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“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. 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 returned his attention to Fanny once her sister had left her side. “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 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 from the heated glances he’d sent her earlier that he felt the same connection. The heated glances after the shocked recognition had caused them both to blush and then smile.
Sucking in a breath through constricted airways, she took another sip of her champagne. Lord Fenton showed interest, most definitely. But within twenty-four hours, if Lord Slyther had his way, she would be married.
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 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.
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.” 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.”
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, L
ord 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.
