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The chapel on the Earl of Quamby’s estate was full when he arrived, and he took a seat in a pew near the back, his attention fully on alert when he saw Miss Brightwell enter in the wake of her cousins and take up position as godmother to the baby George. Lord Quamby looked smug and patted his wife’s arm a number of times as he appeared to congratulate her, though he noticed the earl’s cousin, Mr George Bramley, who was godfather, seemed particularly out of sorts today as he glowered in the background.
A surprising choice of godmother, he reflected, considering Lady Quamby must know of the girl’s imminent demise. Though perhaps it was her final kindness.
Across the sea of heads he caught Miss Brightwell’s eye and smiled. The kisses they had shared in the long gallery had fired him up for more, and he was desperate to take matters to the next level.
The problem of course was the lack of freedom she was granted by her aunt. If he could only find some means of dealing with the old termagant.
After the service, parents and godparents moved outside with their offspring while members of the congregation milled around, offering their congratulations.
Sylvester seized his chance when Miss Brightwell was beside Lady Quamby whose placid baby was garnering such attention. He was about to address the countess when Lady Quamby handed over her child, and now the recipient of everyone’s good wishes was in the arms of the very woman he wished to speak to. He’d be able to get close without causing undue interest, for he certainly had no wish to be seen dangling after the girl he knew desired—so sweetly and innocently—to know the pleasures of seduction before her world ended.
And with mixed feelings, he was ready to cater to her desires. Her family sanctioned such intimacies; indeed, Bertram Brightwell had made this very clear in a brief and subtle conversation they’d shared not two minutes’ before, out on the path by the rose garden.
And subtlety was what was required. For the sake of Miss Brightwell’s reputation, Sylvester would let the world think his sights were set on Miss Huntingdon.
Sadly, he felt it inevitable that he was set on a path to marrying Miss Huntingdon. The fact was, however, that his heart was wholly engaged by Miss Brightwell.
Sylvester gazed at the dark-haired little mite who was squirming in Miss Brightwell’s arms. Its cross little mouth was pursed until it seemed almost to split open, suddenly ejecting a spatter of regurgitated milk upon Miss Brightwell’s shoulder. To his surprise, the girl laughed while her cousin, the child’s mother, simply screwed her face up in disgust and turned to speak to a red-haired young man.
Sylvester was about to make some trite remark about infants and to sympathise, but Miss Brightwell’s expression stayed him. Miss Brightwell had put her cheek to that of the cherubic child, closing her eyes and smiling to soothe it, and in that instant a strange thing happened to Sylvester’s heart. He could almost picture himself in a situation of domestic bliss with the mother of his child gazing upon their joint creation with similar adoration.
Sylvester had had little to do with children but his own upbringing had been devoid of parental affection. The pater and mater were both fond enough of him in their own way, but a succession of nurses and nannies had supplied all his needs and his parents were somewhat superfluous and distant personages who made polite enquiries over matters that were of mutual interest, like horse racing and hounds in his father’s case, and town gossip in his mother’s.
To see Miss Brightwell so obviously enamoured with another woman’s child was extraordinary; to witness such genuine maternal sentiment, yet to know, also, she would never experience the joy of her own children was suddenly extraordinarily poignant.
“What a picture of bliss, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured. “I suspect this won’t be the last time you’ll be offering your services to hold Lady Quamby’s beautiful baby.”
Miss Brightwell blushed delightfully and his gaze was drawn to her pretty pink lips, whose softness he remembered so well. In contrast came the memory of the thrilling tautness of her nipples when his hands strayed beneath her bodice. Perhaps she remembered it too, for she reddened even further as a look of acute shyness crossed her face.
“I do adore babies,” she confessed.
“Of course I know it. I remember well your distress when you observed the unfortunate incident of the child near the foundling hospital.”
“And then the poor gypsy child who had my Aunt Minerva’s name bestowed upon her. Oh, but I hope it’s not a curse.” She put her hand to her mouth and glanced around, clearly fearful her aunt may have overheard. “You won’t tell anyone I said that, will you?” She looked guilty but also conspiratorial, and Mr Grayling surreptitiously put his hand on her wrist. “Only if you don’t tell anyone about the long gallery.”
Even her ears went pink at this. She cleared her throat and checked to see if anyone was in earshot but it seemed baby George’s puking had put everyone off for they were now alone. “Mr Grayling, I was deeply wrong to…to…”
He raised one eyebrow and looked enquiring. “To what, Miss Brightwell?”
She shook her head. “You know very well what I mean.”
“I think perhaps you’d better meet me at the Oriental Pavilion, where you can be more explicit, Miss Brightwell.” He raised his head, contemplating the sky before adding, “Let’s say in ten minutes? There’s not much we can do when you are so closely chaperoned but if you can somehow be granted twenty minutes’ freedom, then we can arrange somewhere later on that’s a little more…private?”
He laughed as her mouth dropped open, though he pretended he was about to address Lady Fenton on Miss Brightwell’s other side when he added, furtively, “Lord, but you are adorable when you look so shocked. I do love an innocent. One who has fire inside—and who can set me on fire.”
“Mr Grayling!” Her bosom heaved and her expression was a mixture of out
rage mixed with reluctant collusion and, yes, very obvious intrigue and desire. She drew in a shaky breath. “The Oriental Pavilion in ten minutes? Alone? What can you be thinking?”
He slid his gaze from her moist, parted lips to ensure there were no sudden interruptions from the guests gathered about Lord and Lady Quamby, for Lady Fenton had moved away now.
“That I want to kiss you again, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured, dipping his head slightly, as if he were cooing to the child. He swallowed, feeling himself harden, his voice gruff as he admitted, “I feel enslaved by this need to know how you would regard me if…”
“If what, Mr Grayling?” Her voice was also strained with desire; for he could recognize desire in a woman’s voice and the wondering, wanting expression in her luminous eyes confirmed this.
“If you were completely alone with me. If you would trust me to—”
The impromptu arrival of Mr George Bramley cut short her rejoinder but Sylvester was relieved to note that shortly afterwards she whispered something in Lady Fenton’s ear and was rewarded with a quick nod.
