Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1) Page 8

  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, her responses had shown her desire for a stranger whom she clearly desired considerably more than either Alverley or her intended groom.

  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. He wanted Miss Fanny Brightwell 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 doing anything to compromise her chastity. 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.

  Fanny froze, then quickly scrambled into her gown.

  He was here? But of course. Isadora had only done what she’d asked.

  But what on earth had made Fanny eschew undergarments when she’d dressed for this evening?

  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.

  Yes, she’d wanted to shore up the advantage she had, the gains she’d already made with Lord Fenton.

  But she couldn’t appear completely wanton. This had not been her plan at all.

  And now that she was at a complete disadvantage, she didn’t know what to do.

  Anxiety and urgency made her fingers clumsy as she tried to fix the damage. In despair, she glanced up 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'd lost most of the necessary hairpins during her unladylike tumble? 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.

  He admired her but would he disdain her when he saw her as less than the perfectly groomed creature she desired him to regard her?

  “I… I’m not quite ready.” Would she ever be?

  Fanny tried so hard to be always in control. Mistress of herself and her world.

  But now 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. In public, anyway.

  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?

  Attracting Lord Fenton whom she’d met under less than auspicious circumstances two nights ago.

  She was nothing more than a lowly baron’s daughter with little other than good looks and a reputation still intact—though Fenton may even dispute this—to recommend her. And the moment, even that was imperilled on account of her careless pea goose of a sister.

  Good Lord but Antoinette’s bosom had been more than half revealed when Fenton had come upon her and Mr Bramley.

  Fanny’s 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.

  But the real nub was that tonight was her last chance.

  She tried to control her breathing as she tidied herself while desperation shredded 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.

  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?

  Her toes curled and her insides cleaved with frustrated longing. Tonight she’d recognised in his eye the mysterious fascination she wielded. She’d wielded the same power over Alverley.

  It was true that she’d not wanted Alverley but he’d offered the means of survival. Survival for her and her family.

  Lord, but she wanted Fenton. The magnetism between them defied common sense. It was mutual.

  Love at first sight. She’d never believed in the notion until now.

  So wasn’t winning him worth taking the greatest gamble of her life if the alternative was Lord Slyther?

  With an effort, she steadied her breathing and glanced about the small, intimate chamber. Gauzy, smoke coloured drapes were festooned about the walls and from the ceiling while the commodious banquette was piled high with cushions.

  It was a comfortable, eminently suitable place for trysting.

  But would she be going too far if she allowed Lord Fenton to take her in his arms when she was half unclothed?

  Lord Quamby’s words echoed in her head.

  He might be a rake but he was a gentleman.

  Yes, he’d spent the last few years sowing his wild oats, no doubt enjoying the charms of a dozen or more women on the Continent but in England he had chosen her.

  This season, she was the debutante he’d settled his interest upon during his search for a wife.

  And as for Lady Brightwell, she’d be equally satisfied with Lord Fenton who surely provided the same opportunities as Lord Slyther. He had lineage, money, prospects enough to offer the entire Brightwell clan. Lord Quamby had told her so.

  Yes, her mother would be as delighted over a match between Fanny and Fenton. Wouldn't she?

  Fanny could be a wife worthy of Lord Fenton. Fanny needed a man like Lord Fenton. And Fanny wanted…Lord Fenton.

  The desire to win him over was so powerful 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 wondered if she’d met her match. 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 hea
rt, 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.

  “I’ve brought needle and thread,” he said, offering her the tools to restore her respectability, “which I snatched from the sewing room when I witnessed the unfortunate results of your fall.”

  She managed to muffle the hysteria that tinged her laugh as she rose and took up the threaded needle.

  “I’m not sure I’m in a position to play the seamstress.” With a wry look at her jutting bosom, which obscured the seam she must sew, her hand trembled as she handed the needle back to him. “Perhaps you, Lord Fenton, have hidden talents.” Her smile was as unsteady as her shaking hand. What was happening to the cool façade she’d cultivated to such a fine art? Her nipples ached and she was conscious of a roiling sensation in her lower belly.

  She swallowed, barely able to force the words out through dry lips. “I cannot see to sew, but you will be my hero if you can stitch a straight seam.”

  Lord Fenton took the needle, resting his other hand upon her shoulder. Whether that was to steady her or himself, Fanny wasn’t sure, but that was immaterial as her whole body seemed to come alive at his touch. A dull, needy ache started in the pit of her belly as his eyes, full of sympathetic understanding, bored into hers. The usual, calculating gleam of the rake was replaced with something deeper and more sincere that nearly took her breath away.

  But it was his lack of skill with a needle that, in fact, did so. At her exclamation of pain they jerked apart.

  “My apologies!” he cried, reflexively clasping her wounded breast.

  Each froze at the contact. With a soft gasp Fanny swayed and he caught her to him. His touch seared her soul, branded her his, melting her insides into a pool of heated longing. It was apparent he wanted something between them to happen as much as she did. She could feel the bulge of of his manhood pressed against her stomach. Lord Slyther had at least imparted some useful information on the mechanics of intimate relations between men and women. The thought burst into her head that, as God was her witness, she had no intention of allowing Lord Slyther to rend her asunder with his Magnificent Member when the man before her was just as willing to do so—and, oh, so damnably irresistible.

  Suspended in an agony of waiting, she watched Lord Fenton’s sudden awareness combust into something far more primal, tensed for his response, then wilted as he tightened his arms about her with a low groan. She had wit only to be thankful for the fact that the needle was no longer between them before she responded—completely, and with every particle of body and soul.

