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It required no play-acting to look as desolate as she felt. Fanny had always been a dutiful daughter, desperate to achieve whatever her mother demanded, but she did not want to hear the truth laid bare in such a way.
He softened at her expression and said, almost kindly, “Let us pay no heed to your mama. You’ll be free of her soon enough and, though you might fear me now, I promise you, I shall be an indulgent husband…provided you are a good girl. Kiss me, Miss Brightwell.”
She could not show the aversion she felt, though fortunately it was appropriate to display reluctance at such a great liberty.
“You can kiss me all you like when we are wed, my Lord,” she told him, holding her ground.
“I shall enjoy your acquiescence, then, and your dutiful enthusiasm”—he tugged on her arm—“but tonight I will enjoy showing you who is master.”
Before she could object further, he jerked her into his arms so that she was across his lap, and plastered his loose lips upon hers. Revulsion swamped her but she refused to reveal her distress. It would only excite him more.
Allowing him sufficient satisfaction before she broke free, she forced her tears into abeyance, saying briskly, almost playfully, “Let us save some surprises for after we are wed. Now, my Lord, your leg looks painful. Allow me to bring you some relief with the unguents I see beside your bed. Shall I remove the dressing and massage it?”
The suggestion took him by surprise. Clearly, even he had thought she’d be reluctant at such an obviously disgusting task, for the weeping sores were evident beneath the bandages.
Holding her breath, forcing her smile to remain unwavering, Fanny unwrapped the stained linen and laid the limb beside her. She’d thought to place it upon her lap but lost courage at the last minute. She couldn’t bring herself to come that much into contact with it, for she noticed it was worse than on the previous occasion. The suppurating flesh would stain her dress and the stink she’d have to carry home with her was more than she could bear.
Briefly closing her eyes, she wavered between those wonderful memories of being in Lord Fenton’s arms and acknowledging that this life of nurse and bedroom mate was nearly upon her. She’d known all her life it was her lot to make sacrifices for the sake of the family so it was foolish to start objecting now.
She’d been trained well. Almost immediately her smile was back in place as she rubbed in the ointment and murmured, “I hope this eases the discomfort a little, my Lord. My grandmother said I was a very good nurse when I used to massage her painful old legs.”
Lord Slyther grunted. His eyes were closed and, judging by his expression, he’d all but given himself up to the soothing sensation.
Fanny tried to separate herself from the hateful present and return to the thrilling past. She would not feel shame. Perhaps in the eyes of her mother she’d done a terrible thing but no punishment could take away from her the satisfaction of giving her virginity to a man who set her senses on fire. She’d exercised free will and she’d pleased herself.
Please, dear Lord, don’t make it for the last time.
For so long did she gently knead Lord Slyther’s white, pestilential flesh and rub ointment into the sores that Fanny hoped he’d gone to sleep. But when she paused to return sensation to her aching hands, he opened his eyes.
“You’re more than just the pretty face I thought you, Miss Brightwell.” There was grudging admiration in his tone. “Your grandmother was right—you have a nurse’s touch and the sooner we’re wed the better.”
Fanny accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. “You are kind, my Lord.” She knew bullies preyed on weakness so she would have to appear strong, even though the thought of offering herself up to him as required made her want to break down upon the spot.
She put her hand gently upon his ankle. “How long do your gout attacks last, my Lord? Will you be better in the morning? At least able to walk, I mean?”
“Another two or three days in bed, if previous attacks are anything to go by. The parson arrives at ten.” He gave her a sly look. “Unless you’re willing to wait and I’ll send for him now. I have a special licence and I can choose for myself.”
“Would it not be better, my Lord, if you were in less pain to enjoy your wedding night”—she lowered her eyes—“so you could be more…yourself?”
He grunted again. “Don’t know I can wait that long, Miss Brightwell.” He struggled upon his pillows and his hand went out to touch the bare skin above her décolletage. Fingering the ring upon its chain, he hesitated as he added, “Though you are right…”
Fanny’s heart lurched at the concession. “In three days’ time, my Lord, you would be well enough to stand by my side and”—she swallowed—“be the bridegroom of my desires.”
For a second he appeared to consider her suggestion. Suddenly, he jerked forward and pulled her to him, though he immediately released her, despite the fact that she had not squealed. He seemed angry when she straightened, staring wide-eyed, shocked by his surprising strength and his erratic behaviour.
“Three days, then, Miss Brightwell. I see the good sense in a short delay. In the meantime, you can stand up and come to my side. You’ve had the pleasure of running your hands over my tender flesh. Now it’s my turn.”
Finally Fanny was permitted to return to the drawing room and rejoin her mother who hissed, “I hope your smile was pleasanter than that for Lord Slyther,” as she looked up from her tatting.
But Fanny couldn’t respond until, once in the carriage, she burst out, “Oh, Mama, the things he did to me. He put his hands—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” her mother cut in, looking straight ahead as she settled herself. “I’m just sorry he couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, when you’ll be safely wed.”
“The wedding is in three days’ time—”
“Three days!” Her mother swung round sharply. “What has happened, Fanny? Why three days?” There was panic in her tone before her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Fanny hurried on. “Lord Slyther’s gout is paining him. He’ll wed me when he is a little more recovered.”
