Authors: Beverley Oakley
By contrast, he wanted to hurl himself upon her and roll around in that pit of cushions, tearing the rest of her gown from her and running his hands over all her intimate places. He wanted to thrust himself into her moist velvet folds with all the passion of a first-time smitten green boy. His scalp prickled when he felt himself harden so quickly it was almost painful.
Such unadulterated lust was combined, however, with a healthy desire to atone. He looked down at himself and realised that with an erection the size he was sporting he was in no fit state to present himself to any young lady. Therefore, a trip to the ladies’ sewing room and the prospect of two minutes’ conversation with hatchet-faced Miss Mortimer whose domain it was would hopefully have the required dampening effect.
He turned his footsteps in that direction. He wanted Miss Brightwell but he had no intention of repeating his rash overtures—albeit delicious—of the other night if it should in any way compromise her. She featured in his more long-term plans and he wanted her to know it. Delivering to Miss Brightwell the means to return to the ballroom with her dignity intact might be one way to reassure her that his intentions towards her were honourable.
He was unprepared, upon his return, for his crushing disappointment at discovering the object of his desire gone.
Raising his candle, he peered through the gloom, expectant hope returning at a very unladylike exclamation from the darkness beyond what he had at first taken to be a screen.
Drawing nearer, he discovered it was a tent festooned with swathes of red silk woven with elaborate designs in green and royal purple. About to announce his presence as he searched for the entrance, he was taken aback to discover what could only be a series of peepholes cut into the fabric.
Fenton’s mission to the ladies’ mending room in the face of almost insurmountable temptation had surely established his credentials as a gentleman. But what gentleman could resist putting his eye to the peephole?
It was spontaneous curiosity, not the conscious intention to spy, that had him gazing upon the incredibly arousing sight of Miss Brightwell, with her hair in disarray, hitching her skirts thigh-high to adjust her garter.
Such a sight would, he felt sure, have robbed far more gentlemanly gentlemen than he of their good manners. Yet good manners demanded that he step away and announce his presence, giving her time to make herself presentable.
Indeed, he was on the point of doing just that—had moved his head away from the peephole and was stepping back—when his practiced eye was caught by a flash of creamy, womanly curves that surely not even the most disciplined of gentleman could resist. Had a marauding tiger been bearing down upon him, Fenton would not have had the power to move.
He returned his eye to the peephole, all concentration focused on the scene before him, all his energy gathering in his loins, like a cannon about to explode. His prick jumped to attention once more and the surface of his skin tingled. With breath fast and shallow he watched the strip of naked flesh lengthen between knee and thigh as she raised her arms to pull off her gown, taking with it the chemise beneath.
He saw slender hips, a triangle of dark hair, creamy, gently rounded belly and a pair of breasts so pert they almost seemed to beckon to him. His own sigh echoed hers as she sank onto an Egyptian sofa with armrests carved in the shape of sphinxes, almost instantly covering her briefly revealed nakedness as she studied the damage done to her gown.
God, how he wanted her.
The gold-flecked gossamer fabric and crisp cotton chemise pooled in her lap. Fenton could see her slipper peeking from beneath the chair and willed her to rise and allow the fabric to fall in a shimmer to her feet.
He shifted position, trying to ease his discomfort, for his prick was ready for action and threatening to part company with the rest of him.
Closing his eyes, he tried to control his heathen impulses. He had promised to act the gentleman therefore he should go.
Yet how could he tear himself away from the most seductive, sensuous sight he’d experienced—ever? He realised that even he who prided himself on his self-control was defeated, and stepped forward to return his eye to the peephole.
Miss Brightwell’s long, dark hair had come loose from its coiffure and a tendril curled around the rosy peak cresting one of her full, pert breasts, surely the most magnificent bosom he’d ever seen. His vision blurred and his cock felt hot and heavy as it strained against his breeches.
He held his breath. The anticipation was killing him but he dare not reveal his presence or the show would be over—and what would be his reward?
He swallowed. Outrage? Or would she melt into his arms if he promised to restore her dignity?
She shifted a little and he caught a glimpse of naked thigh, a shapely calf encased in its white stocking tied at the knee. He’d seen many a Cyprian in greater undress than this, but the fact that he now gazed upon a lady made the blood sting the surface of his skin. He stifled another groan.
If ever a man was close to the brink of drowning in desire…
It was time to bring matters to a head. In the boat, he’d felt her slick with want for a stranger whom she clearly desired considerably more than either Alverley or her intended groom. He’d suckled at her breast while his hands had caressed her thighs slippery with the womanly juices that indicated an unfeigned lust for her mystery lover.
He was that man—the man who had made her heart beat fast and furiously during the short ferry crossing.
Now he was back, and he was ready to do far more than just make her heart beat fast and furiously. Why, before he was done with her tonight, there’d be no doubt in his mind that untutored Miss Fanny Brightwell was ready to pledge herself to him, heart, body and soul. If her kisses were as sweet as the other night and her body as yielding and pliant, then he intended to woo her right from under the nose of her mystery intended. He would hustle her down the aisle and into his bed as his legal, wedded wife.
Strange what a sense of satisfaction the thought brought to a man who’d feared the shackles of matrimony for his entire life.
“Miss Brightwell?” With conscious devilry, Fenton chose that moment to announce his presence, his intonation suggesting he had not yet ascertained her whereabouts.
