Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  “The hooks are so difficult,” she said with another sigh, raising her chin and stepping up to him. “Won’t you help me?”

  It was only after undoing the third fastening that he realised her daring little ploy. For a moment he couldn’t believe it. Yet it was true. She wore nothing beneath the fine, woollen garment. No petticoat, no chemise, no stays. He swallowed. No undergarments of any kind. Only neat, half kid boots in green with matching garters to hold up her white silk stockings.

  He was on his knees by the time he’d worked loose the final button.

  And locked the door.

  “My God, you are perfection,” he managed through constricted airways as he gazed up at her, trembling with the knowledge of all she was offering him.

  She smiled as she rested her small, ungloved hand on his head. Groaning softly, he wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his cheek against her smooth, gently rounded belly, sniffing appreciatively. “Musk and ambergris,” he murmured.

  She giggled and bent down to kiss the top of his head as she shrugged off her pelisse. “Yours for the taking, my Lord,” she whispered, giving a provocative wriggle, then arching slightly.

  It was all the invitation he needed.

  Mesmerised, he gazed up at her from where he still knelt. She was astonishing. The most exquisite confection of womanhood he’d ever encountered in his wanton-woman-filled years as a rake. He couldn’t have torn himself from her had the walls of his town house been crashing down about their ears.

  He rose up on his knees, and she placed her hands upon his shoulders, throwing back her head and gasping as he took one perfect, pink peak into his mouth.

  Her reaction thrilled him. She shuddered. He could feel her trembling to her very core. He was her prince of pleasure, her puppet master, pulling the strings of her passion. He’d never felt so powerful—so privileged—in all his life.

  And it would be no one-off encounter. She’d pledged herself to him as surely as if in marriage. Yet she’d taken all the risks. How he adored her for it. How he intended to honour her sacrifice.

  Starting with the truth.

  “I think I love you, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured, burying his face between her full, soft breasts. They were his. She was offering him her all.

  She gasped as he began to suckle the other nipple and it nearly drove him to the brink. He could feel her temperature rise, the warmth and moistness of her skin acting on him like a red rag to a rutting bull. Her trembling and the constricted way she managed to reply, “I think I love you, too, Lord Fenton,” could not be feigned. She had come back for him because he, of all the men she’d ever enjoyed, was her chosen, consummate lover.

  It was time for to return to the other delectable mound of lily-white flesh. Taking the delicate rosebud peak in his mouth, he toyed with it, delighting in her moans and sighs while his fingers tangled in the soft, damp curls at the juncture of her legs. He couldn’t wait to pay a more intimate visit there. He was nearly bursting with the need to do so.

  But the time was not yet right. He needed to show her what a generous lover he could be. A rake he might still be, but she would reform him.

  Just, not yet.

  When her breath came in short, staccato bursts and he glanced up to see that her eyes were glazed, he paused just long enough to divest himself of his own clothes. Then he was back on his knees wearing only his linen shirt and, he suspected, a grin like the village idiot. This creature had stepped from another sphere into his life, as if a fairy godmother had waved her magic wand and granted him the elixir of love.

  He kissed his way up the smooth white silk of her stocking, sucking at the damp, heated flesh above the garter, revelling in her moans—more intense now—and the way her hands fisted in his hair. Her cries of rapture when his tongue found the swollen nub at her centre, slick with desire, nearly undid him.

  “More,” she whimpered when he released her before sweeping her into his arms and depositing her upon the hearthrug. The impatient grinding of her hips, the thwarted desire that flared in her eyes, were enough to convince him this was no feigned performance.

  Still, he was careful not to move too fast. If she was comparing him with past lovers he didn’t want to come up wanting.

  “What can I do for you, my darling Fanny?” he muttered, pausing in the midst of rolling one rosy red nipple around his tongue. “Just name your desire.”

  She said nothing for a moment and he watched, mesmerised, as she tore her eyes from his face to rove over his flanks. The flare in their sapphire depths when they reached his manhood suggested she liked what she saw and his tremor of anticipation echoed hers.

