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Lady Brightwell rounded on her. “You asked for a postponement, didn’t you, Fanny? You suggested his manliness would be greater for the fact he could at least walk, when all that matters is that it is legally done and you are Lady Slyther. What possessed you, daughter, after everything I have done for you? How could you—?”
“Mama, there is a gentleman, a viscount, handsome and rich, who has taken a fancy to me.” Now was Fanny’s moment and she must not squander it. “I know that with a little time, even three days, perhaps, I can win his regard sufficiently for—”
“Little fool!” Lady Brightwell’s anger was accompanied by another of her stinging slaps across her daughter’s cheek. “I’ve heard that one too many times before, Fanny! Lord Alverley, remember? Oh yes, smitten he might have been, but he was young and tied to his mother’s apron strings. You couldn’t see that, though, could you? Well, what truth have you overlooked this time? You are ruled by your foolish heart, girl. It sweeps away all reason. It’ll be the same story with your latest fancy. Mark my words, he’ll tell you he’ll fly to the moon to make you his, but when his mama hears her son has fallen in love with a baron’s daughter with no fortune—in one night—the same thing will happen. Who is this viscount?”
“Lord Fenton—”
Her mother’s wail of anger drowned Fanny’s reassurance that Lord Fenton was so unlike Alverley that the comparison was laughable.
“Lord Fenton!” Lady Brightwell nearly choked on the name as she repeated it. “Why, if his mama is still alive—and unless she passed away this last week then she is—you can be assured you will not be marrying her son. Not while she has breath in her body. Of all the young bucks to pick, you have chosen the worst, Fanny! The one with the worst mama, at any rate! What have you done?”
It was rare that Lady Brightwell’s anger took this despairing form. Usually she was brisk and cold, but now her railing frightened Fanny who cried, “He loves me, Mama, and he’s in the market for a wife! Lord Quamby himself told me—”
“Well, you will not make it onto Lord Fenton’s list of contenders, Fanny—”
“Mama, do you know what Lord Slyther made me do?” Fanny gripped her mother’s arm but Lady Brightwell prised off her fingers, replying, “I don’t care! I’ve had to do nothing less. We’ve spoken of this before.”
The carriage rounded a c
orner. They were nearly home but it offered no sanctuary. Lady Brightwell would not hear her out.
Desperately, Fanny cried, “You married Papa for love. What can you know of being mauled by a disgusting old man? He kissed me, and put his tongue in my mouth and then he made me—”
“If you’d played your cards right, Fanny, he’d be doing it as your husband, not besmirching your reputation. Your position is weak. You are a complete fool, just like your father! Do you think he was some handsome young buck I fell head over heels for? He was charming enough when I wed him, thinking to elevate myself just a little, but it wasn’t long before the drink and the gambling ruined him—and your chances. A disappointed man, when he’s drunk, is a frightening prospect, Fanny. So don’t tell me I know nothing of the horrors you’ve endured. You know nothing of horror! I’ve shielded you, like the best of mothers, and look how you repay me! You are a stupid, ungrateful girl and you will rue this day!”
Hunching back into the corner as the carriage halted in front of their town house, Fanny wiped her streaming eyes. “I’m going to marry Lord Fenton, Mama,” she muttered. “You’ll see.”
Chapter 6
Lord Fenton peered into the darkness from the comfort of his silk-lined carriage and watched the hired hackney roll up to the front portico of Lord Slyther’s residence. His senses seemed to be suffering from a surfeit of feeling—lust, definitely, but something more than that; something sweet and deep and intense he’d never experienced until tonight.
Now another emotion, more difficult to describe, was creeping through his bones.
The cross-eyed jarvey who pulled on the reins was, he was sure, the very one who had conveyed Miss Brightwell, her sister and their chaperone home, not ten minutes ago, though he’d come here directly from the ball.
Two cloaked figures were being ushered through the door.
Fenton’s exuberance was checked. It was long after midnight and this was the confirmation he’d been hoping not to see.
This was Lord Slyther’s London town house. Earlier he was sure he’d seen Lord Slyther’s ring. Fenton would not have troubled to discern the crest had it not been for Bramley’s words before he’d been properly introduced to the young lady, but it had struck him as odd that Miss Brightwell had concealed the ring in her handkerchief when earlier she’d been wearing it on a chain around her neck.
Why?
She was surely too lovely for guile. Despite her outward confidence there was an inner fragility that had touched him. He didn’t want to think it was an act, just as he didn’t want to think of all Bramley’s ugly slurs upon Miss Brightwell’s character.
They surely couldn’t be true? That’s why he was here. To reassure himself. Now he didn’t know what to think.
Fenton had no doubt that George Bramley had a grievance against the girl. When he’d left to come here after Lord Quamby’s ball he’d battled with his conscience. He should trust her, of course. But surely if he intended to make her his wife it was all the more reason to ensure she was…trustworthy?
Narrowing his eyes, he tried to make out the identity of the two cloaked figures that were being ushered into the house. Surely one of them was not his Miss Brightwell.
As he’d been unable to verify anything, Fenton scanned the four storeys of the building for any chink through the curtains that might give a clue to what was going on inside. Anxiously? No—angrily—for a closer look at the jarvey convinced him it was indeed the same man, and the confident manner with which the younger woman had swept past the parlour maid was Miss Brightwell personified.
The idea appalled him that she could go directly from the ball where she’d given herself to Fenton with such enthusiasm straight to the arms of…who? Her erstwhile secret lover? Given Bramley’s lewd talk and the fact Fenton was newly returned to London, perhaps it was common knowledge.
There must be some explanation. Miss Brightwell must have a perfectly good reason for being there. Could Lord Slyther be her godfather, who’d requested her presence upon his deathbed?
After Bramley’s talk, he doubted it.
