Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2) Read online

  Glancing up, she was surprised to see a few minutes later that Mr Grayling had arrived. Not only that, but the look in his eyes was one that any new mother would be glad to observe in a proud father gazing upon wife and infant.

  She pushed the thought away quickly but the hope remained. Perhaps Mr Grayling truly did have intentions towards her that would see him making her an offer. She’d felt the attraction between them from the start and barely moments before they’d crossed a very serious line. She’d demonstrated that the strength of her feelings equalled his and that she was not repulsed by what went on in private.

  “Such a picture of domestic bliss and harmony.”

  Unfortunately it was George Bramley, and not Mr Grayling, who spoke. Thea tried to smile but the distrust she felt made it difficult.

  Antoinette stroked her baby’s head and pressed her cheek against it for a moment. “He is a darling, isn’t he, but Thea is so much better with babies than I am. She’s just made to be a mother.”

  “While you’re made for…?” Mr Bramley’s half-posed question made Thea squirm with sudden horror. She glanced between Mr Grayling, Antoinette and Mr Bramley and saw the combative gleam in Mr Bramley’s eye, which Antoinette met with a giggle.

  “Oh, you are too terrible, Mr Bramley. Just because Lord Quamby and I are the perfect match for each other and, I will admit, enjoy society’s revels, doesn’t mean we don’t dote on young George, and that I’m not a good mother when I need to be. You’re a very special uncle, and now you’re George’s godfather and can see as much of him as you wish.”

  “Not exactly what I meant,” muttered Mr Bramley.

  Still feeling uncomfortable, Thea tried to turn the subject. “Shall we seat ourselves over there? Bertram is waving us over.”

  By a pond, a cluster of seating had been arranged for the guests and the scene was charming and inviting. The Quamby Estate was magnificent, Thea thought, casting her eye over the gently rolling hills of the gardens, which contained many opportunities for rambles and gatherings like this.

  “I’ve just persuaded Fenton to build me a folly,” Fanny declared as she sank onto a plush crimson tasseled cushion. “Just like that one over there.” She pointed to further up the river’s edge where part of the mosaic roof of the Oriental Pavilion glittered in the sun.

  “Sisterly rivalry,” Mr Bramley remarked, pretending to be jocular, Thea noticed. She wished she’d not been so inclusive in her invitation, for she’d expected Mr Bramley to move to other company when the rest of them went over to join Bertram.

  “Not rivalry, exactly, for I did much better when I married dear Quamby, who is an earl, to Fanny’s chagrin, for she had always enjoyed outranking me.” Antoinette simpered playfully across at her sister. “Now of course I get precedence. I’m sure that’s why Fanny always has to have the most a la mode bonnets trimmed with the biggest blooms.”

  “It’s my life’s mission,” Fanny responded drily, with a smile at her husband. “Poor me, having to satisfy myself with a mere viscount.”

  “I might see myself elevated yet, my dear, thanks to the shaky family line. One never knows who’s going to drop off the perch without the expected heir.” He raised an eyebrow and looked directly at Mr Grayling. Thea noticed that when Lord Fenton spoke, everyone listened. There was a commanding quality to his discourse despite the fact he had also been an acknowledged rake. Now it seemed he was directing his energies towards the more noble pursuits of public office. She’d heard his name mentioned with regard to an important government sinecure.

  Perhaps, Thea thought wistfully, she, too, might have the same happy influence on Mr Grayling after he’d asked her to be his—

  She drew herself up at the thought. Matters between them were far from settled. Yet when she glanced at Mr Grayling she found that his own gaze was resting with considerable fondness upon her and her heart lurched.

  “There were many who questioned my choice of wife when I could have chosen an heiress.” She realised Lord Fenton was speaking and that everyone was listening, so, dutifully, she turned her attention towards her cousin’s handsome husband. “But as we are allotted such a few short years on this planet, they may as well be happy ones.”

  “I heard a story,” said Mr Bramley loudly, clearing his throat, “along those lines.”

  “Pray tell, Mr Bramley,” Fenton invited, leaning back in his chair, seeming very relaxed. “Of harmony versus pecuniary desire? There are so many of them, but I’d choose marital felicity any day.”