  Grasping her by her elbows, he raised her so that they were kneeling, facing each other, raw longing surely in each look during this brief hiatus in proceedings.

  For a second, she looked uncertain, as if this was new territory. Then, experimentally, she put her hands to his chest, feeling the hardness of muscle, tracing his nipples.

  Lord, it felt good, this prelude to what promised to be the most exquisite pleasure of his life. He gasped and gripped her shoulders, pushing her back, gasping, “I won’t last a minute and right now, Miss Fanny Brightwell, I want to brand you as mine, to claim you, body and soul.”

  No, Fenton was nearly past the brink and this vixen was about to make a fool out of a man known for his sexual endurance.

  Cradling her shoulders, he lay her upon the hearthrug and covered her fine-boned body with his, revelling in the moist warmth of her skin and the heart-rending way she looked up at him.

  She smiled, her expression full of love and his heart answered, full to bursting with the need to honour her gift to him. She had forsaken her position in society to be with him and he intended that she should never regret her decision.

  “Whatever happens, I shall keep you safe,” he promised hoarsely, closing his eyes and kissing her lips. Her response, eager and childlike as she dug her little fingers into his flesh and kissed him back, was like a spark to straw.

  With a groan, he plunged deep within her, the roaring in his head competing with her cries and the fury of their mingled breathing.

  It was every bit as wonderful as last time. Miss Fanny Brightwell really was the consummate lover, and as he reached the final moment of rapture and triumph and love, he realised that in this woman’s arms he’d finally found the fount of happiness.

  For several minutes he was unable to move. It was the most stupendous love-making he’d ever experienced and he felt he’d run the race of his life. Exhausted, with eyes still closed, he lazily licked the salty sheen of sweat from her heated skin. Finally, he rolled off her and onto his side, resting his elbow on the rug and cushioning his head on his hand. She looked dazed when he drew her against him but she chuckled happily when he kissed her almost reverently on the forehead and whispered, “I do not take lightly the sacrifices you’ve made.” He looked wonderingly at her. “I am the happiest, most satiated man alive.”

  With a languid stretch she sighed and snuggled closer, smiling and murmuring, “I’ve made no sacrifices, my Lord.”

  He rose to help her dress, understanding her concern as she tensed when she heard the clock chime the hour. He knew what risks she had taken to be with him. She could have chosen respectability with a wealthy merchant. There were enough of them who’d have overlooked her lack of dowry and reputation to wed the bold and beautiful daughter of a disgraced baron. Instead, she’d followed her impulsive desires to be his mistress, to be with him.

  The fire in the grate hissed and crackled. He could not bear to see her leave.

  “I want to see you…be with you every moment of the day,” he whispered, securing the last hook beneath her chin which he cupped in his hands. He’d never wanted anything more. No woman had intrigued and excited him like Miss Brighwell. He could imagine them together until the end of their days. Clearing his throat he added, “But you must dictate the terms, for I know you have considerations other than me.” He adored th
e delicate blush that swept her cheeks.

  When she lowered her face demurely he could not contain his excitement as he said in a rush, “Tomorrow I must show you the charming residence in Mayfair I have selected, which I’m sure you’ll adore—though I understand it is prudent to wait a while before you install yourself.” His impatience to set her up, permanently, as his, was killing him.

  She touched his cheek and his heart swelled at the tenderness in her eye as she murmured, “Mayfair? How…convenient.”

  “And I shall provide you with a carriage,” he promised, his generosity fuelled by her kindling look.

  “Oh, that will not be necessary, as I shall have my own.” Leaning in to him, she raised her hand to stroke the curls at the nape of his neck as he tied her bonnet. He was taken aback when, sighing, she added, “My love, I have much to organise during the next few days. I will send a note around when I’m free to see you again.”

  Free to see you again?

  He did not understand her meaning. “Of course we must be discreet but, my darling Fanny, I want to be with you every moment of the day.” He was surprised at how anxious he suddenly felt. Had she not considered their coupling the most extraordinarily exciting experience of her life?

  He certainly had.