  “Oh, my Lord!” The fast and furious pounding of her heart and the urgency of her breathing almost deafened her. Or was that Lord Fenton’s breathing? The gaze he trained upon her was rapt. His eyes were glazed. In fact, for a moment he looked like a sleek, handsome wolf contemplating his dinner. Miss Fanny Brightwell? Oh, she was more than ready. Her body was on fire as her mind was tugged ever more insistently into the dangerous swirl of sensation that threatened.

  When his mouth came down on hers she was eager as she’d never been with Alverley—as she’d never been with any man. Her heart, pumping ever more furiously, seemed to carry hope, fire and passion through her veins, not the familiar resignation wrought by a man’s interest. The body she’d groomed since womanhood, the mind her mother had filled with careful calculation, all for the purpose of snaring a husband, no longer screamed its endless litany of ‘caution, as long as you catch him’.

  Fanny’s mind emptied itself of every last drop of the careful advice with which it had been filled by her mother over a lifetime. As Lord Fenton’s hand contoured her from breast to knee, resistance was the furthest thing from her mind. The inner voice of warning that should have pierced her consciousness was stifled by the heady sensations that pumped through her like honey.

  “You are exquisite,” he murmured against her lips as his hands roamed all over her, making her gasp as they skimmed her waist and thighs, cupping her bottom and pulling her hard against his jutting erection.

  And so was he. Lord Slyther’s sly insinuations and the forced physicality in which she’d been an unwilling participant the night before had been her first initiation into the underworld of desire. Of the effect desire had on men. There was nothing sly or forced about this contact.

  Excitement took on a life of its own as Lord Fenton's mouth, a hot, wet cavern of mystery and delight, became a playground of tangling tongues and panting desire.

  A desire that became increasingly mindless in response to her throbbing need as he bent to clasp her knee, hooking her leg over the armrest of the Egyptian sofa. He cupped her face before burying his mouth in her décolletage, his lips probing, his hands massaging until her breast burst free of its confinement and his tongue curled around her nipple.

  Delighted, she moaned, arching against him, prickles of excitement shooting from her breast to her lower belly, the apex of her legs now a mass of quivering sensation. When he cupped her mound she cried out with frustration at the intrusion of her clothing against heated skin, an unnecessary layer that kept them apart. For they were destined to be one— she felt it in the basest regions of her mind, body and soul.

  “Oh, God!” she gasped as the laving of his tongue heated the tip of her nipple beyond endurance. In an agony of ecstasy she rained kisses upon his crisp, dark curls, unsure whether to push him away or hold him closer.

  She thought she had reached the summit of her pleasure, but it was just the beginning, she realised, as he insinuated his hand beneath the hem of her gown. She held her breath, poised on the edge of she knew not what as he trailed gentle, probing fingertips up her leg. He massaged the heated, highly sensitised skin of her inner thigh with agonising slowness.

  “You like it?” His voice was hoarse as he stroked the contours of her body with a tenderness at odds with the hard masculine strength of his own. It seemed he had barely the strength needed to groan, “Just say the word, and I’ll do whatever pleases you, my love.” The tension and effort it clearly cost him to remain gentle only intensified the thrill. He was hers to command and she was enthralled.

  Gasping as he continued his extraordinary, sensual journey, she felt as if her soul were on a string he was pulling ever tighter. And tighter. The rhythmic motion was creating needs she had never known she had. She held her breath, digging her fingers into his back and shoulders as he pleasured her, the tension within building to almost unbearable limits.

  His breath, husky with need, tickled her ear. “I want you like I’ve never wanted any woman.” Briefly, she closed her eyes as her mind swam into a realm where her life existed on another plane and her body was a temple to this man whose touch unleashed such dangerous, forbidden impulses.

  Clenching her jaw in sudden determination that overrode every sensible notion her mother had ever instilled in her, she weighed up her future.

  Lord Slyther was a sure bet. She’d marry him tomorrow and perhaps be a widow within the year. Or ten. Meanwhile Fenton would wed another. Fento
n, the man she wanted like no other.

  She couldn’t let it happen…wouldn’t let it, whatever the sacrifices she must make. Fanny had never truly desired anything with complete and utter conviction as she desired Fenton as her legal wedded husband in that moment.

  Whatever it took, she would…

  With shock she realised all that was at stake. It was too much of a risk. She must retreat.

  If he were to continue wanting her as much as she wanted him, the key to her happiness lay in sustaining his fascination with her. She couldn’t succumb like some common doxy.

  She could hear her mother’s voice in her head telling her that a graceful retreat would leave him dangling for more. The faint voice of her own sensible self said the same.

  So that’s what she must do.

  But another voice intruded; reminding her that she didn’t have time to take risks.

  And letting him go with nothing more than a kiss to bind them was too great a risk.

  Or was it that her pleasure was mindless and she’d never felt so secure in her powers of attraction?

  He hadn’t stopped kissing her and now it was starting all over again as his clever fingers played her like a harp and her good intentions were swept away by the intense sensation that started with the throbbing between her legs and built up in every fibre of her body, pulling on her heart strings until they threatened to snap. She was gasping her desire for—what? She could not know and when, with a groan, he dragged his mouth from hers to say, raggedly, he was honour-bound to release her, the idea was suddenly like an end to her world.

  “No!” she cried, her hands fumbling for the buttons of his breeches. Rake’s Honour. He wanted her, and if he took her now she’d be his forever. The powers she exercised tonight would be nothing to those she’d exert to ensure he never regretted it.

  His look of shocked delight caused her to drop her hands. Foolish girl! This could be the end of everything. She tried to wriggle out of his embrace but it seemed her brief forwardness had redoubled his enthusiasm.

  “You are magnificent, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured against her lips as he scooped her up and then lay her on the ground, caging her body with hers. “Say you’ll be mine.”