Authors: Beverley Oakley
“Lord Slyther! That fat old toad?”
Bramley inclined his head. “You sound sceptical, but I speak the truth. Gout has him laid up in bed this evening, but if you wish to keep Miss Brightwell in your sights you’ll discover she’s prepared to trade her favours for a little pecuniary respite. All of London knows the creditors are pounding at the door while the brother is under the hatches and
persona non grata
at his club.”
During Bramley’s denunciation, Fenton’s eyes never left the lovely creature who moved with such fluid grace, who spoke to her companions with such animation, and whose every gesture conjured up in him the almost unbearable urge to whisk her away so he could have her all to himself. Again.
This was what he’d hoped to find in a wife. He didn’t want some obedient miss who knew nothing of how to whip up his desire or make him feel a man—the very elements that made Miss Brightwell the most desirable contender yet for his lifelong companion.
Though, of course, a companion of any sort would be better than nothing.
“Your fanciful tales, Bramley, are no impediment to my desire to further my acquaintance with Miss Brightwell.” He offered his friend a curt smile before realising his error and amending, hurriedly. “I mean, to be introduced to Miss Brightwell.”
Desire was at the heart of it. She had bewitched him.
Now, here she was, presented to him on a platter, and he was not going to let her slip away again.
* * * *
The Earl of Quamby shifted the weight off his withered leg. He gripped Fanny’s arm for support as she helped him onto a gilt settee beneath a potted plant with luxuriantly sprouting leaves. In a thin, rasping voice, he said, “Never have I seen you in greater beauty, my dear Miss Brightwell. But if my instincts are as finely honed as I believe them to be, I’d say the flush on your cheek was due to some fascinating object of the male species amongst us this evening.”
Transferring his gaze from the lavish water display before him, complete with leaping goldfish, to the point upon which Fanny’s eyes were focused, he added, “Young Alverley didn’t come up to scratch, I heard. But then, I did warn you.”
Fanny jerked her head around but the Earl’s regretful expression did not suggest he’d heard anything else that might reflect badly upon her.
Her relief was short lived. Lord Slyther knew and he was extracting the greatest price she could pay. She fingered the ring that her loathsome future husband had given her. It hung on a chain around her neck and he’d be expecting to see it as a sign of her dutiful submission when he arrived here this evening, though the rumour that gout had laid him up in bed offered a sliver of hope for her temporary deliverance. She shuddered as she recalled the feel of his fingers when he’d fastened it there. It might as well have been a cowbell signifying ownership. How he’d enjoyed her submission.
Antoinette patted her on the shoulder. “Are you thinking of Lord Slyther again, Fanny?” Her sister sounded genuinely sympathetic as the Earl’s attention was claimed by one of his handsome young acolytes. “You must not let it upset you. Really, I am quite surprised, for I have never seen you display feeling like this. I’d have had him quite happily.”
“Then obviously I am more discerning than you, Antoinette,” Fanny sniffed, retreating further behind the potted palm. “Have you not considered what liberties marriage allows a man? Perhaps this is not the place to say it, but beware of offers made by creatures who make your skin crawl, for you’re going to have to please them in ways you can’t imagine!”
Antoinette offered Fanny a knowing smile. “I am not as naïve as you think, Fanny, and it doesn’t bother me one bit. As long as I have a title and the respect I deserve and all the pretty clothes I could want, I don’t care what I have to do.”
Fanny glanced over her shoulder, fearful that Lord Slyther was advancing upon her at that very moment.
Dear Lord, to imagine the man of her desires was at this moment not ten feet away. Though dressed now in the height of sartorial elegance, she’d have recognised him anywhere. How could she not? The dark curl that flopped over one brooding eye, the sardonic twist to his sensuous mouth… The recollection of the reactions that mouth had aroused in her made her hot with longing.
And shame.
Yet had not his boldness exceeded hers? Who was he to make her feel she’d been the only one to venture beyond the limits of propriety?
“Lord Fenton would have been my choice, too.” Returning his attention to Fanny once her sister had left her side, the Earl sighed, wistfully. “Such a beautiful young man—so perfect in every way.” He clicked his tongue. “I’m sure he’d do very well for you, Miss Brightwell. He returned to London only last week after two years travelling the Continent, prostrating the women with his wicked poems and manly attractions. I believe he’s mellowed sufficiently for me to introduce you, though I must warn you again, he’s an incorrigible rake. Dashed irresistible, nonetheless.”
“No!” Fanny ground out, adding in response to his look of enquiry, “That is, I already know he’s a rake.” The hand that held her champagne coupe trembled. Taking a great leap of faith and desperate to unburden herself now that Antoinette had gone, she said softly, “I believe he is the gentleman who—er—whisked me away from Alverley several nights ago in the Druid Walk.” She took a convulsive sip of champagne before explaining briefly what had happened. “You are the only one to whom I could admit such a thing.”
Lord Quamby raised an effete hand to pat a faded red curl into place.
“Masquerades carry that risk,” he soothed. “One quite forgets oneself and then one is awfully sorry in the morning. Well, I don’t feel that way anymore now, but I remember it when I was young and guilt was my faithful companion. I was convinced I was damned for all those desires of the flesh I could not control. If it’s any reassurance, Lord Fenton is a rake who adheres to Rake’s Honour.”
Fanny closed her eyes briefly. A man who adhered to Rake’s Honour would never divulge that which might compromise a lady. It was reassuring that Lord Quamby appeared so confident but what if his confidence was misplaced? “If Lord Fenton uttered one word about what had happened…” She couldn’t continue. The thought of losing her reputation on account of her simple, mindless stupidity was too dreadful to contemplate.