  But instead of the look of adoration and regret at parting that he’d expected to see reflected on her face, she raised her chin when the clock chimed the hour and said, anxiously, “Is that really the time? Goodness, I have so much to get done today. Goodnight, my Lord. Until next time.”

  Rain slashed against the windowpanes. It was a fitting tribute to his mood. Like a caged beast, Fenton paced the hearthrug, his mind able to turn upon only one thing—Miss Fanny Brightwell. For three days she had been unobtainable, neither at any of the fashionable watering holes or even, when in desperation he’d begun calling in person, at her London lodgings. She’d even sent him a note to tell him she was too busy to see the lodgings he’d secured for her but that she looked forward to their next encounter.

  Lord, what did that mean?

  He turned, heart pumping in hope and expectation at the sound of crashing upon the front door, though it was not a ladylike entrance.

  Instead, Bramley thundered past a clearly distressed Brimble and burst into the library. As he removed his hat a great torrent of water splashed from its brim and joined the droplets from his multi-layered coat in a puddle on the Wilton carpet.

  “Perhaps, Brimble, you’d divest Mr Bramley of his sodden garments,” Fenton said with pointed disapproval to the hovering and clearly enraged butler. The fact that he had hoped it might be Fanny made him even more disinclined to entertain Bramley, who was obviously in one of his moods.

  “No time.” Bramley sucked in a breath, running a hand through his rain-darkened hair as he fended off Brimble’s discreet ministrations. His eyes burned like coals in his pallid face, his agitation clear as he rasped, “You have to come quickly, Fenton. The news is all over town. I heard it just now at my club. Miss Brightwell is betrothed to the Earl of Quamby.”

  Fenton could only blink. Stupidly, like an owl. Shock robbed him of an intelligent response and left him physically deflated, as if the air had been sucked right out of him. Not just the air but the bones and substance that enabled him to walk tall, like a man. He gripped the sideboard for support. His Fanny Brightwell? The woman who’d played his heartstrings not three afternoons before like a bewitching harpist before disappearing in a puff of enchanted smoke?

  “I’ve come directly from my uncle’s house, where Quamby confirmed that he and Miss Brightwell are to be married without delay.” Bramley’s face contorted with malice as he paced. “I believe the betrothal took place three days ago.”

  “Three days ago?” Fenton repeated. He shook his head. It could not be true. A powerful combination of disbelief, wounded pride and devastation swept out the thick, sluggish horror that slowed his responses.

  No! This could not be. Miss Fanny Brightwell could not do this to him. She could not be allowed to shake up the happy, ordered world that revolved around her making him the most important man in her life.

  What was she up to? Three days ago he’d been the happiest man alive. Miss Brightwell had been wrapped in his arms, sighing happily as he rained kisses upon her face. Dear God, she’d been beneath him on this very carpet, moaning in ecstasy as he’d thrust deep inside her. He’d assumed that the giving of her smooth, fragrant, sensual body was her ultimate gift to him. He’d felt like some great, all-powerful God. So what had happened? Had she walked straight from Fenton’s embrace into the path of Lord Quamby, who had made her an offer of marriage she couldn’t refuse?

  “Lord Quamby.” The growl came from his very depths. He was vaguely aware that Bramley was at the sideboard helping himself to brandy and, with shaking hands, was trying to replace the glass stopper. Neglecting to consult with his host, or even offer some much-needed fortification, he quickly followed the first shot with another.

  “Why have you come to me?” Fenton’s tone was clipped. Calm and reason were slowly returning.

  Bramley slammed down the glass tumbler and turned. His lip curled. “Because Lord Quamby is my uncle and I am his heir. He was never supposed to marry. A woman in his bed is laughable, yet that insinuating little baggage has sneaked right under my guard, wrapped my uncle around her little finger and is about to deny me my inheritance. Antoinette told me all about the pair of you. God knows, I’ve seen it in the way Miss Brightwell looks at you. She loves you! I wanted to stop that but…right now, you’re the only one who can stop her!” In several strides he was across the room, seizing Fenton by the arm and propelling him to the door as he called to Brimble for his Lordship’s coat.

