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And she had lost.
Adding to her torment was another night of Antoinette’s endless chatter, after the candle had been snuffed out, with tales ever more marvellous as to the great stir Miss Antoinette was making in London society. Fanny stared, eyes glazed, into the darkness of their bedroom, and wondered how a future without the handsome rake Lord Fenton would be even tolerable.
She drifted off to sleep at dawn, after a seemingly eternal night of tossing and turning, and did not awake until noon…to find a letter waiting for her in the drawing room.
&nbs
p; Chapter 8
Fenton twitched the ribbons of his high-perch phaeton as he searched the throng of exquisitely attired promenaders. He was as restless and uncertain of his reward as he’d been when his horse had taken the lead at St Leger three years before—and won him a purse that had trebled the amount he’d lost the night before.
Gambling! His mother was happy that he’d got over the gambling mania that had ruled his life as a young buck, but not so happy at his choice of the one woman who might keep him interested enough in domesticity not to want to stray from the straight and narrow again. If only he knew his mother would not make his life living hell if he crossed her in choosing a wife she was dead set against. Though, truth to tell, his mother’s furious objections were only the start of Fenton’s concerns.
Despite his anticipation, he was in a quandary, unable to decide what to do though he knew what he wanted. He wanted Miss Brightwell to come to him with an unblemished reputation so the whole world—his mother included—could endorse her as his viscountess.
But Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther had rattled him. While it did not confirm that she was the man’s mistress, or that her reputation was besmirched, or that she had not been a virgin before she and Fenton had got so gloriously carried away, it posed all sorts of questions. Questions he needed answered before he was willing to proceed along the marriage path.
So, after despatching a note that he’d meet Miss Brightwell in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, he’d come prepared for every contingency, including a ring in his coat pocket should he decide on the spur of the moment to throw caution to the wind and ask for Miss Brightwell’s hand in marriage. That was his preferred course of action, for he’d had enough of dalliance. His Continental Tour had whittled away the mystique of feminine enticements. With the looks, leisure and licence to do whatever he chose, he’d become, quite frankly, bored to tears—until five nights ago when Miss Fanny Brightwell…
At the mere thought of their passionate encounter his heart beat out the maddest, most creative tattoo before settling back into its steady routine. Discreetly, he put his hand to his breeches and took a deep breath. One way or another, he was going to have exclusive rights over the damnably delightful, enigmatic Miss Fanny Brightwell, or he would go mad. Their exquisite encounters had been far too cursory to satisfy a man who liked to spend hours bringing a woman to climax before following, himself, into explosive abandonment.
Fenton shaded his eyes and perused the crowd more closely while he tried to rein in his thoughts.
He glanced anxiously at his time piece. It was well and truly past five o’ clock and there was still no sign of her. Further ruminations took his anticipation down a notch. Lord Slyther had died several days previously. Could it be that Miss Brightwell was grieving…for her previous lover?
No, he strenuously would not countenance such a scenario. Miss Brightwell was in love with him. Fenton. His certainty that her enthusiastic reception of his overtures was pure and unfeigned was part of her charm. Miss Brightwell was direct. She was honest and unaffected.
Very different from the eligible maidens of his acquaintance.
Lord, but he wanted to make her his wife, though, regardless of what he ultimately settled for, right now he just wanted Miss Fanny Brightwell up here beside him.
He shifted like a schoolboy, unable to contain his restlessness. Three rounds in the ring with Gentleman Jackson the previous afternoon had not achieved the release of pent-up energy for which he’d hoped. He felt like a large cat, coiled tight and ready to spring. Miss Brightwell was the only prey that would satisfy him.
But the niggling doubts persisted. Was she eligible for the role of his wife? Did she even expect to be?
And where was she?
Impatience grew as the minutes passed. It had been torture to wait this long—now he could not wait a moment longer. He burnt to hold her in his arms, to be alone with her and to crush his lips against hers. To feel her heated flesh, suckle her magnificent breasts, plunder the exquisite body she’d offered him with such abandon…
“My apologies, Lord Fenton.”
The gleam in her lively, blue eyes made him want to gather her up, whisk her to somewhere secluded and repeat in exquisite detail the thrilling rendition of the other night. Trying to temper his schoolboy’s grin into something more sophisticated, he extended his hand and pulled her, then her sister, up beside him. Both girls were extraordinarily easy on the eye but there was something about the elder that simply sent him mad with yearning on all levels.
“If you are feeling a little cramped, Miss Antoinette”—he sent the young girl a meaningful look—“Miss Conyngham over there was asking after you. She thought you’d make a pleasant addition to their party.” He indicated a knot of people in the middle distance.
“And leave my sister alone with you, who are so concerned about the proprieties?” Miss Antoinette’s smile was pert.
“It is because I am so vigilant about the proprieties that you escaped the censure that would have been occasioned by Mr Bramley’s appalling conduct the other night and we are all able to make the most of this beautiful afternoon.” Fenton sent her a cloying smile, which she greeted coolly before availing herself of his assistance in getting down from the carriage.
“As you remind us, we are in your debt, Lord Fenton.” Miss Brightwell shifted a little closer after her sister had departed and Fenton reached for her hand. For a moment they were silent as they both stared at it, resting upon her knee. The knowledge of how smooth and shapely that knee was starved him of the air he needed for rational thought. This young woman had given herself to him and the memory of her impassioned writhing beneath him fuelled his desperation.
“It is I who am in yours,” he ground out, and heard the hoarseness of his voice. He touched her cheek, gently contouring her high cheekbone with his forefinger before tracing the Cupid’s bow of her shapely mouth. “You are exquisite.”
Lust or love? It surely must be both but what did it matter when he just wanted her, at any cost.
She trembled beside him and he watched the workings of her face. Her longing matched his own. He saw that when her eyes met his and it filled him with a sense of power he’d never felt before. Agonised soul-searching had led to the greatest quandary of his entire, lust-filled life as he’d embarked upon this trip, not knowing what sort of offer he’d make her. Now he realised the only way to end his torment was to have her…now.
In that split second he decided. These were feelings he ought not have for a wife. His mother had always counselled him that a wife should be held up on a pedestal. Virtue and good breeding were the hallmarks of the ideal bride and, regardless of Bramley’s tales, Miss Brightwell had given herself too willingly. Besides, if she were to be his wife, he couldn’t have her now.