  Thea inclined her head, politeness forcing her now to look at Mr Bramley, a man she found personally repugnant and who she knew her cousins regarded as their greatest foe. Yet here he was, in their midst by virtue of being, of course, baby George’s godfather. She nearly choked on the knowledge that, in fact, he was so much more, and wondered how many others knew it.

  “It was a friend who told me, actually, of someone he knew, and his pecuniary considerations were decidedly at the fore.” Mr Bramley leaned forward and tapped his fingers upon the table as he gazed about the company, one brow raised as if to ensure he had everyone’s attention. There seemed a coiled tenseness about him that, Thea was sure, made not just her feel uncomfortable, and she wondered how Cousin Antoinette had ever found him attractive.

  “Nevertheless,” Mr Bramley went on, “to make his plan work, he dressed his intentions up as good works in the guise of marital felicity being the intended outcome.”

  “Anyone for champagne?”

  Thea was surprised at the haste with which Bertram stood up. He brushed back his errant hair and fiddled with his stock, clearly agitated, but Antoinette said mildly, “No need, brother dear. We have servants for that, and here is one now. I say, what a lovely day it is. Mr Grayling, do you not think so?”

  “It has been a very lovely day.”

  Thea felt something akin to warm treacle flood her, inside and out, seemingly, as Mr Grayling smiled across the table at her. It was as if he were secretly communicating with her that not only had matters just now gone very much to his satisfaction, he certainly intended continuing in this direction.

  Thea shivered with anticipation while Mr Bramley cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Yes, this friend of mine,” he persisted, “was most anxious that his lively and attractive cousin should not be overlooked purely on account of her parlous pecuniary situation. In other words, she had not a feather to fly with, poor girl, and was reduced to living on the handouts of a wealthy relative.”

  Poor young woman, thought Thea. She sounds exactly like me. She hoped the story had a happy ending.

  “So this friend hit upon an ingenious plan in order to snare a particular gentleman who would have been interested in making the young lady an offer — but only if she had money.”

  “I say, Mr Grayling,” Fanny interrupted, waving a languid hand in Thea’s direction, “perhaps you’d like to take Cousin Thea for a walk to the refreshments table while Mr Bramley finishes his story. She’s been eyeing the strawberries longingly since she sat down.”

  Mr Grayling looked both surprised and pleased as he rose obediently and offered Thea his arm which she took with alacrity, though she hesitated because she did want to hear the end of Mr Bramley’s story.

  Indulgently, Mr Grayling waited, caging her hand on his arm as Mr Bramley went on, eyes bright and roving, voice fraught as if he were about to deliver the coup de grace, “And would you believe that the success of this ingenious plan revolved around telling this erstwhile suitor that the young lady in question had only six months to live! Can you believe it?”

  Mr Bramley raised his voice to finish his story while Lord Quamby, scratching his scalp, appeared perplexed. However, Lord Quamby often looked perplexed. “But what purpose would that serve?”

  “Why indeed?” Thea nodded in agreement, disappointed by the ending before nearly losing her step as Mr Grayling, who had already started to move away from the table, swung round and dropped his arm and thus Thea’s means of su
pport.”

  Determined not to apportion blame, Thea regained her composure, murmuring as she navigated the chairs about the table, “Shall we go, Mr Grayling?”

  When he didn’t answer she glanced up to find his expression dark with no trace of the affection she was expecting. Discomposed, she transferred her gaze to Antoinette where she observed with surprise a flare of what could only be considered horror while her cousin looked directly at Bertram who was running his finger round the inside of his stock and looking distinctly green around the gills.

  “You ask why, Miss Brightwell?” Mr Bramley seemed the only one entirely at his ease as he looked directly at her. “Why would he do such a thing? Why would he tell such a lie?” he repeated, before answering his own questions. “Why, to encourage a suitor who’d never make an offer for a penniless girl. Well, not unless she had only a few months of good health left to her. And then, what do you suppose would happen? The interfering cousin would orchestrate a moment where the gallant gentleman would be caught in the act of making love to the lady, and voila, a marriage proposal becomes the only recourse for the poor trapped, would-be suitor. Except that of course the gentleman in question was never a suitor.” He spread his palms outward. “And the girl was never dying.” Shaking his head, he sighed. “Can you believe this story, and yet it is true as I live and breathe.”

