“It is because I am so vigilant about the proprieties that you escaped the censure that would have been occasioned by Mr Bramley’s appalling conduct the other night and we are all able to make the most of this beautiful afternoon.” Fenton sent her a cloying smile, which she greeted coolly before availing herself of his assistance in getting down from the carriage.
“As you remind us, we are in your debt, Lord Fenton.” Miss Brightwell shifted a little closer after her sister had departed and Fenton reached for her hand. For a moment they were silent as they both stared at it, resting upon her knee. The knowledge of how smooth and shapely that knee was starved him of the air he needed for rational thought. This young woman had given herself to him and the memory of her impassioned writhing beneath him fuelled his desperation.
“It is I who am in yours,” he ground out, and heard the hoarseness of his voice. He touched her cheek, gently contouring her high cheekbone with his forefinger before tracing the Cupid’s bow of her shapely mouth. “You are exquisite.”
Lust or love? It surely must be both but what did it matter when he just wanted her, at any cost.
She trembled beside him and he watched the workings of her face. Her longing matched his own. He saw that when her eyes met his and it filled him with a sense of power he’d never felt before. Agonised soul-searching had led to the greatest quandary of his entire, lust-filled life as he’d embarked upon this trip, not knowing what sort of offer he’d make her. Now he realised the only way to end his torment was to have her…now.
In that split second he decided. These were feelings he ought not have for a wife. His mother had always counselled him that a wife should be held up on a pedestal. Virtue and good breeding were the hallmarks of the ideal bride and, regardless of Bramley’s tales, Miss Brightwell had given herself too willingly. Besides, if she were to be his wife, he couldn’t have her now.
Nevertheless, he knew he was reacting too hastily; that he was being dictated to by his base need for instant gratification as he reached down to retrieve the cigar-shaped velvet box from the wicker basket at his feet. But he couldn’t help himself. He handed his gift to her, nearly deafened by the pounding of his heart as he waited for her response.
“Sapphires,” he murmured as she fingered the stones. “Because I can’t stop thinking of them, I bought you something to match your eyes.”
Relieved at her obvious delight as she held the delicate sapphire necklace up to the light, he imagined her wearing it—naked. He’d kiss her from the toes upwards, while his gift encircled her graceful neck and the gems in her ears glinted in the candlelight. The manifestations of his desire were so acute, he had to clamp his teeth against the pain, cursing the fact that the public location of their assignation meant he must keep up appearances—and keep his hands to himself.
“And this?” she asked, her look enquiring as she held up the little key on a black velvet ribbon that had also been contained in the box.
His excited determination to savour her charms before the afternoon was over was tempered by the possibility that he might have been too peremptory. Yet what of Lord Slyther’s ring about her neck? What had she done in return for that?
He clasped her hand in both of his. “A place where we may meet, my love.” Doubt vanished as visions of their future trysts made his vision blur. He was so hungry for her it took every ounce of willpower not to whip up the horses and drive her to some place they could be alone. The way she had looked at him just now indicated she wanted him just as much.
Yes—for the moment he would have her as his mistress. But, perhaps, who knew but he might even succeed in persuading his mother to overlook her ineligibility enough to sanction marriage?
He didn’t like to think these were the thoughts and actions of a cad. He was simply covering all contingencies. And yes, it was an unconventional approach, but perhaps the only way forward.
Seeing the troubled look in her eyes as she continued to look from the key to his face, and wanting to reassure her—and himself—he touched her cheek once more.
She did not look happy. She bit her lip and the doubt and concern that it had taken days to exorcise scorched him like a furious furnace.
In the face of her hardening silence, he hurried on. “I understand that your need for discretion, Fanny—if I may call you that—is greater than mine. Certainly, until your younger sister is fired off.”
Her limpid love-hungry look, which had fuelled his actions earlier, had evaporated. Dismayed, he leaned towards her but she shrank back. Her next words were like a blow to the solar plexus, knocking all the expectation from him.
