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Lady Fenton’s trembling increased. Tugging on the bell rope to demand her vinaigrette in a high, thin voice, she turned to Fenton and muttered, “Nothing wrong with the lineage but everything wrong with your choice, my boy, just remember that!” Her eyes flashed and for a moment Fenton believed she was going to beat him with her clenched fists as she took an unsteady step forward. “Let me warn you, Fenton, if you marry this designing Miss Brightwell I will never receive her! Do you hear me? Never!”
“What do you think of these?” Lady Brightwell waved a pair of York tan gloves at her eldest daughter from the other side of the shop. “Without waiting for a response, she said to the assistant, “We’ll have two pairs. Fanny, try them on for size…oh, and perhaps the lilac, too. They’re very fetching and will brighten up your newest muslin.”
There was no time for a new gown but Lady Brightwell was finding far greater enjoyment than Fanny in spending the money Lord Slyther had provided for a few accoutrements for his intended. It was not the August heat that made Fanny feel like a wilting dandelion. It was late afternoon on the day following the Earl of Quamby’s ball and she’d heard nothing from…
Closing her eyes and clutching her reticule as she steadied herself against the counter beneath a hanging display of shawls, she forced herself to silently finish the sentence—the man who’d stolen her heart and her virtue.
No! The truth, Fanny. The man to whom you’ve given your heart and your virtue.
So why had Lord Fenton not sought her out? Certainly, she’d not disclosed her address but they had sufficient mutual acquaintances that it would not be difficult to locate her.
She noticed her mother looking oddly at her as she glanced up from perusing a selection of fans.
Fanny forced a smile. “I thought Antoinette and Bertram would be here by now.” Rousing herself, she looked around as if for her siblings, when in truth she was hoping beyond hope to see Lord Fenton passing by the window in the midst of Oxford Street. The busy shopping quarter was teeming but she could see no sign of anyone who bore any resemblance either from the back or from the front to the man who made her pulses race— nor anyone who could rival him in looks and presence. With a sigh, she peeled off the gloves she’d just tried, nodding to the shop assistant that she’d take them. “You must watch Antoinette, Mama,” she said. “Bertram is not a suitable chaperone, for he’ll let her go wherever she chooses. Besides, I’ve never heard Antoinette profess the desire for a long walk before. I’d wager she’s gone to meet someone and is hoping Bertram will make himself scarce.”
Fanny’s concern was hardly allayed by her normally exacting mother’s reply.
“Once you’ve wed Lord Slyther, my darling, I’ll pay more heed to Antoinette—though our troubles will be over then.”
For a moment, Fanny was afraid her mother was going to embrace her right there in the shop. At least Lady Brightwell’s anger over the postponement had abated. What was a short delay when the day after next Lady Brightwell would see her ambitions realised? Her daughter would be wed to a titled man of fortune.
Lady Brightwell tapped one of the fans, indicating to the assistant that she’d take that, too. Looking extremely satisfied, she said, “I think a treat is in order, Fanny. An ice at Gunter’s after your siblings appear, perhaps?”
A treat?
Fanny was in no mood for treating herself after the events of last night. She’d treated herself at Lord Quamby’s, treated herself to the heated kisses and the hot and humid embrace of muscled, manly flesh, and now it appeared she’d completely miscalculated.
Yes, miscalculated when it came to giving her mama what she required: a rich and titled son-in-law; and miscalculated when it came to achieving Fanny’s heart’s desire: a man she desired and believed she could love.
Oh, dear Lord, how could she have been so stupid…
She closed her eyes briefly and concentrated on holding back the nausea. She had only ulcerous sores and limbs of white, marbled fat flanking Lord Slyther’s all-too-enthusiastic Magnificent Member to look forward to.
“Are you all right, Fanny?”
Again, Fanny forced a smile.
“You groaned.” Her mother took her wrist, the smile that brightened her face so at odds with her usual sour expression. “Later, after we visit Gunter’s, we must talk. You’re to be married soon and there are some things I need to tell you”—Lady Brightwell rarely spoke so kindly but she did so now, her tone low in their deserted corner of the shop—“about what to expect.”
They were near the door, the obsequious shop assistant wrapping their purchases, when Antoinette and Bertram rushed in. Their handsome faces were flushed and showed signs of barely tempered exertion or excitement, very different from the usual languor displayed by world-weary Bertram.
“Mama! Have you heard the news?” Antoinette’s eyes were like saucers; Bertram looked green around the gills. It was he who clapped his hand over his sister’s mouth, muttering, “Not here, Antoinette. Have you no sense of decorum?” before discreetly ushering his mother further from the curious looks of the assistant. Fanny followed. This was most unlike her brother.
“What news?” Fanny tugged at Bertram’s sleeve, for now he was gaping like a fish, unable to say what Antoinette had been about to say so peremptorily.
“Lord Slyther’s dead.” Antoinette’s voice shook. She looked uncertainly at her mother. “Of a stroke…around midday, I overheard it said.”
Relief was Fanny’s immediate reaction. Relief that they were in a public place so her mother could not beat her over the head with whatever object came to hand, and relief that salvation had come before it was too late.
Lady Brightwell put her hand to the wall to steady herself. The blood drained from her face while her eyes blazed like they were being stoked by the fires of Hell. Fanny’s joy at her reprieve was tempered somewhat by the observation. Her mother was never going to forgive her unless she succeeded with Lord Fenton.
By all the saints in Heaven, though, she was!
“Mama, you need to sit down.” Fanny’s tone was soothing, as if her first concern was her mother, but when she laid her hand upon her mother’s sleeve Lady Brightwell shook it off.
“Stupid girl,” she hissed. She drew a staccato breath. Fearfully, her children watched while they formed a barrier to potential interest from other shoppers. Like a spider about to strike, Lady Brightwell glared at Fanny from the shadow of her bonnet as she tossed her tippet around her neck and stepped forward. “Stupid, stupid girl, Fanny! You’d
be a widow right now if you’d played your cards right and all our fortunes would be made. But no, you were too precious and too selfish to do what was required.”
