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So she did, giving voice to every thought and feeling that had dictated her actions the other night. The unlikely friendship that had grown up between herself and the Earl since the afternoon she and Antoinette had rescued him from footpads on Hampstead Heath was more real and sustaining than any she had developed with the numerous acquaintances she’d made during her two years in London.
“What fun the old cats will have in sending you to Coventry, my dear.” His voice was matter of fact, even amused, which was no surprise to Fanny. It was a comfort that Lord Quamby, despite his theatrical temperament, never tried to dress up the truth. “That is, if you do become Lord Fenton’s mistress.” His right eye twitched as he gazed at her through his lorgnette. “Can’t make the fellow out, I must say. Rake’s Honour and all that, and you a respectable young lady. Even feel a trifle guilty myself, since I was so reassuring about the young man seemingly five minutes before he tumbled you in my Arbour of Love.” He sighed. “Fact remains, m’dear, you were a foolish girl…and the consequences can’t be foretold for some while yet,” he added with a pointed look at her belly.
As if she hadn’t thought of that.
“Come now, child, it’s not the end of the world—though a bruised heart in youth always seems like it.” He smiled kindly and tapped his chest. “This old heart has been on fire and doused with cold water more often than I care to remember.”
Resting his hand on her arm, he gazed at the passing throng. Many cast them decidedly curious looks. To be taken up so publicly by an earl—even if only for an afternoon ride— might not ease her bruised heart but, after her humiliation at the hands of her dashing and ultimately devastatingly disappointing viscount, it bolstered her courage. Courage she would need, for to be cast from society’s embrace would be a bitter pill and one she’d not willingly have swallowed had she considered more deeply the consequences of her actions. She knew she had no one but herself to blame. She knew also that no matter how generously Lord Fenton clothed and housed his new mistress, or showered her family with largesse, Fanny’s mother would never forgive her.
Never.
She had lost everything. Fenton, her mother’s fair-weather affection, position and security. And all because she’d given into her lustful feelings for Lord Fenton.
Yes, lustful though she’d truly believed it might have been something more than that.
“You still think of your lost love?” Fanny asked, trying to be kind, for she did so like him—but it was hard to find sympathy for another when her own heart was breaking.
“It will be twenty years ago on Friday since my beloved Richard fell into the arms of his Banquo.” He sighed.
“Oh,” said Fanny, blinking. “I didn’t…”
“Of course you didn’t,” he chuckled. “You’re an innocent, despite your worldly air. A worldly innocent with so much to learn. You mistook your Lord Fenton’s desire for love. And now Miss Fanny Brightwell is furious at making such a fatal, obvious mistake.” He shrugged. “But perhaps it was love on his part, for even love can be compromised when the future weighs in. I’ve no doubt Lord Fenton would have happily made you his wife were it not for the objection of his odious mama. The heir to three estates in the north must marry well—not some dowerless nobody, regardless of her charms.”
Fanny rubbed at the stain her tears had made on her York tan gloves and sniffed. “Mama has always been so ambitious for us. Mr Bramley was right when he said I’d be lucky to catch a wealthy tradesman.”
“My nephew is jealous.”
Fanny shrugged as she twisted her fingers in her lap, for that was true enough. “When Lord Fenton took an interest, I”—her voice trembled—“took a foolish gamble. Mama will die of shame, yet I truly thought that when I returned home following this afternoon’s ride she’d think me the cleverest and dearest of daughters.”
Lord Quamby sighed. “Meanwhile, perhaps Fenton is kicking himself for serving you so badly, never expecting he’d lose you. I’ve always thought it strange how far we’ll compromise our own happiness to please our mothers.” He looked wistful. “My blond Adonis wanted a more public declaration of our love, which of course might have sent us both to the gallows and certainly killed off my poor mama. Now I realise she would sooner have killed me. She’s sustained herself these past three score years and ten in the fond hope I’ll do my duty yet and provide the heir the family so desperately requires.”
He gave Fanny an assessing look. It grew even more speculative as he traced the figured gold silk of his red pantaloons with an effete hand. “
Miss Brightwell,” he said in quite a different tone. His bright eyes twinkled like a blackbird’s, his full, pert little mouth turning up as if it held a wicked surprise. Taking one of her hands between his, he said in his thin, wheezing voice, “Your predicament has just inspired a plan which I believe will see our mothers twitter their joy from the tree tops.” The pressure on her hand increased, as if he could barely contain his excitement. “Certainly, if it comes to fruition, Ladies Brightwell and Fenton and the Dowager Duchess Quamby will be celebrating the joyful and entirely satisfactory unions of their respective offspring at their next little witches’ coven.”
Fanny narrowed her eyes, hope taking root as he began to explain.
Chapter 9
“Miss Brightwell to see you, my Lord.”
The censure Fenton saw in the expression of his butler Brimble suggested Miss Brightwell was alone. Carefully placing his tumbler of brandy on the sideboard, Fenton turned towards the door, hoping his own expression did not reveal the unalloyed joy shining through his disordered thoughts.
He’d spent a sleepless night castigating himself for his lack of finesse. Miss Brightwell had every reason to feel insulted at the direct manner in which he’d proposed to set her up as his mistress, rather than make her an offer of marriage.
He’d been testing the waters, so to speak, and in the end it had been his ungovernable impatience and desire to have her soon— yes, as his mistress—rather than later as his wife that had caused him to give her the bracelet and key as he’d blurted out his clumsy words.
Miss Brightwell had every reason to be insulted. To add insult to injury, he’d referred to their need for discretion to protect her sister’s reputation. What had he been thinking? Well, that was the problem, he’d allowed his lustful feelings to hold sway and that was no way for a man to conduct himself in the arena of life with a mind to his long-term happiness.
Perhaps it had been pique and confusion over witnessing her nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther that had made him offer her a carte blanche that challenged her pristine reputation, leaving it to her to defend herself.
His mother’s strictures were not inconsequential, either. She’d rammed it down his throat that she was not marriage material—said outright that Miss Brightwell was so decidedly unsuitable that she’d never even receive her. Well, his mother was harsh but she was not unjust. She would not have hinted at factors that precluded Miss Brightwell as wifely material had she not had good reason.
Yet the last twenty-four hours had been an agony. He wanted Miss Brightwell at any cost, regardless of any possible misdemeanours, whether or not her reputation was unsullied. He’d given her no chance to defend herself which made him, quite simply, an out and out cad.
But if Miss Brightwell was here, surely it meant she…
“My Lord.”