“It appears, sir, I acted more rashly than I believed at the time.” Her tone was crisp. Replacing the jewels and the little key in their box, she carefully handed back his gift. “My apologies for leading you astray.”
Her expression was distant, imperious, as she bade him help her down.
“Please, Fanny, I’m sorry if I—”
The look she sent him made it clear he had no choice but to acquiesce, surrounded as they were by the crowds promenading in Rotten Row.
What could he say? It was too late to take it all back. The damage had been done. He’d been so desperate to feel her arms about him and to hold her close that he’d taken the easy coward’s way forward.
* * *
Unsure of what to say, he watched her leave, realising only now wanting her at any price had not factored in insulting her into a rapid exit from his life. But her expression had been stony with hurt pride, her beautiful blue eyes as cold as flint as she gazed up at him after he’d set her down.
How could he have misread the situation so badly? This was not a woman who had been expecting a carte blanche.
Nor, he acknowledged painfully, was she a woman who deserved one.
Blinking furiously to hold back her tears, Fanny stepped into the mêlée, searching for some other party she might join so as not to bring attention to her unchaperoned state.
The sun was blinding, her head pounding, every whit of self-confidence and esteem reduced to nothing. She’d made the greatest miscalculation of her life—now she would pay with it. It was not an overstatement. Everything she held dear—position, prestige, respectability, not to mention Lord Fenton’s respect—had been reduced to cinders by her one foolish moment of unbridled passion.
“Miss Brightwell! Alone, for goodness sake? Where is your sister?”
The reedy voice that floated down from the dashing purple curricle emblazoned with the arms of the Earl of Quamby belonged to the Earl himself. Startlingly attired in a suit of red and gold, his strawberry blonde curls topped by a matching low-crowned beaver, which he doffed in greeting, the Earl sounded as censorious as her mother.
“Separated in the crowd,” Fanny mumbled, shading the face she raised to him so he wouldn’t see her tears. She was glad of the fashionable floral profusion beneath the brim of her bonnet that helped to hide her distress.
Trembling, she felt as if she were in the grip of a palsy that threatened the integrity of her seams—as if she might burst apart, spilling her insubstantial stuffing like a roughly used rag doll. Yes, she had been roughly used—but she had no one but herself to blame. She wanted to block her ears to the sound of society’s heedless gaiety, which competed with the rumble of carriages and the chirping of birds. It seemed they were all mocking her.
“My dear Miss Brightwell, something has happened to upset you.” With a complicated manoeuvring of sticks and props, Lord Quamby inched his way to the edge of his vehicle and held out his hand. “Come up beside me and tell me your troubles as we drive. I assure you, it is better to be seen alone with me than to be remarked upon, on the promenade, unaccompanied and in tears.”
“It no longer matters what I do, since I’ve no reputation left to speak of,” Fanny whispered brokenly as she settled beside him, wishing she could bury her face in her hands but knowing she was currently being observed by everyone within sight. “I soon won’t, at any rate.�
�
“Good Lord, has my lovely, canny Fanny followed trouble where she ought not?” Lord Quamby chuckled as he gave her knee a squeeze. Not at all a respectable gesture in public but one that made Fanny feel better, nevertheless. It bridged the great divide in sensation between her mother’s cold, brief embraces when Fanny had looked like snaring a title, and the molten reaction of her body to Lord Fenton’s hot, fiery kisses and bold sensual exploration.
Blushing at the memory of those passionate interludes, Fanny glanced up to find the Earl’s sharp, blue eyes upon her. The expectation that she explain herself was clear.
So she did, giving voice to every thought and feeling that had dictated her actions the other night. The unlikely friendship that had grown up between herself and the Earl since the afternoon she and Antoinette had rescued him from footpads on Hampstead Heath was more real and sustaining than any she had developed with the numerous acquaintances she’d made during her two years in London.