  Thea frowned. It was a silly story which Mr Bramley had surely made up. And if it were true, it was hardly a very edifying example of the kind of husband-hunting scheming that no doubt went on in more ambitious and calculated circles than those to which Thea belonged. Nevertheless, she was surprised at the tense silence that greeted Mr Bramley’s anecdote.

  “Yes, clever indeed!” Mr Bramley chuckled. “The penniless orphan has snared the husband she set her sights on by ensuring she has witnesses to the impropriety orchestrated by her cunning cousin.” With a flourish, Mr Bramley snapped both fingers, his grin almost parodying amusement.

  And while Thea disliked the smug look on his face, she was more concerned by the change in Mr Grayling’s demeanour. The light had gone from his eye and the expression he levelled upon her for just a moment was very bleak as he gently disengaged her hand from his arm.

  “Mr Grayling?” Uncertainty made her voice waver.

  “Excuse me, Miss Brightwell.” He nodded abruptly to the assembled company. “I’m suddenly not feeling at all the thing.” And indeed, his complexion was distinctly pallid. Thea had the sudden panicked feeling she was responsible, though she had no idea how. Could it somehow be that as she’d been the one to experience all the pleasure he had suffered through being denied release? That was the word Antoinette had used, she seemed to remember.

  “I’m so sorry to hear it, Mr Grayling,” she murmured, but he did not heed her. Certainly he did not acknowledge her as he rose from his bow then turned and navigated his way through the knots of guests towards the front of the house where the carriages were lined up.

  She watched in an agony of indecision as to whether or not to follow him while he nodded to various personages on his journey towards his phaeton.

  Self consciously Thea reseated herself at the table. All eyes seemed to be on her, as if they could read her thoughts. What a little innocent she must seem, wearing her heart on her sleeve. “I do hope Mr Grayling is not coming down with something.” Her voice sounded small and insubstantial to her own ears.

  “No, no, I’m sure it’s just a touch of the sun on top of last night’s excesses.” Mr Bramley spoke robustly, his green eyes seeming to size her up. No, he was not a nice man, she decided.

  Fanny reached across the table in a gesture of support and touched her fingertips. “I’m sure he’ll come round soon enough, you’ll see. He’ll be at the Assembly Rooms ready to dance a jig by tonight, I’m sure of it.”

  “Yes, yes, quite sure of it.” Cousin Bertram cleared his throat and Thea thought suddenly that he looked even worse than Mr Grayling had.

  Sylvester felt lightheaded as he climbed atop the box of his handsome equipage, picked up the reins and set off at a brisk trot. He and Miss Brightwell had covered quite a distance this morning, in more ways than one. He’d felt like the chosen, initiating the poor innocent young woman…dying young woman…into the realms of pleasure.

  Dying?

  “Dr Horne! A word, if I may!” He dropped the reins as he drew to a halt, leaning down and address the man. How fortuitous it was to see the doctor leaving the gathering, walking briskly down the elm-lined drive, his ginger hair bright in the morning sun as he scratched his thinning pate before replacing his hat. He glanced up at Sylvester in enquiry.

  “Perhaps I could offer you a lift.”

  The doctor’s eyes flared with surprise before he inclined his head, climbing with surprising nimbleness onto the box beside Sylvester.

  Sylvester picked up the reins again and gave the horses their heads while his own was reeling with the new knowledge he’d recently acquired courtesy of Mr George Bramley. Well, here was the doctor himself, captive and about to explain matters to Sylvester’s satisfaction.

  They galloped down the avenue and Sylvester allowed the doctor to wax lyrical on Sylvester’s prime horseflesh before Sylvester finally turned the conversation to the only matter of importance right now: Miss Brightwell’s health.

  Health? Ha! He’d never seen a young woman in more robust health. He wondered if the doctor was in collusion. Well, now was the time he’d find out. He’d just have to rein in his anger sufficiently to get out the questions that needed to be asked.

