Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  Fenton tried to breathe evenly through his anger. If ever a virtuous woman deserved revenge, Miss Brightwell did—but to be on the receiving end of her scorn and disgust when he’d imagined a lifetime of her delights was like a cold knife in his heart.

  Yet he deserved it!

  He turned back to Bramley and hissed, “You suggested I make her my mistress.”

  Bramley stared through the window. “You’d hardly be so stupid, my dear fellow.” He appeared to have trouble breathing as he added, “I wanted to find a way to punish her for turning her nose up at me. I wanted to punish you for being to her what I wanted to be.” He let out his breath in a burst of sour air. “Now I’d embrace you with open arms if you enticed her away from my uncle. No doubt the designing wench plans to present him with an heir nine months from their wedding day.”

  Perhaps even earlier than that.

  Fenton clenched shut his eyes. Quamby’s heir. Fenton’s child.

  “Good God, Fenton, what’s got into you?” Bramley’s words ended in a wail of pain as Fenton seized him by the collar and thrust him across the seat.

  “I should call you out, here and now!” Fenton snarled as Bramley struggled beneath him. “Though I’d rather beat your brains to a pulp where you lie, you puling, whining puppy.”

  Fanny, sitting between her sister and Lord Quamby, looked up with a smile as she heard footsteps just outside the saloon.

  “Lord Fenton, my Lord,” announced Lord Quamby’s stately butler from the double doors where his employer was entertaining his future in-laws. With a disdainful sniff he added, “And your nephew, Mr Bramley.”

  “What a pleasant surprise. Come to pay your respects to the happy pair, no doubt.” Lord Quamby patted Fanny’s hand, which rested on her primrose silk skirts, before introducing the rest of the party. “Indeed, we are all here to celebrate—joyful mamas and siblings, too.” He winked at Antoinette, who cast Bramley a coy but knowing look from beneath lowered lashes.

  Fanny ran her eyes over Fenton, hoping the effects of her thundering heart were not visible through the fine fabric of her bodice. She was well satisfied by the wild look in his eye. His neck cloth was in disarray and there was a cut on his cheek. Bramley bore evidence of a bloody nose.

  Wonderful, she thought without sarcasm, and her heart swelled. They’d been engaged in fisticuffs.

  She’d assumed Fenton would be shocked by the news of her impending nuptials but it appeared that his reaction had surpassed that. So she was more than amenable to his suggestion when he growled, ignoring everyone else in the room, “I’d like to speak to Miss Brightwell. Alone.”

  Fanny squeezed Lord Quamby’s shoulder as she rose, responding to her mother’s warning look with a bright, “Lord Fenton and I will take a turn about the room while the rest of you continue. Order up the wedding breakfast as you wish, but don’t plan the wedding tour without me. I've a particular desire to see Venice.”

  The saloon was a palatial expanse divided into various seating and entertaining arrangements. It was to the large bay window at the far end, with bench seating around its sides, an area partly obscured by a gold velvet tasselled curtain, that Fenton led her.

  “What is the meaning of this?” His voice was low and demanding. Fanny could hear the tension. The extent of his obvious suffering made her heart thunder even harder with excited longing and breathless anticipation.

  Gripping her by the shoulder, Fenton swung her out of sight behind the curtain.

  “My dear Fenton, we must be discreet,” Fanny objected mildly, revelling in the look of wounded pride on her beloved’s face. The agitation with which he raked his hand through his sooty, tousled curls was heart-warming.

  “You’re playing with fire, don’t you know?” He shook his head, as if the situation was surreal. Which, of course, it was. “You’ve pledged yourself to me, Fanny. You gave yourself to me and now…” He began to pace back and forth in front of the window, his breathing laboured as he struggled for words. Swinging round, he glared at her. “If Lord Quamby were to discover what you were doing—” He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly as if the memory were too much to revisit. “What you were doing with me just hours, it would appear, before you accepted his suit, you and your family would be unable to hold your heads up in this town.”

  “But Fenton, dearest—” She broke off and tilted her head, “I can call you Fenton, can’t I, if I’m to be your mistress? No, please, hear me out—it’s because I told dear Lord Quamby what we’d been doing that he asked me to marry him.”

