Astonished, Fanny regarded her buttoned-up cousin in a new light. Isadora had always seemed so staid and fusty. As if she didn’t even know what love was and certainly never hankered after it.
Certainly, Fanny had caught her dancing in rooms when she was alone, which had struck her as sad and quaint, but she’d had no idea how much her cousin cared about her spinster status.
She realised, now, that she’d simply not given the matter much thought.
“There’s no difference between us when it comes to the most important thing of all,” Fanny said. “Money. If you had a dowry, you’d be in receipt of an offer for if you’d only smile you’d be considered as pretty as anyone here.” A thought occurred to her. “Isadora, if I make a brilliant match I will help you escape Aunt Seraphina. I swear it! Lord Fenton is wild for me. You noticed the way he looked at me earlier. Well, tonight is not the first night I’ve met him. I…I met him at Vauxhall…around the time I was with Lord Quamby. But tomorrow night the most terrible fate awaits me and mama has agreed to it. You know what it is, don’t you? Marriage! And marriage to Lord Slyther. A secret marriage.” She squeezed shut her eyes as she tried to rein in her emotions, blinking to see the horror reflected in Isadora’s expression.
“She can’t force you, Fanny!”
“I rejected Mr Bramley last year and I failed to win the offer from Lord Alverley that I was sure was forthcoming.” Fanny shrugged. “We have no money, Isadora. Papa lost everything and it’s only because Mama used a great deal of persuasion on Aunt Seraphina to find the money to clothe us and put a roof over our heads for six weeks in London that all this is even possible.” She encompassed the seething ballroom with a sweep of her arm.
“I’m so sorry, Fanny. Lord Slyther? Would you really—?”
“Yes, I would.” Fanny swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Because having a husband — any husband — is better than none at all. Better than being slapped by mama every time I displease her, or forced to do dreadful things to make Aunt Seraphina happy. If I miscalculate and don’t receive an offer this season and I miss my chance with Lord Slyther who’s stipulated he’s not prepared to wait a moment longer for me, then my fate is worse than yours.”
Isadora nodded slowly.
“Are you not going to ask me how mama managed to extract money from Aunt Seraphina? Aren’t you surprised that she did?”
“Well, yes, I am, but Aunt Seraphina must know there’s a much greater chance of you and Antoinette making a good match. Unlike me.”
“That’s not it at all,” said Fanny. She took Isadora’s arm and began to slowly walk with her around the room. She could see Lord Fenton in conversation with several young bucks and, though she didn’t make eye contact, was well aware of the way his gaze followed her surreptitiously, even though he pretended to participate in the discussion.
“No, Isadora, the reason Aunt Seraphina agreed to give Mama some money was because she made Mama agree that she would nip in the bud any possible interest a gentleman might have in you while you’re in London.”
She nodded at Isadora’s gasp. “Yes, it’s true. Aunt Seraphina wanted to make it appear that she was being so magnanimous but she has no intention of losing you as a nursemaid. And Mama had no trouble agreeing because Mama would happily sell her own daughter into slavery. As she has done.”
Isadora stopped and faced Fanny squarely. “Then we’re both trapped,” she whispered.
Fanny shook her head. “I have no intention of marrying Lord Slyther and every intention of marrying Lord Fenton. But I’ll need your help.”
Isadora’s eyelids fluttered and she clasped the gold chain at her neck. “How can I possibly help?” she asked with the faintest trace of scepticism.
“I need you to make excuses for me while I am gone—“
“Not a secret assignation, Fanny!”
“Not quite. But a few minutes ago, when Antoinette was in the…the ladies mending room, she dropped her bracelet. The one Lady Harwood lent her.” Fanny glanced over Isadora’s shoulder, catching Lord Fenton’s eye and smiling warmly. “I’m going to fetch it. But I want Lord Fenton to know that I’ve gone to the mending room so that” — She pressed her lips together and sent Isadora a knowing look — “he might choose to ask me, alone, how I’ve enjoyed the evening, perhaps.”
“I can’t possibly!” Isadora said, too quickly. “You could ruin your reputation just by being alone with him for two minutes.”
“I intend being alone with him for a lot longer than two minutes and I do not intend ruining my reputation.” Fanny smiled serenely. “What have I to lose, Isadora, since I’m to marry Lord Slyther tomorrow night. Please, do this small thing for me. Convey, discreetly, to Lord Fenton that I have left the ballroom and he’ll quite likely follow me. That’s all I need.”
Still, Isadora looked unconvinced.
“If I succeed in making Lord Fenton my husband, I swear upon all I believe that I will dedicate the rest of my days to securing brilliant matches for all the deserving spinsters who cross my path. You amongst them!”
She didn’t wait for Isadora’s reply. She wasn’t even sure if Isadora had it in her to approach Lord Fenton alone, but as she passed the group of which his lordship was a part, she caught his eye and sent him a meaningful look as she energetically fanned herself and made a beeline for the tapestry-shrouded door.
All she could hope for was that Lord Fenton wasn’t truly as concerned about safeguarding young ladies’ reputations as he’d appeared to be when he was admonishing Antoinette and Mr Bramley.