“Lord Fenton would never knowingly take liberties with a lady. He may be a rake but he is first and foremost a gentleman. Another thing that may be of interest”—Lord Quamby’s tone was contemplative—“he has promised his mama that by season’s end he will have found a wife.”
Fanny refused to be drawn by his obvious allusion. “If he’s marrying to please his mama, he’ll have the pick of the company here tonight.”
“Why, Miss Brightwell, you are his equal in every way”—her companion cleared his throat—“if we neglect to mention your dissolute father and the daughters’ dowries he gambled away.”
Fanny’s gaze remained fixed on the tousle-haired young man whose poetic good looks would surely win him an earl’s daughter with ten thousand a year. And that was discounting the fact that he was a viscount with a long-established title and vast estates in the north, which he’d inherited two years before.
Lord Fenton.
The mere sight of him heated her blood as much this evening as two nights ago—and would have done so had he been no more than an impecunious poet.
If only he had been!
Intruding upon her lustful fantasies came the reality of Lord Slyther. How could she give herself to such a repulsive creature when she could enjoy a lifetime of bedroom delights with a man like Viscount Fenton—legally? Apart from the fact that she was penniless, she had the credentials that made her Fenton’s equal—and it was quite apparent by the heated glances he’d sent her earlier that he felt the same connection.
Sucking in a breath through constricted airways, she took another sip of her champagne. Within twenty-four hours, if Lord Slyther had his way, she would be married. There was no time!
Lord Quamby chuckled and said, oblivious to her distress, “I shall enjoy watching the incomparable Miss Fanny Brightwell charm the deliciously dangerous-to-know Lord Fenton from the boughs.”
Fanny scanned the room. Lord Slyther intended announcing news of their upcoming nuptials tonight, but still there was no sign of him. If gout had not laid him up in bed perhaps his sedan chair had broken down, she thought wryly. He lived only two streets away, but he was in such ill health he’d need to be conveyed physically from door to door.
Lord Quamby patted her arm and said, still referring to Lord Fenton, “The dear boy wants a wife with a bit of dash and spirit. Needs one, if you ask me, as a first line of defence against his appalling mama to whom he is devoted but whom I should warn you”—he grimaced—“is reason alone for you to stay well clear of our dashing viscount.”
This he said with a pointed look at his own mama, who was propped up on pillows on a sofa against the far wall. The trailing feather in her purple toque trembled in time to her gentle snoring.
“Your reputation is safe, my dear Miss Brightwell, if only on account of Mama’s presence here tonight. Everyone knows that if the venerable dowager duchess is in attendance the company is beyond reproach, though I will admit to enjoying my other entertainments better.” The wistful look returned. “Such handsome young men rushing from the stage to dance upon my table. I see a glint of longing in your eye but you’ll never be invited. I would not dream of injuring your reputation.
“Ah, here’s my detestable nephew come to pay his respects. Evening Bramley. Trading on your expectations once again, I hear. Your distracted mama called on Monday asking me to bail you out.”
Fanny watched the fulminating look cross her erstwhile admirer’s face. A thug in gentleman’s attire, with his thick nose and close-set eyes, George Bramley had never forgiven her for spurning his advances the previous summer.
A supercilious smile replaced the young man’s ill humour. Bowing, he said smoothly, “Evening Uncle; Miss Brightwell. Allow me to introduce my old friend, Lord Fenton.”
Fanny inclined her head, her smile brittle as the object of her palpitating heart rose from his bow. Adept in the art of using her fan, she was uncomfortably aware it was of little use in concealing the deep blush that spread upwards from her bosom at the memory of their recent intimacy. A discomfort not eased by the intensity of his gaze and the knowing smile that turned up the corners of his handsome, generous mouth. He was making no secret of the fact that he knew exactly who she was.
Another moment under his searing gaze and she would have a fit of the vapours, run screaming from the room or hurl herself upon his person and scandalise the entire company.
The strains of the orchestra tuning up for another cotillion drifted from the next room. Lord Fenton held out his hand.
“Miss Brightwell, would you do me the honour…?”
Her skin prickled under his assessing look as they arranged themselves in a group of four couples. She felt as exposed as if she were standing, naked, under a blazing sun.
“With your dark hair and proud blue eyes you’d have made the perfect Anne Boleyn at the Vauxhall masquerade,” he murmured.
Fanny stared fixedly ahead as she prepared for the dance. It was the only way she could maintain even shaky control of her feelings, especially as Lord Fenton made it clear there was to be no coy tiptoeing around the truth.
“You certainly risked that beautiful neck of yours,” he went on, as they performed their figures in the centre of the group before returning to the sidelines. With a smile as cloying as a teaspoon full of sugar, he murmured, “I just want to assure you that, as a gentleman, your secret is safe with me.”
Was this sport at her expense?
“A great relief, sir,” she responded warily as they watched the other dancers go through the motions, “though I believe that in carrying me off forcibly yours was the greater crime. I had become separated from my friends and Lord Alverley was about to help me find them before you took advantage of the situation.”
Though she said it with hauteur, the memory of the burning kisses this man had trailed over her throat and across her collarbone made her desperate for more. The other liberties she’d allowed made her want to crawl into a dark hole.
“You’re flushed, Miss Brightwell. Perhaps you need air. Shall we step outside?”
“How dare you—?” she began in an angry undertone, but was cut short by the realisation that indeed he was only teasing her.
His deep brown eyes held laughter. “My dear Miss Brightwell, you surely do not imagine I would be so bold as to whisk you away from tonight’s company as I did two nights ago?” He grazed the sensitive skin of her forearm with his hand and she shivered as he added, “Much as I would like it. Nevertheless…”