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Her obvious inner turmoil tugged at Sylvester’s heart. She’d be calculating how much time the doctor had given her before her decline became debilitating. Right now, the glow from her recent experience imbued her features with a softness that was almost mystical. Various renditions of Madonna without her child raced through his mind and the residual sadness that had lodged within him roared back to life as something so much more.
How cruel it was that Miss Brightwell, so full of life now, would soon decline so rapidly. She deserved better. She certainly deserved to be a mother for she’d love her offspring in a way Sylvester’s distant mother never could.
The idea of a wife who’d love their children, shower them with affection, and also adore her own husband had never seemed more important than right now.
/> And Miss Brightwell was that woman.
As he stared at her, connecting the images of Miss Brightwell’s concern for the foundling babe, her maternal softness holding the Quamby heir and her enthusiasm for his ministrations just now, he imagined what it would be like to combine all that and package it up in his own life.
The only way he could even start by quelling the consequent dismay that Miss Brightwell’s impending death made this impossible was by reminding himself that he could not, of course, marry someone without a penny, no matter how charming he found her. He simply could not afford it. Not only would the privations make them both miserable, but the rambling estate he was more than likely to inherit from a great uncle needed a great deal of money poured into it if it were to be restored to its previous grandeur and family honour restored. A wife with a more than respectable dowry was absolutely essential.
Besides, not only did Miss Brightwell deserved better than he, the truth was that even if she were in robust health, she’d be lucky to win the hand of a poor clergyman, having no portion whatever.
He gazed at her sadly then reordered his features. He could not let her see his pity.
“A virgin still? Oh, thank the Lord,” she whispered, putting her hands up to her face. “I completely forgot myself. What was I thinking? What have I done?”
“You’ve had a taste of what pleasures are to be had between a man and a woman who share a deep attraction for one another.”
Her radiant smile sent a completely different wave of sensation through his veins as she asked, “You have been disappointed by women before? By their reactions, I mean?”
“I…have always tried to ensure their pleasure.” Her words took him by surprise. “Good Lord, Miss Brightwell, this is not something I wish to discuss with you.” Had he disappointed women in the past? The idea that he had even been a less than ideal lover was highly uncomfortable. He certainly would not be guilty of that when he next held Miss Brightwell in his arms.
“Of course not,” she said, immediately pressing her lips together. She put her hand on his shoulder, her smile full of sympathy as she raised her wondering gaze to his. “I think you were wonderful. What you did…” She shook her head. “I should feel ashamed but I don’t. It was the most wonderful sensation I’ve ever felt. I thought I was on a star that was taking me though the heavens and then I thought I would die of pleasure. You were masterful, Mr Grayling, though what must you think of me?”
He bent down to kiss the crease between her brows. “What do I think of you? Why, that I would spend every minute if I could, making you happy.”
He caught himself up. This sounded like the prelude to a proposal and he couldn’t have that, though she’d know her health would not permit the rigours of matrimony. Still, he could let in a chink of hope before changing the subject and he was about to speak when Miss Brightwell stiffened in his arms at the sound of footsteps before she relaxed in relief. “It’s Cousin Fanny calling me. She said she’d return to collect me and take me back to the others.” Pulling out of his arms she hurried to the door, turning and putting her hands to her rosy cheeks. “Will they know?”
“That you’ve experienced a small sum of what any happily married matron has experienced every morning she wakes up?” He grinned.
“Would you like to do it again, Mr Grayling?”
“I say, that’s bold.” He was impressed.
Breathlessly, she said in a rush, “Perhaps we could meet when there’s more time so we could—”
“Could what, Miss Brightwell?” he asked when she stopped abruptly, reddening.
“No, I don’t know what came over me. Please, forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” He reached out his hand and whisked her back into his arms. Gently he put his lips to hers, drawing back slightly to murmur, “I would forgive you anything, for you are irresistible.”
Her look of coy innocence, even after what they’d just done, was charming.
“Yes, let’s meet here again.”
Lady Fenton’s called echoed once more through the trees as he calculated quickly. Hastily he murmured, “I’ll send you a note. We’ll have to be careful, though. This is your cousin’s estate and I doubt she’d approve.”
“Oh, Cousin Antoinette thinks you are marvellous,” Miss Brightwell said happily as she opened the door, turning to add over her shoulder, “She’ll help us, I know it.”
“Then wait for a sign from me. It may be cryptic for the sake of security. But know this, Miss Brightwell…” He swallowed painfully. In fact, he felt in the greatest physical pain simply at the thought of what pleasures were in store the next time they did meet, “I am your slave. You have set me on fire.”
“Oh, Mr Grayling!” His words released a flood of feeling Thea was unable to resist. Rushing back into his arms she surrendered to the exquisite feelings his touch engendered as he brought his mouth hard upon hers.
As he supported the back of her head with one hand, the other kneaded the bud of her right nipple. The wicked warmth between her legs made her lightheaded with desire and she couldn’t help herself from escalating the contact, pressing herself against him, taken aback by the enormous bulge she felt in the area of his groin. So this was what Antoinette and Fanny had tried to explain to her.
To think that she’d trembled with revulsion at the thought of such a thing being pushed into her for the sake of a baby. When she’d unexpectedly glimpsed him, naked, after he’d emerged from the pond she’d thought his physique as fine as Michaelangelo’s statue, David. Back then, though she’d torn her gaze away quickly, she’d noticed nothing frightening, rod-like or rigid, as Antoinette had suggested. Now she was beginning to understand how a man’s body worked.