Observing her confusion added to his excitement. He’d atone when he handed her needle and thread. Then he’d make her reel from his tender ministrations and he’d show her how exquisite their union could be—without actually taking her virginity. That would be his reward on her wedding night.
“One moment, sir.”
The fierce blush that rose from her bosom upwards was enchanting. As was the faint tremble in her voice. Miss Brightwell was not a young lady accustomed to allowing herself to feel at a disadvantage—he’d discovered that much about her.
Now he had to rediscover what she felt like beneath the diaphanous skirts she’d raised so high. The brief sampling of her charms aboard the ferry had been enough to drive him mad to know more. His ungentlemanly spying was driving him to the brink.
* * * *
Dear Lord, he must not see her like this, thought Fanny as she scrambled into her gown. What on earth had made her eschew undergarments? Vanity, of course. And a desperation to cut more of a dash than anyone else at the ball. Her diaphanous skirts clung far more alluringly to her limbs when dampened. Her chemise provided sufficient modesty. Yet what had possessed her to remove that as well? She’d hoped to engineer some means of joining the two garments together but now she was completely at a disadvantage.
Anxiety and urgency made her fingers clumsy in their haste, but dismay nearly struck her down as she stared at her reflection in the huge gilt mirror that formed one entire wall of the festooned tent.
How was she to re-fashion her Grecian coiffure when she had lost most of the necessary hairpins? If that was not bad enough, how could she ever make her reappearance at the ball in a gown so badly damaged?
She was conscious of his presence near the entrance and both longed for and feared his arrival.
“I… I’m not quite ready.”
Would she ever be?
The insidious knot of self-doubt always lurking beneath the surface grew. It hardened, lodging in her chest cavity, and ground away at the self-assurance she’d polished to a shine. Who did she think she was, parading as a society miss, dangling her brassy powers of attraction before Britain’s ten thousand in the hopes of snaring a husband who would benefit the Brightwell family, collectively? A baron’s daughter she may be, but she had nothing other than good looks and a reputation still intact—
if
Fenton kept his word—to recommend her. At this moment, even that was imperilled on account of her careless pea goose of a sister. Her feverish attempts at feigning a life of leisure and frivolity in accord with those whose life she sought to share seemed suddenly stupid and pathetic. She’d be a laughing stock if people knew the long hours she plied needle and thread to clothe her sister and herself in the latest splendour.
Desperation at her plight was shredding her insides. Tomorrow she was to marry Lord Slyther, unless…
Unless what? There was not time. Lord Fenton was waiting for her and all she could do was stare into the looking-glass like some unworldly debutante frozen by fear.
A sob of grief and despair shook her. Right now, in her hour of need, she could not even find a threaded needle to save her reputation. Lord Fenton would think her little better than a costermonger when he saw her with her torn skirt and disordered hair. What would he think if he could see into her shrivelled-up little soul?
It was enough to make her toes curl and her insides cleave with frustrated longing. Tonight she’d recognised in his eye the mysterious fascination she wielded. She’d wielded the same power over Alverley—puling Alverley, who was so afraid of displeasing his mama that he’d sacrifice his happiness by forsaking Fanny.
She’d not wanted Alverley but he’d offered the means of survival. Hers and her family’s.
Lord, but she wanted Fenton.
With an effort she steadied her breathing as she recognised the truth, cupping her face as she continued to stare at her reflection with glazed eyes. Fenton provided the same opportunities as Lord Slyther. He had lineage, money, prospects enough to offer the entire Brightwell clan. Her mother would be as delighted over a match with Fenton as she was with Lord Slyther.
Fanny could be a wife worthy of Lord Fenton. Fanny
needed
a man like Lord Fenton. And Fanny
wanted
…Lord Fenton.
Actually wanted him, like she’d never wanted a man. The need to reconnect with him, physically, was so powerfully intense she had to grip the sofa arm to steady herself.
Beware. She closed her eyes and forced reason to prevail. Fenton had the power to make her forget herself. It had happened before and she’d been lucky.
In Fenton she’d met her match. His devil-may-care attitude mirrored her boldness. She recognised in him qualities that went deeper than the ironic façade he chose to present to the world—for she practiced the same deception. A necessary deception if she were to shield her most vulnerable self from an exacting and judgemental society.
She bit her trembling lip and tried to collect her wits. If she had time she could work herself into the woman of Fenton’s dreams—dreams that would last beyond the here and now…
…if only she had time.
“You may come, Lord Fenton.”
She sat heavily upon the sofa and buried her head in her hands. There was no time. No time to insinuate herself into not just his heart, but his soul, his psyche. No time to receive the marriage offer that would save her from Lord Slyther.
The season was winding down. Matches were being made and the capital was emptying—as were the Brightwell coffers. With the parlous state of their finances came desperation. Fanny could not risk refusing Lord Slyther in case Lord Fenton proved as disappointing as Alverley. Her mother would never allow it, for, unless Fanny married a man who not only was prepared to overlook her lack of dowry but would be generous to the rest of her family, they were all lost.
“Miss Brightwell!”
She jerked up her head at his entrance and hope clawed a jagged journey from the soles of her feet to pound in her chest. Framed in the opening of the silken tent, the smile that hovered about Lord Fenton’s wide sensuous mouth echoed the salvation in his eyes.
Everything for which she could have hoped was reflected in their depths. Admiration, curiosity—and, above all, desire. Yet while it was his desire upon which she’d pinned her hopes, it was the kindness of his words that gave her the reassurance she needed.