Authors: Beverley Oakley
Fanny curtsied. “Yes, my Lord.”
“One other thing, Miss Brightwell…”
“Yes?”
“If I hear a word to suggest that your behaviour is anything but beyond reproach, and your heart and body are not wholly dedicated to me, then I shall cut off your mother’s pension and refuse all assistance to your siblings. You will discover I am not the kind and indulgent husband you thought you’d married. Is that understood?”
Fanny met his eye, even as she felt the boldness of a lifetime drain from her. Lord Slyther held all the cards. She was powerless to resist. All she could hope for was that salvation would come before she was a dried-up prune of a creature with all her joy in life sucked from her.
Once more she curtsied, before she offered Lord Slyther the response required of a dispirited, subjugated bride-to-be when she’d so hoped to be happy.
Through constricted airways, she forced her words past the threatening tears, “Yes, my Lord.”
Chapter Three
Felix Linley, Lord Fenton, cast his roving eye over the gathering. Now that he was in the market for a wife, after a decade of idle dalliances, he’d never been more spoilt for choice.
And he’d never been more dissatisfied with what was on offer.
His companion, the undiscerning libertine George Bramley, was doing his best to acquaint Fenton with the dazzling debutantes new to society since Fenton’s return to England after two years abroad. The truth was that Fenton was too busy reliving his nocturnal adventure at Vauxhall Gardens to pay attention. He far preferred amorous intrigue to a roomful of eligible maidens parading their wares. Scowling at a Titian-haired miss whose smile faltered as she scuttled away, he realised he was comparing them all against a new standard—the exquisite ingénue he’d scooped up from under Alverley’s nose. As he watched the redhead’s return to the safety of her mama, his resolve hardened. Once he’d paid his respects to Lord Quamby this evening, he’d return to Vauxhall and see if the mysterious creature of the night was parading her far more delectable wares in one of the garden’s serpentine walks.
Excitement surged through him at the thought, for he was certain she was very new to the trade—though her lines had been very polished. “
I am destined to marry a man I do not love.”
Ha! What sort of credulous fool did she take him for? Nevertheless, he’d been a fool not to have snared her when he had the chance. He might be in the market for a wife but enjoying the pleasures offered by an enthusiastic and diverting mistress was a far more enticing prospect.
“And passing by is the Baby Brightwell Beauty,” Bramley remarked as a golden-haired debutante crossed his line of vision. “Unleashed this season to rival her sister in the fortune-hunting stakes, she is yet another to beware.”
Fenton watched the girl join a bored Corinthian wearing such ridiculously high collar points that the chafing of his neck could be seen from five yards away. Beside him stood a dark-haired girl, partly obscured by her companion’s posturing, though he could see she filled out her gold-flecked gown very nicely.
With peculiar grace, she turned, setting off a chain of events that had Bramley thumping Fenton on the back and sympathising, “Ah, the Brightwell Beauty. One glance from her azure blue eyes will damn a man to eternal restlessness. Have nothing to do with her, Fenton. She can only cause you grief.”
The young woman had not even glanced at him and already Fenton was in the grip of a maelstrom of powerful emotions, not all of them pleasant, as he watched the girl he’d abducted from Vauxhall Gardens sip her champagne and laugh with her companions. Mesmerised, he feasted his eyes upon her lithe and lovely figure in a gown that was both modest and alluring. Her eyes were most arresting, dancing with liveliness in a heart-shaped face framed with dark ringlets tumbling from the crown of her head. Her cheekbones were high, her mouth a delectable pout of a rosebud he remembered only too well grazing his jawline before he’d plundered it with fierce kisses of his own.
The young woman’s hair he remembered as having been powdered. Now, reflecting the light from a thousand beeswax candles, it had the sheen of a raven’s wing.
He tried to master his desire, or at least the effect it was having upon him, shifting position, his discomfort exacerbated by the deepest dismay. He’d assumed the girl he’d carried off from Alverley to be a fair Cyprian—or close enough—yet her presence tonight confirmed her status among the
haut ton
. For all his eccentricity, their illustrious host Lord Quamby did not invite members of the
demi mondaine
to the same entertainments to which he invited his gorgon of a mama.
If he was lucky, the dark-haired beauty would not recognise him. If he wasn’t so fortunate he’d be fronting up to a dawn appointment on Hampstead Heath with some irate brother or father.
“Not marriage material, old chap, though that’s what she’s been angling for the past two seasons.”
Bramley’s leer aroused Fenton’s chivalry. Turning, he said icily, “I well recall Baron Brightwell’s fall from grace, and his subsequent exile.” The kernel of dislike he’d always felt for Bramley hardened and grew. There was something unpleasantly brutal about the man, despite their loose friendship. “Lord Brightwell’s pecuniary embarrassment and the nature of his death are not stains to be borne by his daughters.”
Bramley chuckled and scratched his thick nose. “Brightwell’s fall from grace has nothing to do with society’s low opinion of his daughters.” His tone was suggestive.
Ignoring him, Fenton resumed the pleasant occupation of gazing upon Miss Brightwell, and felt again the swell of his manhood. Unconsciously he licked his lips, unable to rid himself of memories of her mouth, captive beneath his, responding with delightful passion. The softness of her curves, the lushness of her body, were branded on his thoughts and it took all his willpower not to groan aloud. What had he done? He’d compromised an innocent! He’d whisked her away from Alverley, thinking it no more than a game that would teach the silly boy a lesson, and before he knew it he’d been bewitched by his captive.