  They found a hackney carriage, though with the rain and traffic congestion of the fashionable hour it would have been quicker to walk.

  The only one who can stop her?

  Fenton hunched over in the shabby seat, his mind in turmoil. Three days ago he’d arrogantly thought he held the upper hand. Pain mocked him while gleefully lancing his vulnerable heart. He didn’t understand any of it. He’d thought she loved him. Bramley said she did.

  Clearly, though, she’d not loved him enough.

  Through clenched teeth he said, “It seems the Dowager Countess of Quamby will see her son marry at any cost if she’s prepared to countenance a match with an ineligible. Why not Miss Antoinette? She’s just as comely and willing and, unless you’ve ensured otherwise, her reputation is still intact.” He heard the snideness of his tone, an armour against his pain and turmoil. “There’s no slur upon her past, for all that that happy truth is more due to me than to you. Miss Antoinette has not entertained Bickling and Slyther and God knows who else, although it matters not one jot to me.”

  There was something jarring in Bramley’s stillness. Fenton turned from his angry contemplation of the passing foot traffic as a drift of memory from the ball a little over a week ago floated just out of reach. What exactly was it Miss Brightwell had said with regard to Bramley’s conduct? It had been derisive, he knew that. He stared at Bramley’s profile and racked his brain. Something to the effect that Bramley was unlikely to have much regard for Antoinette’s best interests—that in fact Bramley was on a mission to do the precise opposite. At the time, Fenton had been too concerned with seeing to Fanny’s best interests to register that her remark indicated more than just a passing association. Yes, he knew they were acquainted and that Bramley had perhaps been put out by Fanny’s lack of interest…but was there more to it?

  “How well do you really know Miss Brightwell?” With shoulders hunched, Fenton leaned menacingly across the small space between them.

  A flash of lightning illuminated Bramley’s pallid, sweating brow. As usual, his lip was curled with derision. “She has the airs of a princess”—his voice was rough and ugly— “though she has not a penny to her name.”

  It was as if a veil had been drawn from across Fenton’s eyes, though in truth he�
��d suspected it before, then discounted it. “She spurned your suit”—Fenton thrust out his hand and seized Bramley by the neck cloth—“didn’t she? Not just your attentions?”

  Bramley wrenched free and threw himself back against the squabs as he hissed, “She told me I had the address of a costermonger and not to insult her with my persistence.”

  “You offered marriage!”

  “Of course I offered marriage,” Bramley muttered. His fingers tapped the scratched leather seats as he stared grimly at the rain-soaked streets. “D’you think I’d offer to make her my mistress?” He chewed his lower lip. “Yes, Fenton, I lied about the lovely Miss Fanny Brightwell when I saw the way she looked at you. I did not want to see her compete with all the other pretty, vacuous debutantes who parade their wares at Almacks, knowing she was the cream of the crop and could have anyone she wanted.” He rasped in a breath, muttering, “Not when I wanted her.”

  Horror and prickles of cold sweat made Fenton shiver. What had he done? He had been taken for a fool. He’d not wanted to believe Bramley but ultimately he had. Yes, he’d believed the whispers of other no-doubt jaded, spurned suitors. Believed his mother’s insinuations. Assuming, upon reflection, that Fanny's eagerness for their coupling in the tent at Quamby’s ball was further evidence that she had not been a virgin. And all because it suited him to; that it justified him making her an offer so he could set her up now when he was too impatient to wait. He’d thought he could have the best of both worlds, hadn’t he?

  Right now he hated himself.

  Bramley was still talking. It was not soothing to listen to him go on, “And then Lord Slyther made her an offer. Antoinette told me. Miss Brightwell turned me down, but she was prepared to accept him. That mountain of pestilence!”

  Fenton closed his eyes, mocked by memories that had, until now, sustained him.

  He clarified, “Lord Slyther made an offer of marriage?” wincing as Bramley muttered viciously, “Given the choice, I daresay she’d have preferred me, but her mama had organised the match and was not about to let her wriggle out of it after her disappointment with Alverley.”