“What fun the old cats will have in sending you to Coventry, my dear.” His voice was matter of fact, even amused, which was no surprise to Fanny. It was a comfort that Lord Quamby, despite his theatrical temperament, never tried to dress up the truth. “That is, if you do become Lord Fenton’s mistress.” His right eye twitched as he gazed at her through his lorgnette. “Can’t make the fellow out, I must say. Rake’s Honour and all that, and you a respectable young lady. Even feel a trifle guilty myself, since I was so reassuring about the young man seemingly five minutes before he tumbled you in my Arbour of Love.” He sighed. “Fact remains, m’dear, you were a foolish girl…and the consequences can’t be foretold for some while yet,” he added with a pointed look at her belly.
As if she hadn’t thought of that.
“Come now, child, it’s not the end of the world—though a bruised heart in youth always seems like it.” He smiled kindly and tapped his chest. “This old heart has been on fire and doused with cold water more often than I care to remember.”
Resting his hand on her arm, he gazed at the passing throng. Many cast them decidedly curious looks. To be taken up so publicly by an earl—even if only for an afternoon ride— might not ease her bruised heart but, after her humiliation at the hands of her dashing and ultimately devastatingly disappointing viscount, it bolstered her courage. Courage she would need, for to be cast from society’s embrace would be a bitter pill and one she’d not willingly have swallowed had she considered more deeply the consequences of her actions. She knew she had no one but herself to blame. She knew also that no matter how generously Lord Fenton clothed and housed his new mistress, or showered her family with largesse, Fanny’s mother would never forgive her.
Never.
She had lost everything. Fenton, her mother’s fair-weather affection, position and security. And all because she’d given into her lustful feelings for Lord Fenton.
Yes, lustful though she’d truly believed it was love at the time. Love, of the purest kind.
Only how could it have been? she thought bitterly.
“You still think of your lost love?” Fanny asked, trying to be kind, for she did so like him—but it was hard to find sympathy for another when her own heart was breaking.
“It will be twenty years ago on Friday since my beloved Richard fell into the arms of his Banquo.” He sighed.
“Oh,” said Fanny, blinking. “I didn’t…”
“Of course you didn’t,” he chuckled. “You’re an innocent, despite your worldly air. A worldly innocent with so much to learn. You mistook your Lord Fenton’s desire for love. And now Miss Fanny Brightwell is furious at making such a fatal, obvious mistake.” He shrugged. “But perhaps it was love on his part, for even love can be compromised when the future weighs in. I’ve no doubt Lord Fenton would have happily made you his wife were it not for the objection of his odious mama. The heir to three estates in the north must marry well—not some dowerless nobody, regardless of her charms.”
Fanny rubbed at the stain her tears had made on her York tan gloves and sniffed. “Mama has always been so ambitious for us. Mr Bramley was right when he said I’d be lucky to catch a wealthy tradesman.”
“My nephew is jealous.”
Fanny shrugged as she twisted her fingers in her lap, for that was true enough. “When I first met Lord Fenton, I’d never felt such a feeling here.” She touched her breast. “I thought this was true love.” Her voice trembled. “On both our parts. Now Mama will never speak to me again. I took a foolish gamble and Mama will die of shame, yet I truly thought that when I returned home following this afternoon’s ride she’d think me the cleverest and dearest of daughters.”
Lord Quamby sighed. “Meanwhile, perhaps Fenton is writhing in mortification at realising how badly he’s served you, never expecting he’d lose you. I’ve always thought it strange how far we’ll compromise our own happiness to please our mothers.” He looked wistful. “My blond Adonis wanted a more public declaration of our love, which of course might have sent us both to the gallows and certainly killed off my poor mama. Now I realise she would sooner have killed me. She’s sustained herself these past three score years and ten in the fond hope I’ll do my duty yet and provide the heir the family so desperately requires.”