At first he’d not believed her insinuations about her inexperience, for what
kind
of young woman would allow herself such liberties with a strange man in a boat? Then he’d realised that even
that
kind of young woman had to start somewhere. He shuddered at the delicious, almost painful, recollection of her willingness to succumb to his ministrations—her body soft and pliant, her mouth yielding with growing eagerness. And…the wetness of her desire. Good God! She’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her, though she’d known nothing about the mechanics of desire.
Now that she was presented to him in an entirely altered light, he was sure of it.
Fenton tried to breathe evenly. He’d abducted the girl and, despite their respective disguises and lack of knowledge of one another, they’d discovered some powerful, unexpected chemistry between them. Until Fenton had muscled in on her quiet dinner with Alverley—and who knew but that there had been some discreet chaperone hiding in the wings—Miss Brightwell had had no experience of relations between men and women.
Now she was here, a respectable debutante, and if word got out as to what he’d done he’d be pilloried. It would be no more than he deserved. The thought that he’d compromised an innocent was not something that sat well with him. However, the more he thought about it, the more appealing was the idea of atonement.
He felt the irregular beat of his heart, the suspended pause as, glancing up, she locked eyes with him. Holding her gaze, he watched the play of emotions flit across her lovely, mobile face. God, she was a beauty. He longed to cross the floor and offer the most abject of apologies.
Except he could not do that. He could say nothing in company that would suggest she was guilty of any impropriety, yet he was screaming inside to whisk her away to some secluded arbour so he could determine her feelings for him after two days of sober reflection.
On the short ferry crossing, he’d been taken aback by the unexpected sizzle of excitement that had been lacking during his numerous encounters with other women. Miss Brightwell was as charmingly refreshing a contradiction as had ever crossed
his
path.
Just then, her attention was claimed by her companion and Fenton returned reluctantly to Bramley’s unflattering monologue.
“…likes to think she’s a cut above the rest, though she’ll be lucky to snare a rich merchant prepared to overlook her reputation. She’s more than willing to make discreet compromises when a fellow makes her a good offer.”
Fenton unleashed a cold, level stare upon Bramley, then allowed him to drone on while his thoughts ran their own course. Oh, but he had so much more to teach Miss Brightwell and he would do so…without compromising her reputation. For the novel notion had popped into his head that he’d far prefer to take the enigmatic beauty for his wife than his mistress. He’d had plenty of mistresses, whose transitory excitement had quickly given way to an air of jaded experience he found quite unpalatable.
Yet wasn’t there was something about the Brightwell name to which his mother had also taken exception?
Brightwell… Fenton racked his brains to capture the elusive drift of memory. What had his mother’s caveat been, following her joy at his admission that he’d decided to find himself a wife?
“Just so long as it’s not a Brightwell.” Lady Fenton’s elegant nose had wrinkled with disgust. “They came back from exile last year, trying to insinuate their way into society. Like pretty, common dandelions dressing themselves up as exotic tulips.”
The recollection of his mother’s aversion was dampening, but of course no reason not to make up to a beautiful girl this evening. He would discover the truth for himself, and act accordingly.
Unable to drag his eyes away, he watched as the beautiful Brightwells, one so fair, the other so dark, were led into a cotillion. “If you’re trying to warn me off, Bramley,” he said, coolly, “you’ve not succeeded.”
“I was thinking of your poor mama,” Bramley assured him. “Mine had heart palpitations after I paid court to Miss Brightwell. When I learnt more of the young woman’s—er—colourful history, and her willingness to meet me halfway in the hopes she’d gain a wedding band, I’m afraid I shared Mama’s disgust.”
“Why does Quamby invite them if they are so beyond the pale?” Fenton’s bored drawl masked the tumult in his breast.
Bramley had clearly been awaiting an opportunity to elaborate. Adjusting a cufflink below his coat sleeve with exaggerated care, he said, “It’s been suggested by some that the lovely Miss Brightwell made it into this world before the church register was signed—”
“Good God, Bramley, that can be verified easily enough without your evil assertions!”
“I have heard it said that Miss Brightwell enjoys her status purely on account of a little bribery and doctoring of dates in the church register.”
Fenton grappled with the ramifications of this. The stain of illegitimacy would be an all but impossible hurdle for a young woman to overcome—if what Bramley said was true.
Reason returned. Miss Brightwell’s presence here this evening was proof she was accepted into society and that was good enough for him.
“The Beauty of Blackfriars, as the mother was known in the trade, was an engaging little Ladybird Lord Brightwell whisked off to France with him from some house of ill-repute. You know our good baron’s proclivities for spice and scandal.” Bramley’s nostrils flared. Slanting a look at Fenton, he added, “It’s not just the uncertainty of Miss Brightwell’s origins, my friend, which need to be investigated if you are serious about paying her attention, for there are other toes you must beware treading upon…”
Fenton curbed the desire for a more forceful response to the smug manner in which Bramley delivered his cautions, as if he were the arbiter of what was morally acceptable.
“Miss Brightwell is very adept at playing the untutored innocent. Just ask Lord Bickling, whom she provided with some much-appreciated nocturnal diversion during his wife’s confinement last year.”
Bramley lied. And yet…
Fenton watched the Brightwell sisters perform their figures on the dance floor with as much grace as any duke’s daughter. Could she be such an actress? He imagined the dark-haired beauty pretending the same ecstasy she’d shown with him in the ferry as she writhed beneath the fat and leering Bramley and the philandering Lord Bickling.
Fenton’s heart pounded. If Bramley was spouting evil tales with no foundation, he should stop him now—but what if they were true? Was that why his mother had taken so against the Brightwell females? Because they pretended one thing while being quite another?
“Rumour also has it that Lord Slyther has just offered her a
carte blanche
.”