  “What!?”

  Reaching up on tiptoe, she pressed one finger to his lips, “Hush, Fenton, you sound as if you’re about to lose your temper.” It was hard to keep up the charade. Her sense of vindication fully equalled her joy at this confirmation of his true feelings for her. “And please don’t interrupt. Lord Quamby knew I’d lost my heart to you. He understood my devastation when you offered to make me your mistress rather than your wife. That was when he suggested that, as it would please his mama enormously if he took a wife—”

  Seizing her by both elbows he pushed her backwards so that she landed with a thud on the bench seat.

  Pinioned beneath his bulk of muscle, Fanny’s excitement increased as he loomed over her, his eyes roiling with passion. What a man of many mood he was. And here he stood, declaring the extent of his love for her. It was all too thrilling.

  With his face barely an inch from hers, he ground out, “Living here, in Mayfair, with a carriage of your own, no doubt?”

  Fanny had never seen such tortured workings in a man’s expression. She was delighted. “Yes. I thought I’d order one in cerulean blue with two footmen wearing—”

  “So when you visited me at my town house you’d already accepted him?”

  “Of course, otherwise I’d have gratefully accepted your generous offer of accommodation on the spot rather than dissembling.” Stifling the urge to kiss away his scowl, she wriggled out from under him, smiling serenely as she smoothed her skirts. “I was secretly betrothed to Lord Slyther—Mama had forced me into it—only I couldn’t bear the idea of marriage to him after I met you. So in the hopes of receiving an honourable offer from you I delayed the marriage.” She sighed. “Then he died just hours before our nuptials. You can’t imagine how relieved I was— still thinking you cared enough for me to make me your wife.”

  She glared at him before resuming with another smile. “Now, of course, I have the best of both worlds. I shall be a countess rather than a lowly viscountess and Lord Quamby, who is very generous, says you and I can be together as much as we wish—provided we are discreet. You shall be my cicisbeo, Fenton darling.”

  Sweeping aside the curtain she took his arm. “The others will be wondering where we are,” she added, as she pulled him out of hiding, proceeding into the room with as much decorum as if they were at a state ball. “How proud you will be, Fenton, when your son becomes an earl.” She patted her belly. “If I’d married you, the poor mite would have been a mere viscount.”

  Twenty minutes later, Fenton threw open the doors to his mother’s sunny morning room and strode across the green and gold Aubusson carpet.

  His mood was grim but all was not yet lost. Not if Fanny truly loved him—though, Lord knew, she’d done a mighty fine job of humiliating him.

  Lacerated he’d been, yet it had done nothing to dampen his desire. Hope flickered uncertainly in his breast.

  “I need the Fenton diamonds, Mother.”

  “Right now, darling?” Arching her plucked eyebrows, Lady Fenton glanced up from her book.

  “Yes, right now, Mama.” He was in no mood for going through the motions of playing the dutiful son. She knew he could want them for only one thing.

  “I plan to propose to Miss Brightwell this afternoon.”

  “Goodness!” Lady Fenton dropped her book and twisted in her chair by the fire. “You’ve enticed her from Lord Quamby?” Her face was animated. “Well done, darling!” she cried, holdin
g out her arms. “Come here so I may congratulate you.”

  He blinked as if to clear his head. “You’re pleased?” This day was throwing out more shocks than he believed his poor, ravaged system could take. He stared with disbelief at the curved mouth, usually puckered with disapproval. “But, Mama,” he muttered, “you warned me against Miss Brightwell even before I met her. Lord knows, you threatened a veritable schism if I married her. You considered her patently unsuitable a week ago and I can’t see what’s changed. She still comes with no dowry, her father still killed himself to thumb his nose at the moneylenders and God knows who else was after him—”

  “But you’ve enticed her from the Earl of Quamby. And the girl is a beauty. She has style and finesse. She’ll make you a fine wife.”

