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“He liked you very much, Thea,” Fanny said with a forced smiled. “It was quite plain to see, believe me.”
“Just not enough to make me an honest offer. Or even to ask me to dance one more time. He saw the beautiful dress you lent me, Cousin Fanny, and he liked my face, but then he learned of my circumstances, my poverty.”
“Oh Fanny, what should we do?” Antoinette asked in some discomfort after they’d bathed poor Thea’s heated brow and sent her to bed with a sleeping draught. “She’s distraught and believes he’s forsaken her because she’s not good enough. We can’t possibly tell her the truth.”
“No, we cannot,” Fanny affirmed with some force as she lounged in her sister’s private drawing room. “It was Bertram’s foolish idea to tell him a lie in the first place, and now that Mr Grayling’s not done anything that requires him to do the honourable thing, it really does look like Thea is going to have to marry Dr Horne.”
“Marry Dr Horne! How can you of all people suggest such a thing?” Antoinette rounded on her, nearly breaking the ostrich feather she’d just attached with a green ribbon to her bonnet. “You did everything you possibly could to avoid marrying Lord Slyther after mama decided that you marrying him was necessary for us all to avoid poverty and disgrace. I do believe you’d have killed him, if you’d had to.”
“And risk the gallows? No, he’d have brought on his own early demise through the pleasurable pursuits I’d have devised for him.” Fanny winked then added, thoughtfully, “But Thea must play the poor hand she’s been dealt. She must take risks just as I had to take a huge risk to make my cards fall my way.”
“You know Thea is not a risk-taker, Fanny. Certainly not like you and me.” Antoinette sashayed in front of her looking glass admiring the waving feathers in her bonnet. “Poor Thea. She did like Mr Grayling so much and now he’s—
“Been wagered to ask a certain fair haired miss to marry him in a hot air balloon,” Bertram drawled, entering the door at that very moment. “At least, that’s what I propose will happen. Gad, but the wagers that some people do come up with. I’ve been racking my brains to match ‘em but I declare that this one will fire ‘em all up, not least Grayling.”
Fanny groaned. “And what good will that do? It won’t make Mr Grayling any plumper in the pocket if he does propose and as the likelihood is about as good as…you marrying the Princess of Spain… you’ll only be asking Quamby to bail you out again!”
She squeezed shut her eyes as she sought forebearance. “No, I fear Mr Grayling is about to offer for Miss Huntingdon and besides, five hundred pounds isn’t nearly enough compared with Miss Huntingdon’s fortune.”
Bertram tapped the side of his nose. “I know that my sisters think I’m not so clever sometimes—”
“That’s what you said before you devised that ridiculous idea of telling Mr Grayling poor Thea had only six months to live.” Fanny sent him a withering look. “It would have been better never to have raised her hopes, since he clearly isn’t the kind of gentleman to put his heart above his pocketbook. Well, I suppose Dr Horne will be kind to her. A poor, impecunious elderly doctor marrying a lovely, beautiful young woman. Life is cruel!”
“But she’ll get her offer from Mr Grayling, I told you.” Bertram looked offended. “My wager is only the start of something much bigger. Trust me on this, my dear sisters. Everything will go according to plan. In fact, so confident am I that have staked the reputation of the entire Brightwell clan upon the outcome.”
And with these encouraging words he gave a flourishing bow before returning up the hill with a decided swagger in his step.
Chapter 18
DAMN, but Sylvester could not banish from his mind the images of hope that radiated from Miss Brightwell’s shining smile followed by the confusion of her clouded gaze once Bramley had laid it all out on the table, so to speak.
Indeed, such thoughts made him feel like a butterfly pinned to a cork board as he glanced from the looking glass which reflected his clumsy attempts to tie his cravat to the side table upon which lay his mother’s no-nonsense missive which made clear that such a union was completely unacceptable.
With a grunt of irritation he tossed the starched neck linen onto the pile of other failed attempts and picked up a fresh length. It was no surprise that in less than twenty four hours his venerable mater was apprised of how matters stood with her only son. She’d have made a formidable commander in the recent wars with France if she’d been a different gender but as she was the female head of an old and powerful family, she’d made matchmaking her special interest. Her stamp of approval or otherwise carried enormous weight.
Sylvester resumed his task with grim determination though he was not generally so exacting in the matter of his dress. Briefly he closed his eyes. Anything to hold at bay the myriad of uncomfortable, gut-churning thoughts that filled him with desire and remorse—even though he knew he’d been set up and was justified in the self righteous fury he felt.
Of course, a handsome dowry would put things right though of course if a handsome dowry were in the offing there’d have been none of the subterfuge Miss Brightwell’s family had gone to such pains to orchestrate and thereby trap him.
And if Miss Brightwell came with a handsome dowry he’d have no compunction in offering for her. She’d have the credentials that would satisfy his exacting family, namely his mama. This knowledge was as uncomfortable as thoughts of Miss Brightwell’s distress—and his raging physical desire for her—and he despised himself for it.
So as he finally declared himself satisfied with his fifth attempt at an Oriental tie and prepared to meet headlong the challenges that awaited him at Lady Camperdown’s ball, he knew his biggest challenge would be his own conflicted desire.
He simply hadn’t the words to tell her that he was no longer a prospective suitor, when of course his ardour in the Oriental Pavilion Room would have told a completely different story.
When he reached his destination and the doors were opened wide to issue him inside he raised his eyes to the shimmering chandelier and prayed silently for fortitude as the warmth of heated bodies hit him.
Of course, the moment he dropped his gaze, fate would have it that the first person he locked eyes with was the charming, damnably irresistible Miss Brightwell.
The intense rush of lust took his breath away but he was ready. All such inconvenient emotions must be tempered by the dampening thought that she—or at least her conniving cousins—had planned to see him in parson’s mousetrap; that their machinations were motivated by greed and familial self interest rather than a simple desire to secure the happiness of a beloved cousin.
With a curt nod he turned to survey the rest of the room and found himself being regarded with distinct interest by Miss Huntingdon. She was standing beside her mother and anoth
er elderly matron, obviously bored while they nodded their heads together in deep discussion. Three or four days ago, when the situation was very different, Sylvester would have made a beeline for Miss Brightwell, avoiding Miss Huntingdon whom he’d have made a point of acknowledging in a manner that gave her no ideas of anything serious for the meantime, at any rate.
Now Sylvester, racked with guilt, forced himself to adopt a nonchalant attitude as he wandered over towards Miss Huntingdon who, he tried to persuade himself, had eyes every bit as alluring as Miss Brightwell’s.
Instantly her mouth curved into a delighted smile, which only reminded him of how damnably kissable Miss Brightwell’s mouth was. Clearly Miss Huntingdon was easy prey and quite amenable to a match with him; yet with her handsome dowry she could have snared a man with a title or a far greater fortune than he possessed. Sylvester merely had grand expectations and the weight of five hundred years of family dynastic considerations upon his shoulders.
