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Suddenly he’d never wanted anything, or anyone, so much.
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. 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.
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, 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 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.
More than anything, he wanted 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 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? 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.
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. It was too early to call it love—when love was what she aspired to above all else—but there was a magnetism between them that defied common sense. Surely that was a good enough beginning to warrant throwing all her efforts into making him want her when the alternative was Lord Slyther?