  Fenton could only stare. There was not even the suggestion of a slur upon Fanny’s reputation. If his mother had heard whispers she’d have said something. Fanny’s ineligibility had been the result of something entirely different, as far as his mother was concerned. Something entirely irrelevant. Why, in view of everything he’d learnt in the past couple of hours, Fanny had been the most innocent of debutantes.

  “What does anything matter now you’ve pulled the rug from under Lord Quamby’s feet?” Lady Fenton cut in with a dismissive wave of her hand. She looked grotesquely playful as she patted the footstool by her side in invitation. “Really, Fenton, you make me sound like an old tartar. Besides, at the time I had good reason to warn you, with that detestable mother of hers ready to insinuate herself where she could.”

  Fenton, who had chosen to remain standing, was silent as he digested this. “You’re telling me it was only her mother you’d taken against?”

  “Lofty little Lottie Lucas, that’s right.” Lady Fenton looked as if she’d just drunk sour milk. “As I think I mentioned, we were together at Mrs Smedley’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen, in Kensington.” For a moment his mother looked like an old and angry parody of Bramley as she clenched her fist. “The whey-faced ape-leader said I smelt of shop because grandfather’s fortune came from brewing.”

  Fenton felt ill. He swayed before forcing his manliness to the fore. So much had happened in just a few short days. He’d taken too much of what he’d heard at face value, leaving him looking like a fool.

  Worse, he’d quite possibly ruined all chance of future happiness with the utterly beguiling Miss Brightwell because of Bramley’s jealousy and an old grudge held by his mother.

  Rising, Lady Fenton warmed her back at the fire as she shook her head. “Curiously, Miss Lucas later asked me to attend her at her wedding to Monty Brightwell. I suppose she was dangling after a generous wedding present.”

  “You attended Lady Brightwell’s wedding?” Fenton swung out of his mother’s orbit and began to pace, shaking his head. How much more could he endure?

  Lady Fenton clapped her hands and her eyes glittered with excitement once more. “And now you’re to steal Miss Brightwell away from the Earl of Quamby, which, upon my word, will set up that dowager’s bristles nicely. She was ever the schoolmarm. Did I tell you what the old Friday-faced gorgon said to me just after she became Lady Quamby…?”

  “Lord Fenton, my Lord.” Lord Quamby’s butler raked a disapproving eye over the viscount as he passed into the centre of the company. The young man’s cravat was still askew, and he’d obviously not attended to the cut on his cheek.

  Fanny managed to plaster an expression of careless unconcern upon her face as she looked up from her discussion with Lord Quamby.

  So he had come back. Obviously her little charade had worked, and now her future happiness rested upon the next few moments. Her hands felt cold and clammy. She gripped Lord Quamby’s arm, her spirits bolstered by his theatrical wink.

  “Methinks Miss Brightwell has just snared her viscount,” he murmured, giving her hands a quick squeeze. “Don’t let him off too easily, my poppet. The more you make him suffer now, the more he’ll respect you for it, I promise.”

  The Dowager Duchess Quamby, who was chatting comfortably with Lady Brightwell over a dish of tea, offered their guest a seat.

  Antoinette, looking up from the game of piquet she was playing at a table in front of the fire with Bramley, giggled. “You look very dark and Byronesque, Lord Fenton,” she said.

  Ignoring her and with the most cursory acknowledgement of the rest of the company, Fenton focused his glowering expression upon Lady Brightwell. “I wish to speak to your daughter. Alone.”

  Fanny watched her mother exchange disapproving looks with the Earl’s mama. Her heart rate increased.

  Lord Quamby knew exactly what this was about, and she already had his approbation. But her mother was not going to be pleased.

  Interjecting before Lady Brightwell could reply, Fanny ran a languid hand across her brow, and sighed. “I’m positively fagged to death from all that walking about the room we did only an hour ago, Lord Fenton. Surely you can say all that needs to be said in front of present company?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Unpardonable,” muttered Lady Brightwell of the man Fanny knew her mother would have embraced with open arms as her daughter’s suitor mere days ago. The reflection galvanised her into rising.

  “Just three minutes, my Lord,” she said with a smile, taking Fenton’s arm and strolling with him to the alcove.

