Rake's Honour (14 page)

“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.” That his voice was matter of fact, even amused, was no surprise or disappointment 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.

“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 Lord Fenton took an interest, I”—her voice trembled—“took a foolish gamble. 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 kicking himself for serving you so badly, 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.”

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 Duchess 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 Nine

“Miss Brightwell to see you, my Lord.”

The censure in the expression of Fenton’s butler Brimble suggested that she was alone. Carefully placing his tumbler of brandy on the sideboard, Fenton turned towards the door, hoping his expression did not reveal the unalloyed joy shining through his disordered thoughts.

He’d spent a sleepless night castigating himself for his lack of finesse. Miss Brightwell had every reason to feel insulted at the direct manner in which he’d proposed to set her up. To feel furious, even. To add insult to injury, he’d referred to their need for discretion to protect her
sister’s
reputation. As if Miss Brightwell hadn’t suffered enough on account of the no doubt constant fear that her previous liaisons would be discovered—though clearly she hadn’t realised he was cognisant of the extent of her misdemeanours. Since sampling her charms he’d heard whispers from various quarters, and the expertise with which she had enslaved him was surely proof in itself.

He had to keep reminding himself that the only wrong he’d done was the crude manner in which he’d proposed to set Miss Brightwell up as his mistress. He could not have asked her to be his wife. He’d witnessed her nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther, in addition to which his mother had rammed it down his throat that she was not marriage material—said outright that she was so decidedly unsuitable that she’d never even receive her. 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 good reason.

Yet the last twenty-four hours had been an agony. He wanted Miss Brightwell at any cost and he’d have been prepared even to defy his mother. Yet 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 three 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.

Expectation made him lightheaded. For a moment he was robbed of breath as his erection swelled in memory of the last time it had sheathed itself in the beautiful, alluring woman before him. He would have snatched her to him right there and greedily devoured her, were it not for the proud, vulnerable 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, which concealed the affecting kernel of vulnerability he had glimpsed. Losing himself inside her was like losing himself in Heaven.

Briefly, she closed her eyes and with a sigh 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.

“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 the third fastening that he realised her daring little ploy. Dear Lord, 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.

“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.

Her gasp as he began to suckle one of them 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 the second 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 out of his breeches with the need to do so.