Authors: Beverley Oakley
Fanny prostrated herself along the length of the window seat in their bedroom, between bouts of lonely weeping, while the others played backgammon in front of the drawing room fire. She could speak to no one of her distress. She’d taken a gamble on love, having eschewed the solid, albeit unpalatable, offer that would have made them all comfortable and secure…
And she had lost.
Adding to her torment was another night of Antoinette’s endless chatter, after the candle had been snuffed out, with tales ever more marvellous as to the stir the not-yet presented Miss Antoinette was making in London society. Fanny stared, eyes glazed, into the darkness of their bedroom, and wondered how a future without the handsome rake Lord Fenton would be even tolerable.
She drifted off to sleep at dawn, after a seemingly eternal night of tossing and turning, and did not awake until noon…to find a letter waiting for her in the drawing room.
Chapter Eight
Fenton twitched the ribbons of his high-perch phaeton as he searched the throng of exquisitely attired promenaders. He was as restless and uncertain of his reward as he’d been when his horse had taken the lead at St Leger three years before—and won him a purse that had trebled the amount he’d lost the night before.
Gambling! His mother was happy that he’d got over the gambling mania that had ruled his life as a young buck, but not so happy at his choice of the one woman who might keep him interested enough in domesticity not to want to stray from the straight and narrow again. If only he knew his mother would not make his life living hell if he crossed her in choosing a wife she was dead set against. Though, truth to tell, his mother’s furious objections were only the start of Fenton’s concerns.
Despite his anticipation, he was in a quandary, unable to decide what to
do
though he knew what he
wanted.
He wanted Miss Brightwell to come to him with an unblemished reputation so the whole world—his mother included—could endorse her as his viscountess.
But Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther had rattled him. While it did not confirm that she was the man’s mistress, or that her reputation
was
besmirched, or that she had not been a virgin before she and Fenton had got so gloriously carried away, it posed all sorts of questions. Questions he needed answered before he was willing to proceed along the marriage path.
So, after despatching a note that he’d meet Miss Brightwell in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, he’d come prepared for every contingency, including a ring in his coat pocket should he decide on the spur of the moment to throw caution to the wind and ask for Miss Brightwell’s hand in marriage. That was his preferred course of action, for he’d had enough of dalliance. His Continental Tour had whittled away the mystique of feminine enticements. With the looks, leisure and licence to do whatever he chose, he’d become, quite frankly, bored to tears—until five nights ago when Miss Fanny Brightwell…
At the mere thought of their passionate encounter his heart beat out the maddest, most creative tattoo before settling back into its steady routine. Discreetly, he put his hand to his swollen cock and took a deep breath. One way or another, he was going to have exclusive rights over the damnably delightful, enigmatic Miss Fanny Brightwell, or he and his prick would go mad. Their exquisite encounters had been far too cursory to satisfy a man who liked to spend hours bringing a woman to climax before following, himself, into explosive abandonment.
Fenton shaded his eyes and perused the crowd more closely while he tried to rein in his thoughts. Dreams of thrusting his Thomas into Miss Brightwell’s sweet little Madge were hardly conducive to acting the cool gentleman on such public view.
He glanced anxiously at his time piece. It was well and truly past five o’ clock and there was still no sign of her. Further ruminations took his anticipation down a notch. Lord Slyther had died several days previously. Could it be that Miss Brightwell was grieving…for her previous lover?
No, he strenuously would not countenance such a scenario. Miss Brightwell was in love with
him
. Fenton. His certainty that her enthusiastic reception of his overtures was pure and unfeigned was part of her charm. Miss Brightwell was direct. She was honest and unaffected.
Very different from the eligible maidens of his acquaintance.
Thoughtfully, he tapped his fingers upon his thigh. In one important way, she was sadly different, he reflected, recalling the unvirgin-like enthusiasm with which she had given herself to him. Lord, but he
wanted
to make her his wife. Though, regardless of what he ultimately settled for, right now he just wanted Miss Fanny Brightwell up here beside him.
He shifted like a schoolboy, unable to contain his restlessness. Three rounds in the ring with Gentleman Jackson the previous afternoon had not achieved the release of pent-up energy for which he’d hoped. Right now he felt like a large cat, coiled tight and ready to spring. Miss Brightwell was the only prey that would satisfy him.
But the niggling doubts persisted. Was she eligible for the role of his wife? Did she even expect to be?
And where
was
she?
Impatience grew as the minutes passed. It had been torture to wait this long—now he could not wait a moment longer. He burnt to hold her in his arms, to be alone with her and to crush his lips against hers. To feel her heated flesh, suckle her magnificent breasts, plunder the slickness of her desire…
“My apologies, Lord Fenton.”
The wicked pucker of her mouth and the gleam in her lively, blue eyes made him want to gather her up, whisk her to somewhere secluded and thrust his engorged cock into her willing body in an even more thrilling rendition of the other night. Trying to temper his schoolboy’s grin into something more sophisticated, he extended his hand and pulled her, then her sister, up beside him.
“If you are feeling a little cramped, Miss Antoinette”—he sent the young girl a meaningful look—“Miss Conyngham over there was asking after you. She thought you’d make a pleasant addition to their party.” He indicated a knot of people in the middle distance.
“And leave my sister alone with
you,
who are so concerned about the proprieties?” Antoinette’s smile was pert.
“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’s eyes flashed a wicked subtext, though her expression was demure as she resettled herself after her sister had departed.
Raw desire made Fenton reach 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. The memory of her impassioned writhing beneath him fuelled his desperation. God, he wanted her.
“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.”
Her barely suppressed tremble fed his need, for he could see how impossible she found it to disguise that her longing matched his own. 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, but now he realised the only way to end his torment was to have her…
now
.
Reaching down, he retrieved a cigar-shaped velvet box from the wicker basket at his feet. He handed it to her, nearly deafened by the pounding of his heart as he waited for her response. What would she say? Would she be delighted by his generosity or disappointed when she realised he’d learnt too much?
Fenton took a deep breath, his brain briefly disengaging from the more earthly desires of the moment to enjoy the pleasure on her beautiful face as she fingered his gift.
He murmured, “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. He felt himself harden until 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 a little key on a black velvet ribbon.
His excited determination to savour her charms before the afternoon was over was only now tempered by the possibility that he might have been too peremptory. Yet surely, he justified to himself as the nagging kernel of doubt doubled and doubled again, she must have been expecting such an offer if she was already in the habit of bargaining her body for similar tokens of esteem from men like Lords Slyther and Bickling?
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 pounce upon her right there and then. Feverishly, he anticipated whisking her off to her newly acquired charming little bower so he could make love to her all afternoon. 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, if they were discreet and her liaison with Lord Slyther was successfully hushed up, who knew but he might even succeed in persuading his mother to overlook her ineligibility enough to sanction marriage?
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. Dismay spawned in his entrails. When he leaned towards her, 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.
Unsure of what to say, he watched her leave, realising only now that he wanted her at any price—despite her loss of virtue, the other men and his mother’s strictures. Her expression was 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 a 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.