  Her leisurely progress ended with an unseemly push so that she landed, for the second time that day, with a thud on the window seat obscured by the gold-tasselled curtain. For the second time that day, Fenton’s face loomed over hers as his arms gripped the windowsill on either side of her face.

  “Enough of these games—”

  Fanny’s laugh was part amusement, part indignation. “What games? Lord Quamby asked me to be his wife and you asked me to be your mistress and I have accepted both offers.”

  “I am here to ask you to marry me, Miss Brightwell.” His voice quavered as he thrust at her a much larger, heavier velvet box than the last. “In case you doubt the sincerity of my offer, I hope the Fenton diamonds will convince you.” He cleared his throat and, in that second, Fanny saw his vulnerability so much more clearly than the persona of the practiced rake.

  Perhaps he had acted as any young buck hearing rumours of her unsuitability, and he’d only been testing the waters. She shouldn’t forgive him but he truly did seem to wish to atone.

  Fanny gazed with appreciation at his beautiful eyes, smouldering with fire but full of fear; at his strong jaw, clenched with angst; and at his large, strong hands with their delicate long fingers that had stroked her face with such tenderness, and her desire with such finesse. Inside, her heart seemed to flip over.

  Goodness, but she wanted him.

  And right now it looked as if he truly doubted her answer if he was about to make her the offer for which she longed. Indeed, he looked as fearful but as resolved that he would cross shark-infested waters to have her. An enormous wave of tenderness engulfed her.

  Fenton cleared his throat. “They have passed through three generations of my family and are worn by the reigning viscountess and now I offer them to you”—he took a breath, adding in a rush that did nothing to conceal the wavering tone—“if you will have me.”

  Tingles of excitement started in her toes and worked their way upwards, and they weren’t on account of the diamonds. Her ploy had worked and, judging by the determined look on Lord Fenton’s face, he was not going to take no for an answer. But if he truly wanted her he would to have to work harder.

  She affected a small frown. “You’re asking me to sacrifice what is probably my only chance to become a countess—?”

  “I’m asking you to follow your heart. Dear God, Fanny…” He took her seat, settling her across his lap and forcing her head onto his shoulder so he could caress her cheek. “I know you’re trying to make me suffer for the humiliation I’ve caused you, for which I’m truly sorry. But after what we shared…” He shook his head. “Surely you felt it, too?” Cupping her
face in his hands he gazed into her eyes. His own looked tortured. Gently he touched his lips to hers.

  She shivered, barely able to restrain her answering impulses as he murmured into the gentlest of kisses, “If I have to spend the rest of my life atoning I will, if only to hear you say yes to becoming my wife. Just name your terms, Fanny.”

  It wasn’t the desperation in his voice, reaffirming her power over him, or even his generous offer. It was his kiss that confirmed she could belong to no one else. How could she say no to a man whose touch unleashed feelings of love and tenderness she had never known existed within the heart she had once thought as cold as her mother’s? Gently clasping his face, she kissed his lips, his eyes, his cheeks, revelling in the shudders that ran through him. Behind the tasselled gold curtain, her dreams were finally coming true.

  “I want my own cerulean blue carriage with four high steppers,” she murmured. She wasn’t serious and was surprised when he dug his fingers into her shoulders and ground out, “Done.”

  He was trembling as if he had the ague, their lips barely touching throughout their exchange. His voice was strained. “You can have it in royal purple or scarlet for all I care.”

  With the tip of her tongue, she traced the line of his mouth. His eyes were still closed, but his senses were clearly alert to her slightest touch. She smiled at his shudders, then whispered, “And Antoinette must have a dowry.” Though Lord Quamby had already discussed taking care of Antoinette’s future himself, Fanny knew this was something she had to ensure if she was to placate her mother later that evening.

  Still kissing her lightly, though with growing impatience, Fenton agreed to this, also. “And my Cousin Isadora must be looked after while Mama must have a house of her own.”

  He drew back, his eyes widening. Perhaps perceiving her determination, he curbed any objection, saying with a defeated air, “As long as it’s not near us.”