  “Indeed, I’m concerned that the young lady’s cousins seem to hold such grave fears for her health,” he said after he’d raised the matter. “When I left them just now they were in a flutter, no doubt afraid she’d catch a chill, which of course corroborates the fears of others—” he said this with a pointed look at the doctor— “that she’s in the grip of some fatal malady.”

  Though Sylvester had to keep his eye on the road, he was also careful to gauge Dr Horne’s expression.

  The doctor suddenly appeared tongue-tied, as well he might. No doubt under the orders of Bertram Brightwell he’d confirmed in Sylvester’s mind the lie that Miss Brightwell was all but on her deathbed. No doubt Dr Horne would be wondering what Sylvester truly knew and was being cagey in his answers.

  Sylvester tried to keep the acid out of his voice as he went on, “With the few months remaining to her, they are keen to ensure she enjoy all the entertainments available this summer before her declining health prevents her from even venturing outdoors.”

  “Good Lord, is she so ill?”

  The suspicion manifesting itself in Sylvester’s breast hardened to anger. “You certainly made clear your concerns to me, doctor?”

  Dr Horne looked confused but another sharp turn had him clinging to the seat before he replied, querulously, “You say that her cousins endorse the poor woman’s precarious health?”

  “They, too, were most insistent that Miss Brightwell had but months, Dr Horne.” Sylvester slanted him another glance, his suspicion hardening that the doctor was trying to detract blame from his own conduct. All of a sudden Dr Horne seemed very eager to put a different slant on matters. As if he hadn’t enthusiastically endorsed Miss Brightwell’s impending mortality! “What do you say to that, Dr Horne?”

  “Eh, what?” Dr Horne seemed suddenly rather agitated; though of course Sylvester was driving very fast. “Oh, well, I think the young lady is bearing up very well, all things considered, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bearing up very well. Sylvester nearly choked. Oh, she’d borne up remarkably well in their bower of love. No sign of the wilting virgin—though she was one, he was sure—or violet there. No doubt she’d meant to entice him to go all the way with her, whereupon she’d make some sign that would bring everyone running. Thus discovered, his honour would be called to account and he’d be forced there and then to make her a marriage offer.

  “To my mind, there appears nothing wrong with
her,” Sylvester said, challengingly as he narrowed his eyes at the doctor. His lip curled as he added under his breath but loud enough for the doctor to hear, “Though that is not what I was led to believe. In fact, I believe she may be for this world a lot longer than anyone could have hoped for.”

  He brought himself up short. Had he really hoped she was only destined to live a few months, during which he could enjoy the pleasure of her, supposedly to further hers? Shocked at himself, he tried to justify such thoughts.

  He’d nearly been tricked by the basest of lies. Of course he would be angry…though not to the extent of wishing harm to Miss Brightwell.

  Perhaps Miss Brightwell had initially resisted being used to further the pecuniary ambitions of the Brightwells. Lady Quamby and Lady Fenton had been avaricious social climbers. Sylvester might not fully concur with George Bramley’s scathing assessment, but the facts spoke for themselves. Though it was true that a year later each young lady appeared to have retained the regard of her respective consort and to enjoy a situation of great mutual felicity, the fact was that they were avaricious and ambitious and they had used him.

  Well, Sylvester couldn’t afford to marry a penniless chit, no matter how charming he found her.

  And indeed, he’d never come across anyone as charming as Miss Thea Brightwell.

  A surge of frustrated desire and pained fury at being the object of their collective trick found their outlet in a burst of energy as he managed the horses, and Dr Horne cried out, “Dear me, sir, they are frisky beasts, indeed!” as he once again grabbed the edge of his seat in the midst of another of Sylvester’s sharp but skilful turns. “You can put me down here, sir! Please!”

  They were now in the town and the traffic brought Sylvester to a halt. He’d not nearly finished quizzing the doctor but he was satisfied that Dr Horne’s agitation was sufficient proof that he was in on the subterfuge.

  Obligingly Sylvester set him down, with little indication of the fury within his breast, then continued to where his beasts were stabled a short walk from his own townhouse. But his painful thoughts were far away, centred on images of the tumble he’d enjoyed earlier that afternoon with a sweet and willing young miss of good breeding who had not a penny to her name and who was willing to trade everything on the hope that she could trick him into matrimony.