her.
Thank the Lord it had gone no further than that though if they’d been discovered… He shuddered. He dare not think of it.
Fenton tried to breathe evenly. He’d abducted the girl and, despite their respective disguises and lack of knowledge of one another, they’d discovered some powerful, unexpected chemistry between them.
He closed his eyes in contemplation of her soft arms, cool to the touch, her body radiating a delightful, fragrant mix of sweetness and desire.
Desire!
He jerked his eyes open as he tried to cast his mind back to the worst of what he’d done.
Kissed her. Yes, that’s all. She’d not let his hands stray which he’d thought coy playacting. Fenton swallowed, hoping it wasn’t too soon to feel relief. It was an uncomfortable notion but until he’d intruded on her heated exchange with Alverley—and who knew but that there had been some discreet chaperone hiding in the wings—Miss Brightwell had quite likely had no experience of relations between men and women.
Now she was here, a respectable debutante, and if word got out as to what he’d done he’d be pilloried. It would be no more than he deserved. The thought that he’d compromised an innocent was not something that sat well with him. However, the more he thought about it, the more appealing was the idea of atonement.
He was conscious of the irregular beat of his heart, the suspended pause as, glancing up, she locked eyes with him. Holding her gaze, he watched the play of emotions flit across her lovely, mobile face. God, she was a beauty. He longed to cross the floor and offer the most abject of apologies.
Except he could not do that. He could say nothing in company that would suggest she was guilty of any impropriety, yet he was screaming inside to whisk her away to some secluded arbour so he could determine her feelings for him after two days of sober reflection.
On the short ferry crossing, he’d been taken aback by the unexpected sizzle of excitement that had been lacking during his numerous encounters with other women. Miss Brightwell was as charmingly refreshing a contradiction as had ever crossed his path.
Just then, her attention was claimed by her companion and Fenton returned reluctantly to Bramley’s unflattering monologue.
“…likes to think she’s a cut above the rest, though she’ll be lucky to snare a rich merchant prepared to overlook her reputation. She’s more than willing to make discreet compromises when a fellow makes her a good offer.”
Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1) Page 4