* * *
Closing the secret door behind her for the second time that night, Fanny stopped in the large, dim, immoral room, hesitating before venturing further inwards.
The scenes upon the walls were disturbing.
Disturbingly compelling.
They filled her with strange longings she could not put into words.
She retraced her steps to the banquette where Lord Fenton had found Antoinette and searched the gold laurel leaf pattern of the luxurious carpet for the lost bracelet, seizing upon it with relief.
It was a pity, she reflected seconds later as she picked herself up after an undignified tumble down the three steps into the pit, that she had not paid more attention to the hazardous terrain.
As she smoothed her hands over her lovely, damaged gown, she wondered how she could possibly return to the ball when her skirt had all but been completely ripped from her bodice.
And then she thought of all the possibilities that might ensue if she were to be followed by a knight in shining armour.
Chapter 5
With a determined squaring of his shoulders, Fenton forced his gaze away from his host’s tribute to lust. It was impossible to look upon such scenes and not become prisoner to almost uncontrollable impulses regarding thoughts of the lovely Miss Fanny Brightwell.
Who’d have thought that just a kiss would fire up the desire for so much more?
And now he’d been conveyed a message, obliquely by her stuttering cousin, and far more boldly by the fire in Miss Brightwell’s eye, that there more kisses might be forthcoming this evening.
Fenton had met many bold and beautiful women during his time on the Continent but none had captivated him so quickly and thoroughly as Miss Brightwell.
There was a wary pride to her that he found quite adorable. She thought she was doing such a fine job of appearing impervious to societal opinion but she was clearly very aware of its judgement.
He liked her pride and he liked her spirit. He liked, too, the fact that despite all the playacting she could not disguise the strong attraction she felt for him.
It was palpable.
And it was mutual.
Fenton let out a sigh of deep contentment as his gaze ran over a Bacchanalian scene painted upon the far wall of grapes and entwined limbs.
Miss Fenton was just beyond, he was certain.
Alone, and waiting for him.
He’d never expected to fal
l in love so fast and for a courtship to go so smoothly. He was attracted to her and she to him. The fact she didn’t have much in the way of a dowry was not sufficient to put him off. He’d declared to his mama from the outset that he would marry to please his heart and to provide heirs—not because his pocketbook depended upon it.
Bramley’s slanderous words were just that. Slander. The man was jealous for obvious reasons. Miss Fanny Brightwell was the most beautiful, alluring woman he’d ever laid eyes upon.
There was something compelling about her that went far beyond surface attraction.
And, right now, he wanted very urgently to commandeer her for the rest of the evening.
His approach over the thick carpet was noiseless. Was Miss Brightwell waiting in the shadows for him? A few candles burned in sconces but the room was dimly lit. Secluded arbours curtained off by velvet drapes offered the ideal tryst place and his anticipation notched up ever more.
If Fenton were to go on instinct alone, he’d venture that Miss Brightwell was only too well aware of her fragile foothold on the society ladder and that every reason she’d given regarding her conduct with Alverley was true.
That she’d only slipped out for a few moments to meet him.
Yet what else had she said that fateful evening of their meeting? That she was betrothed to a man she found abhorrent?
He needed to discover more. He needed to discover what steps to take to secure her for himself. After the experienced women whose pleasures he’d enjoyed during his two years abroad he was very responsive to Miss Brightwell’s charms. The European whores had flattered him, pandered to his every desire and exhibited the utmost artistry in the art of seduction.
He’d taken the Grand Tour to become the cultured man his mother required to take the reins and run the estate when he returned. Any culture he might have acquired had been incidental to the surfeit of lust that had consumed him after discovering how fascinating he was to women.
But now it was time to settle down. He realised he was in danger of losing himself to vanity. He’d been given a long leash and he’d taken advantage of his opportunities until he’d felt tethered to nothing.
Now he wanted to return home to Grantham, the family seat for more than three hundred years, and start behaving responsibly. To do that, he needed a wife. Preferably one who would keep him interested and keep him in check.
Miss Brightwell showed every potential of fulfilling both criteria. And anything that came out of Bramley’s mouth with regard to the Miss Brightwells was surely nothing but evil lies.
His mother’s own objections would not doubt be swept away the moment he met Miss Brightwell and realised how perfect she was for his son.
Shaking his head as he passed a depiction of bedroom sport that was, even to one of his jaded experience, extreme, Fenton was about to turn into a darkened annexe when his attention was arrested by a short, sharp squeal and the sound of tearing fabric. He turned, his eyes quickly becoming accustomed to the gloom until he caught sight of movement.
After a pregnant silence came a deep sigh followed by Miss Brightwell’s dry, unmistakable tones. “Of all the inconvenient times to be disrobed.”
Surprised, Fenton moved closer, following the direction of her voice. Was she with someone else?
The fear that such might be the case made him realise how much he’d counted of having her all to himself. How much he’d been delighted by what he’d taken to be implicit invitation to meet her alone.
He melted into the shadows, seeking her out amidst the shadows.
And then he spied her in a shaft of light cast by a candle set high on the wall.
