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As the sun warmed her cheeks she took a seat on a large, dry flat rock and leaned over to stare at her reflection in the still waters of a pond surrounded by an ornamental rock garden. Fanny had gifted her one of her old gowns and Thea had recently trimmed her poke bonnet with a floral profusion of which she was rather proud. She looked well enough and supposed it was as Bertram had said; that some respectable clerk might be in a position to one day offer for her and so release her from her dreary existence with Aunt Minerva.
She shifted a little and the gold locket her aunt had lent her swung forward over the water. Fearful it might snap, Thea snatched at it, but her sudden movement was obviously too much for a weak link.
With a gasp, Thea watched helplessly as it plopped into the water.
Chapter 12
ALTHOUGH Sylvester nodded sagely as Bertram Brightwell waxed lyrical on a sure way to roll the dice in one’s favour, he was having a hard time attending. Out of the corner of his eye he was acutely aware of Miss Brightwell’s languid form by the refreshments table. She was alone. And as her ghastly aunt was fawning over Lady Umbrage, this was surely his moment to apologise and, he hoped, orchestrate some future tryst.
When he next craned his head around Lady Quamby’s elaborate bonnet, Miss Brightwell had gone but a glimpse of white showed her on the path towards the water garden he knew was encapsulated within the copse of trees some distance away.
“Nature calls,” he murmured, turning in her direction.
Bertram followed his gaze, gave a knowing look when he too saw Thea, and sighed gustily. “Only four months left to live.” He put his finger to his nose and jerked his head in the aunt’s direction. “I’ll make sure the old termagant is occupied for the next fifteen minutes.”
With a grateful nod, Sylvester set off, circumnavigating the gardens to reach the rock-strewn pond by the east side.
As he’d expected, she was waiting for him, sitting on a rock and dipping her now ungloved hand through the water. A frisson of excitement mingled with pride speared him, for after their last less-than-stellar encounter, he’d anticipated far greater resistance.
His letter must have struck just the right note with its suggestion that if she felt she could bring herself to forgive him, she only had to give him some sign. Yes, indeed a secret message or artfully constructed letter was obviously the way to communicate with greater success than trying to speak to Miss Brightwell.
The look they’d exchanged, and the fiery blush that rose to her cheeks just before she’d started across the lawn, could not have been interpreted any other way than as an oblique indication that she’d be just beyond earshot and out of sight. If the next few minutes went well he’d have to send Miss Brightwell another secret letter with regard to the masquerade ball he would be attending the following night.
Sylvester halted a few yards away to savour the vision. There she was, illuminated in a shaft of sunlight, the sweet profile of her rosy cheek angled so that if he looked a little closer he could see the slight swell above her bodice and the point at which her breasts separated. Intriguing and most lust-inducing. Especially when he considered her dampening response to his initial overtures.
Had that been a test? he wondered. Without a doubt Miss Brightwell was a shy innocent. Perhaps something had changed since he’d tried to kiss her. Was she now more cognizant of the fact she must make the most of the few short months she had left? Surely that must be it, otherwise she’d never have ventured across the gardens, alone, having just signalled to him to follow her.
The knowledge that she’d decided, after all, that she liked him enough to allow him the honour to coax her into a greater appreciates of life’s pleasures nearly overwhelmed him.
But he’d be discreet. He’d pretend he’d simply come upon her by accident. That would be far kinder and more likely to elicit the outcome he desired. Of course, if the young lady knew she were dying and looking for some small measure of brightness in a dull and dreary world that otherwise revolved around that gorgon of an aunt, she’d also not want him making any sign that he knew of her impending mortality.
As he was on the point of declaring himself, a bird’s call coincided with a splash and the young woman’s dismayed cry.
He saw her lean over the water, put out her hand to reach for something, and in a few strides he was behind her, gripping her shoulders and pulling her back. Good Lord, what was she doing? She was about to surely tumble into the murky depths if he didn’t stop her.
But he over-anticipated her stretch and, to his acute embarrassment, he actually caused her to sprawl backwards onto the gravelled path.
Stunned, she looked up at him, shading her eyes and obviously taking a moment to gather her surprise in registering that he’d made it so quickly to her side after leaving the others.
“Miss Brightwell, a thousand apologies for my clumsiness!” He knelt at her side, then finding her somehow across his lap and registering her shock, he realised he was again taking matters too far.
He quickly set her neatly and safely back on the flat rock where she’d been before and took a seat beside her. They’d get back to a position of intimacy in good time though with only fifteen minutes he needed to act fast.
“Oh, Mr Grayling, my aunt’s locket has fallen into the pond.” That seemed to be her primary concern and he was glad to be given the excuse to lean forward so he could put his hand on her shoulder in order to follow the direction in which she was pointing.
He could just see the shiny object lying on the dark, slimy bottom.
“Aunt Minerva will never forgive me if I go back without it.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “It’s too deep for me to reach it.” Giving him a look as if to size him up, she added, ingenuously, “In fact, I think it’s decidedly too deep for your arm to reach it, too.”
She began to cry. Sylvester stared at her. Were those tears genuine tears of fear for that awful aunt’s rage, or cleverly orchestrated so that Sylvester would be induced to play the gentleman?
Which of course would require him to remove his boots and breeches, even if he might possibly reach it without resorting to such drastic measures.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked when he had one boot off and the other about to follow.
Surprised, he halted. But of course, she knew nothing of men. She wasn’t a schemer and her words weren’t calculated to make him do what a more experienced woman might see as a shortcut to pleasure.
“Er, Miss Brightwell, I cannot bear to see you so distressed.” He sounded clumsy to his own ears as he rose and tried to ameliorate the situation with a courtly bow. She was clearly not used to demonstrations of a man’s willingness to please. But of course, she wasn’t used to men at all. He needed to go very slowly with this one. Barefoot, he stood upon the rock a little above her. “Please allow me to render assistance in the only way I know, though it will require me to undress in order to swim down and reach it. I think I caught a flash of it in the light but I’m willing to plunge into the depths if it will save you from your aunt’s wrath.”