He gave Fanny an assessing look. It grew even more speculative as he traced the figured gold silk of his red pantaloons with an effete hand. “Miss Brightwell,” he said in quite a different tone. His bright eyes twinkled like a blackbird’s, his full, pert little mouth turning up as if it held a wicked surprise. Taking one of her hands between his, he said in his thin, wheezing voice, “Your predicament has just inspired a plan which I believe will see our mothers twitter their joy from the tree tops.” The pressure on her hand increased, as if he could barely contain his excitement. “Certainly, if it comes to fruition, Ladies Brightwell and Fenton and the Dowager Countess of Quamby will be celebrating the joyful and entirely satisfactory unions of their respective offspring at their next little witches’ coven.”
Fanny narrowed her eyes, hope taking root as he began to explain.
Chapter 10
“Miss Brightwell to see you, my Lord.”
The censure Fenton saw in the expression of his butler Brimble suggested Miss Brightwell was alone. Carefully placing his tumbler of brandy on the sideboard, Fenton turned towards the drawing room door, hoping his own expression did not reveal the unalloyed joy shining through his disordered thoughts.
He’d spent the morning alone in his townhouse; imagining that’s how he’d feel for the rest of his life.
Alone.
His sleepless night, during which he’d castigated himself for his lack of finesse, had brought him no relief by morning.
Only more misery. Miss Brightwell had every reason never to speak to him again following his insulting behaviour.
What has possessed him to imagine she’d consider for a moment an offer to be set her up as his mistress, rather than his wife?
George Bramley’s vile talk, of course.
That had been the start of it. But in the end it had been his ungovernable impatience and desire to have her as soon as possible— yes, as his mistress—rather than later as his wife, that had caused him to give her the bracelet and key as he’d blurted out his clumsy words.
To add insult to injury, he’d referred to their need for discretion to protect her sister’s reputation. What had he been thinking? Well, that was the problem, he’d been behaving like the rake he’d sworn he’d left behind in Europe. He’d allowed his lustful feelings to hold sway and that was no way for a man to conduct himself in the arena of life with a mind to his long-term happiness.
His mother’s strictures were not inconsequential, either. She’d rammed it down his throat that she was not marriage material—said outright that Miss Brightwell was so decidedly unsuitable that she’d never even receive her. Well, his mother was harsh but she was not unjust. She would not have hinted at factors that precluded Miss Brightwell as wifely material had she not had g
ood reason.
Yet the last twenty-four hours had been an agony. He wanted Miss Brightwell at any cost, regardless of any possible misdemeanours, whether or not her reputation was unsullied. He’d given her no chance to defend herself which made him, quite simply, an out and out cad.
But if Miss Brightwell was here, surely it meant she…
“My Lord.”
The demure set of her lips and her regal curtsy was a powerful contrast to their heated encounter a few evenings ago. Blood pounded behind his eyes and rushed to his extremities, and he would have put the sofa between them to hide his fierce arousal had she not immediately glided forward and—oh, joy—placed her dainty, gloved hand upon his shoulder and raised her perfect heart-shaped face to his.
It was all the answer he needed. In paying a call unchaperoned upon a bachelor, she was making it clear that she accepted his proposition.
He blinked at her, disbelieving.
So, he’d been right to have gone about matters as he had.
Now vindication swept away the guilt that had weighed him down since she’d regally departed from his carriage twenty-four hours previously. Yes, she had no doubt hoped he would take her for his wife but the only reason she could be here under such circumstances was if she were guilty of what George Bramley had accused her.
Expectation made him lightheaded. He would have snatched her to him right there and greedily devoured her, except for the proud way she bore herself. What a tragedy he could not make her his wife. She was magnificent, both inside and out, and he wasn’t only referring to the regal bearing she projected to the world. Right now he truly believed he would die for her.
With a sigh, she brushed her hand across her forehead. “How hot it is in here,” she murmured, turning away from him to glance around the room.
She wore a dove grey bonnet adorned with white flowers and a matching pelisse-robe trimmed with white fur that obviously covered her walking dress.
Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1) Page 12