She was at the bottom of the pit, sitting amongst a collection of brightly coloured silk cushions, staring with dismay at her gold-flecked skirts. The diaphanous fabric hung limply, torn almost entirely free of her bodice, exposing her chemise. The sight of the crisp linen undergarment thus revealed—so pristine, yet so shocking—was strangely erotic.
Fenton was torn, too—torn between what a real gentleman ought to do and what, in truth, he felt like doing.
The ladies’ sewing room was just down the corridor. A real gentleman would hasten there and return with needle and thread to render assistance.
By contrast, he wanted to hurl himself upon her and, in mutual passion roll around in that pit of cushions, tearing the rest of her gown from her and running his hands over all her soft, fragrant body with all the enthusiasm of a first-time smitten green boy.
But that’s not what her invitation had implied. She was a respectable young woman and Fenton was hardly about to ravish her in a darkened room beyond his host’s ballroom.
So, he tamped down his surge of schoolboy lust and turned towards the ladies’ sewing room.
He would prove that he was a man of honour by returning with needle and thread to restore to Miss Brightwell her honour.
Then, she might reward him with a prolonged embrace.
He was, in fact, quite confident she would; while the prospect of two minutes’ conversation with hatchet-faced Miss Mortimer whose domain the ladies’ mending room was was would hopefully have the required dampening effect so that he could behave like a proper gentleman when alone with Miss Fenton.
He headed towards the corridor. While the ferry crossing had been illicit and delightful, he wanted Miss Brightwell to be assured that she featured in his more long-term plans. Yes, they’d only just met but he knew when it was useless to deny Cupid’s arrow.
Bramley might scoff at the notion of love at first sight but Fenton firmly believed in it.
He’d been searching, aimlessly, for it for years.
So, delivering to Miss Brightwell the means to return to the ballroom with her dignity intact would be one way to reassure her that his intentions towards her were honourable, at the same time as giving her the opportunity to reward him.
* * *
He was unprepared, upon his return to the pit of cushions, for his crushing disappointment at discovering it empty.
Raising his candle, he peered through the gloom, expectant hope returning at a very unladylike exclamation from the darkness beyond what he had at first taken to be a screen.
Drawing nearer, he discovered it was a tent festooned with swathes of red silk woven with elaborate designs in green and royal purple.
He hesitated. What did Lord Quamby do in a place like this? Fresh grapes were strewn about the floor, together with gauze scarves, as if the Earl had moved from one exotic form of entertainment to the one he was hosting now, perfectly respectable.
The tent was a fairly solid structure of stiff canvas and he could hear a faint muttering from within, as if Miss Brightwell were chastising herself.
About to announce his presence as he searched for the entrance, he was taken aback to discover what could only be a series of peepholes cut into the canvas.
Fenton’s mission to the ladies’ mending room in the face of almost insurmountable temptation had surely established his credentials as a gentleman. But what gentleman could resist putting his eye to the peephole?
It was spontaneous curiosity, not the conscious intention to spy, that had him gazing upon the incredibly arousing sight of Miss Brightwell, with her hair in disarray, hitching her skirts thigh-high to adjust her garter.
Such a sight would, he felt sure, have robbed far more gentlemanly gentlemen than he of their good manners. Yet good manners demanded that he step away and announce his presence, giving her time to make herself presentable.
Indeed, he was on the point of doing just that—had moved his head away from the peephole and was stepping back—when his practiced eye was caught by a flash of creamy, womanly curves that surely not even the most disciplined of gentleman could resist. Had a marauding tiger been bearing down upon him, Fenton would not have had the power to move.
He returned his eye to the peephole, all concentration focused on the scene before him, all his energy gathering in his loins, like a cannon about to explode. The surface
of his skin tingled. With breath fast and shallow he watched the strip of naked flesh lengthen between knee and thigh as she raised her arms to pull off her gown, taking with it the chemise beneath.
He saw slender hips, a triangle of dark hair, creamy, gently rounded belly and a pair of breasts so pert they almost seemed to beckon to him. His own sigh echoed hers as she sank onto an Egyptian sofa with armrests carved in the shape of sphinxes, almost instantly covering her briefly revealed nakedness as she studied the damage done to her gown.
Suddenly he’d never wanted anything, or anyone, so much.
The gold-flecked gossamer fabric and crisp cotton chemise pooled in her lap. Fenton could see her slipper peeking from beneath the chair and willed her to rise and allow the fabric to fall in a shimmer to her feet.
He shifted position, trying to ease his discomfort. Closing his eyes, he tried to control his heathen impulses. He had promised to act the gentleman therefore he should go.
But she had invited him here.
And how could he tear himself away from the most seductive, sensuous sight he’d experienced—ever? He realised that even he who prided himself on his self-control was defeated, and stepped forward to return his eye to the peephole.
Miss Brightwell’s long, dark hair had come loose from its coiffure and a tendril curled around the rosy peak cresting one of her full, pert breasts, surely the most magnificent bosom he’d ever seen. His vision blurred.
He held his breath. The anticipation was killing him but he dare not reveal his presence or the show would be over.
He wondered what Miss Brightwell would do if she knew he’d seen her.
Would she be outraged? Or would she melt into his arms if he promised to restore her dignity?
Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1) Page 7