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“I am not stupid!” Bertram jerked forward angrily, scattering his hand and causing he redhead to jerk her head up in alarm before she took the arm of her padded dandelion and swept from the room. Bertram felt doubly riled. “I told Grayling the young lady in question was dying. I said it would be a kindness to show her what pleasure she’d be missing out on if she was destined for her deathbed in the next six months.”
George looked as if he failed to understand Bertram’s reasoning. “Good Lord! But if she’s a young lady worth her sa
lt, she won’t let him near her with a barge pole.”
Now it was time for Bertram to appear enigmatic. “She will if she believes he’s looking for a wife with a bit more fire than his first and she has not a penny to fly with.”
“Grayling’s been married before?”
“Lord, now look who’s being stupid. I don’t know if Grayling’s been married before. What’s important is that he thinks she’s dying and she thinks he’s after a wife—one who’s prepared to go the distance.” Bertram pointed up at the long gallery above them where a distinct gasp was borne to their listening ears in a sudden moment of quiet from the orchestra.
He looked challengingly at George. “Why don’t you go up and disturb them? Take an audience with you and then he’ll be obliged to marry her.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Lord, I’m not telling you that.” George leant back, his hands laced over his stomach as he grinned at George, watching the fellow’s mobile ugly face and feeling as if he’d scored a great victory. It was good to know that once again that odious villain George Bramley had been bested.
With growing satisfaction Bertram watched the surprise on George’s face turn to prurient understanding before George chuckled.
Ha! Bertram felt very clever indeed as he faced his arch enemy over the ruins of the card table but it was he who was going to have the last laugh as another Brightwell scored a magnificent marital coup.
And to think that George Bramley believed he was so much cleverer than all of them put together.
Chapter 14
PERHAPS I’ll wear the pink and grey waistcoat after all, Nesbitt.” Sylvester stared critically in the looking glass before turning to gaze out of the window while his valet fetched the garment. The grey cobbled street below was wet with rain while a tenacious sun tried to penetrate the thick cloud.
Like Sylvester’s mood, the day had switched between dismal and full of expectation. The sweet kisses the adorable Miss Brightwell had showered upon him during their several stolen moments in the Long Gallery had been deeply addictive; their time together too short.
“And, I think, my diamond cufflinks. Ah, thank you.” He took the neck cloth held out to him then deftly executed a Mathematical Tie which he’d recently adopted in preference to the more severe Oriental.
The last thing Miss Brightwell needed was severity. He wanted her to regard him in a gentle, welcoming light.
He also wished to be immaculately turned out today, and not just for the benefit of the ladies Quamby and Fenton, the christening of whose delightful little cherubs he was attending.
He paused a moment as he contemplated the past couple of days. It was rare he’d kissed a woman and come back wanting more to such a degree. The contact had been brief, chaste even, but the memory of the smooth, soft cheek he’d cupped and the brush of her chestnut curls across his own jawline was incendiary.
He wanted her with an intensity he found hard to fathom. She was enchanting.
But she was also dying.
The thought gave him a jolt of real dismay.
Dying. He shuddered. He didn’t want her to die. Nor did he want to feel pity for her. No, he wanted her like a real woman, to share his life and his bed.
As he fastened on his cufflinks he paused. Had he really thought that? He wanted her as his wife?
Why, that was impossible. Miss Brightwell was dying and Sylvester was required to focus his attention on the living; on choosing a suitable bride of impeccable lineage with at least an adequate dowry.
Unlike the very suitable and clearly enthusiastic Miss Huntingdon, Miss Brightwell had neither.
“Thank you, Nesbitt. How do I look?”
“Like a man on outfitted for success.”
Sylvester grinned at the ironic smile his loyal retainer had flashed at him as he rose from his bow, then turned towards the door with a final glance outside.
The sun had succeeded in burning a hole through the cloud and he was struck by the parallel with Miss Brightwell’s bold attempts to seize life and love. To be so full of both at this moment but to know death was imminent. Lord but she was brave. And he deserved to make her final months or weeks of good health ones she’d remember until the very end.
