Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1) Page 5

  Fenton unleashed a cold, level stare upon Bramley, then allowed him to drone on while his thoughts ran their own course. His kiss with Miss Brightwell in the boat had unleashed his desire. Oh, he wanted to teach her so much more…but without compromising her reputation. For the novel notion had popped into his head that it would be rather splendid to take for his wife a woman with whom he’d experienced instant attraction. He’d had plenty of mistresses whose transitory excitement had quickly given way to an air of jaded experience he found quite unpalatable but he was ready for a wife now.

  And he wanted one he found pleasing and who responded to him with genuine enthusiasm. At the very least, he would pay his respects to the young woman across the room and set matters in motion. It would be interesting to see where they led.

  Yet wasn’t there 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. Fortunately he knew Bramley was a renowned liar.

  His friend 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. Before he could object, Bramley went on, “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 innocent enthusiasm she’d shown with him in the ferry as she writhed beneath the fat and leering Bramley and the philandering Lord Bickling.

  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.”

  “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, despite my enthusiasm at the possibilities, 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.” Antoinette was looking radiant this evening. Even Fanny thought it and was conscious of the eyes of several young men following her demurely clothed sister with interest.

  Perhaps Antoinette, after all, would be the one to salvage the Brightwell reputation and ensure their financial survival.

  Perhaps she’d receive a handsome off
er tonight that would mean Fanny did not have to become Lord Slyther’s bride.

  Antoinette took a sip of her orgeat and touched Fanny’s shoulder. “Really, Fanny, 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 behind the potted palm. She could not bear being caught out displaying such weakness. Fanny never cried. “Or perhaps it’s because you know nothing of the…intimacies…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.”

  “You don’t?” Fanny stared, horrified. “You really don’t care, Antoinette, that he’ll”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“touch you and maul you when you feel like being ill just to be near him?” She glanced over her shoulder, fearful that Lord Slyther was advancing upon her at that very moment, while her body revolted at the thought of Lord Slyther touching her as the pirate of her desires from last night had touched her.

  And to discover that he was at this moment not ten feet away. She’d not believed it when she’d seen him but though he was 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?

  But she’d kissed a stranger in a boat and if he recognised her, what would he think of her?

  “Lord Fenton would have been my choice, too.” The earl had sidled up to Fanny and Antoinette was now with Isadora, chatting happily to a couple of gentlemen. “Such a beautiful young man—so perfect in every way.” He sighed wistfully. “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 in the Druid Walk and took me across the river.” She took a convulsive sip of champagne. “I didn’t tell you that part.”

  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 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!

  Well, an impecunious poet with enough ready to pension her mother off far away from where Fanny lived.

  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? Her breath hitched in her throat. It was quite apparent from the heated glances Lord Fenton had been sending her that he felt the a similarly strong connection.

  Fanny took another sip of her champagne and pondered her next move. Lord Fenton showed interest, most definitely. But within twenty-four hours, if Lord Slyther had his way, Fanny would be married.

  Oblivious to her distress, Lord Quamby chuckled. “I shall enjoy watching the incomparable Miss Fanny Brightwell charm the deliciously dangerous-to-know Lord Fenton from the boughs.”

  If only she could. 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 under the weight of him. He lived only two streets away, but he was in such ill health he’d need to be conveyed physically from door to door.

  With a comforting pat on her arm, Lord Quamby 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, alas, you’ll never be invited.” He grunted. “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 yet again.”

  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, his appraising look was replaced by a sneer. It was clear that George Bramley had never forgiven her for spurning his advances the previous summer.

  “Evening Uncle; Miss Brightwell.” A supercilious smile replaced the young man’s ill humour. Bowing, he said smoothly, 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 me
mory 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.

  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…?”

  Fanny sent a wide-eyed look at Lord Quamby as if to question the propriety of dancing with a gentleman to whom she’d only just been introduced.

  But already she was extending her hand.

  “I notice your dance card is looking empty, Miss Brightwell. I should be very happy to step in once Lord Fenton has returned you to your chaperone.”

  Fanny shook her head as she rested her hand on Lord Fenton’s forearm. “Alas, I doubt I shall have the energy, Mr Bramley,” she said over her shoulder as Lord Fenton led her towards the dance floor.

  It was extraordinary the effect the handsome viscount had on her. Her skin prickled under his warm appraisal as they arranged themselves in a group of four couples and her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She’d never felt so aware of her surroundings or of the man before her.

  And never so aware of the possibilities.

  The fire in his eyes testified to the attraction between them. It had been there from the start; from the very moment he’d whisked her into his arms and out of Alverley’s orbit.

  Of course, he hadn’t known who she was then. He could have formed any idea, she supposed. But now he knew she was every inch his equal.

  She smiled at him, even though she tensed a little as she tried to bolster her confidence with the thought that money wasn’t everything. At least her social standing and presence here tonight made her a contender for his affections at least.

  And affection…attraction…was a very good start.

  His mouth quirked. “With your dark hair and proud blue eyes you’d have made the perfect Anne Boleyn at the Vauxhall masquerade,” he murmured. “Though you were clearly very much the disguised maiden. I’m sure no one would have recognised you then.”