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Lord Milton had just announced he’d bestow five hundred pounds upon Lord Cardigan if he worked as a footman on his father’s estate for one whole day without being recognised.
Bertram raised his voice above the hubbub. “Who’ll propose five hundred that Miss Brightwell won’t receive a marriage offer from Mr Grayling in a hot-air balloon?”
The other young men looked at him with scorn and for a moment there was silence. “I observed Miss Brightwell slapping the face of our esteemed friend here, Mr George Bramley,” interjected Lord Darington, a sandy-haired Corinthian in his cups. “Therefore I’ll wager Mr Bramley five hundred pounds he dare not propose marriage to Miss Brightwell in a hot air balloon.”
“Make that seven hundred and I’ll accept your wager.” George Bramley chuckled. “At least then the chit might be worth the trouble. I say,” he added, “where’ll we get a hot-air balloon?”
“Lord Quamby is arranging for a hot-air balloon at his estate for the celebrations in one week marking the christening of his heir,” someone told him.
Bertram tried to speak above the hubbub. “Not George Bramley,” he protested. “I wager that Mr Grayling be the one to propose.”
But the rest of the company ignored Bertram until someone reminded him that, as it was clear Miss Brightwell and Mr Grayling were clearly interested in one another, only Miss Brightwell had not a feather to fly with so could no
t be considered a contender when it came to a marriage offer, then it was no wager worth any money at all.
“I say! I wager that Lady Quamby makes Mr Freddy Rotheringham her next lover before he goes up to Oxford and that she’ll give birth to a lovely bouncing, bonny bairn before next Christmas!” cried Lord Darington, at which suggestion Bertram, who’d seen the sheep’s eyes each had sent the other, immediately upped the stakes another two hundred, dolefully concluding it was going to be his only means of lining his pockets.
Chapter 19
IT was early—not yet midnight—when Sylvester slunk out of the ballroom. For a moment he’d contemplated going to the billiards room, as was his wont, but tonight he felt ill, dispirited and out of sorts. As the doors closed behind him and he breathed in the warm night air, he had to push back his shoulders to counteract the sense that he was indeed slinking away from any sense of nobility.
In terms of what his mind dictated, the night had been a success. The glint in Miss Huntingdon’s eye was smug and self-satisfied. Indeed, he’d given her every reason for feeling smug and self-satisfied and he detested himself for it.
For his heart dictated a very different outcome from the course he was navigating.
Miss Brightwell, who exuded an innocence untarnished by his initiation; an innocence belied by the very real suggestion that she was up to her neck in skulduggery—that of tricking him into matrimony—was still far and above the one miss he’d cross crocodile-infested waters in order to whisk into his arms and ride with into the sunset.
But, apart from the fact that devious means had been employed to trick him into losing his heart to the chit, what happiness would they both enjoy when penny-pinching was the order of the day? He had a modest enough income to keep himself in the manner to which he’d become accustomed: an excellent tailor, a fine enough address and sufficient largesse to pay the vails required to gain him admittance to the best country house parties.
But two of them could quickly become three, and then four or more. Miss Brightwell adored children. He was rather partial to them himself. But what of a large family and the inevitable bills? How could he provide dowries to daughters that would ensure they’d not endure the unhappy lot currently facing Miss Brightwell? The irony struck him keenly.
The simple truth was that he did not have the funds to provide for the lovely, sweet Miss Thea Brightwell as she deserved. Love would soon turn to recrimination as the bills mounted.
The night’s warm air was no relief as waited in the portico for his carriage, which he’d ordered be brought round early. He was surprised Tom, his coachman, wasn’t already there, for he’d sent word ten minutes before and he was leaving well before the departing throng.
A flurry behind him, and excited female voices, made him turn.
“Lord Benton certainly paid you a lot of attention, Thea,” he heard as the doors were opened, and as he turned, he found himself locking eyes with lovely Lady Fenton. Her smile was instant and radiant but as he transferred his gaze to the young lady beside her, he felt an unwanted clamping somewhere in the region of his chest. This was accompanied by a decidedly hefty dose of guilt, for he’d not even addressed Miss Brightwell, much less asked her to dance. And this, when three days ago he’d whisked her off to the Oriental Pavilion Room to show her…
He bowed extravagantly, as if that might somehow ameliorate her warranted hurt and confusion but before he could speak he was surprised to see one of the grooms appear at the bottom of the stairs, on foot, a look of great consternation on his face.
“Beg pardon, sir, for the delay but your carriage copped a sideswipe, which has knocked the wheel off. Your coachman is fetching the wheelwright now.”
“Oh, too bad, Mr Grayling.” Lady Quamby smiled at him past her aunt’s waving feather—not her dreadful aunt’s, he realised, for she appeared to have already left— while her husband conversed with Lord Fenton. “There’s room in ours. Let me oblige you.”
Sylvester sized up the party and decided that, as Miss Brightwell appeared to be travelling with Lord and Lady Fenton, he’d be safe enough. He didn’t think he was up to the young woman’s warranted reproachful looks.
He was also very aware that after her initial sizing up of him, Miss Brightwell appeared to be studiously avoiding him. It was just as well, he decided, though it only stabbed him with even greater remorse.
However, as Lady Fenton moved towards the carriage with her husband, and Miss Brightwell appeared to be under the illusion she was travelling with them, Lady Fenton turned and waved her away. “Darling Thea, you must go with Antoinette, as Fenton and I have been invited to another party. Didn’t I tell you? Antoinette, you’ve room, have you not?”
And with Lady Quamby’s assertion that it was a case of “the more the merrier”, Sylvester found himself ushered into the cramped interior of the same carriage in which Miss Brightwell travelled, his knees touching hers, and as she lowered her head to do something with her dancing slipper, her egret feather brushed across the side of his cheek. It was the most sensuous feeling he’d enjoyed in a long while and a shudder of longing racked his body. But he made sure to have his face studiously averted when she straightened though after inadvertently making eye contact once more, she blushed furiously, which Sylvester found curiously discomposing and rather touching. Gad! If he had any choice in the matter he’d divest himself of familial responsibilities and entailed estates and do what was in his heart: make the girl an offer and look forward to a life of rare and exceptional happiness.
Quamby engaged Sylvester in some light banter during the journey home then, to his surprise, announced he was stopping off at some gaming den and did Grayling wish to accompany him?
Sylvester shook his head. He’d stayed away from the cards lately and his pocketbook was healthier as a result. But now he was alone with the two ladies and he felt distinctly uncomfortable under Lady Quamby’s assessing eye, while Miss Brightwell said nothing.
Suddenly the carriage came to another stop outside one of the new addresses, a fine townhouse, and Lady Quamby leant forward. “This is where I get off.” She looked both coy and just a touch defiant though she gave no explanation. “Mr Grayling, there’s no need to see Thea home, though I do trust to your discretion. It’s the only way to get on, don’t you think? Goodnight, Thea darling, but I’m expected and I can’t possibly break such an important engagement.”
