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“And passing by is the Baby Brightwell Beauty,” Bramley remarked as a golden-haired debutante crossed his line of vision. “Unleashed this season to rival her sister in the fortune-hunting stakes, she is yet another to beware.”
Fenton watched the girl join a bored Corinthian wearing such ridiculously high collar points that the chafing of his neck could be seen from five yards away. Beside him stood a dark-haired girl, partly obscured by her companion’s posturing, though he could see she filled out her gold-flecked gown very nicely.
With peculiar grace, she turned, setting off a chain of events that had Bramley thumping Fenton on the back and sympathising. “Ah, the Brightwell Beauty. One glance from her azure blue eyes will damn a man to eternal restlessness. Have nothing to do with her, Fenton. She can only cause you grief.”
The young woman had not even glanced at him and already Fenton was in the grip of a maelstrom of powerful emotions, not all of them pleasant, as he watched the girl he’d abducted from Vauxhall Gardens sip her champagne and laugh with her companions. Mesmerised, he feasted his eyes upon her lithe and lovely figure in a gown that was both modest and alluring. Her eyes were most arresting, dancing with liveliness in a heart-shaped face framed with dark ringlets tumbling from the crown of her head. Her cheekbones were high, her mouth a delectable pout of a rosebud he remembered only too well grazing his jawline before he’d plundered it with fierce kisses of his own.
The young woman’s hair he remembered as having been powdered. Now, reflecting the light from a thousand beeswax candles, it had the sheen of a raven’s wing.
He tried to master his desire, or at least the effect it was having upon him, shifting position, his discomfort exacerbated by the deepest dismay. He’d assumed the girl he’d carried off from Alverley to be a fair Cyprian—or close enough—yet her presence tonight confirmed her status among the haut ton. For all his eccentricity, their illustrious host Lord Quamby did not invite members of the demi mondaine to the same entertainments to which he invited his gorgon of a mama.
If he was lucky, the dark-haired beauty would not recognise him. If he wasn’t so fortunate he’d be fronting up to a dawn appointment on Hampstead Heath with some irate brother or father.
“Not marriage material, old chap, though that’s what she’s been angling for the past two seasons.”
Bramley’s leer aroused Fenton’s chivalry. Turning, he said icily, “I well recall Baron Brightwell’s fall from grace, and his subsequent exile.” The kernel of dislike he’d always felt for Bramley hardened and grew. There was something unpleasantly brutal about the man, despite their loose friendship. “Lord Brightwell’s pecuniary embarrassment and the nature of his death are not stains to be borne by his daughters.”
Bramley chuckled and scratched his thick nose. “Brightwell’s fall from grace has nothing to do with society’s low opinion of his daughters.” His tone was suggestive.
Ignoring him, Fenton resumed the pleasant occupation of gazing upon Miss Brightwell, and felt again the swell of his manhood. Unconsciously he licked his lips, unable to rid himself of memories of her mouth, captive beneath his, responding with delightful passion.
The softness of her curves, the lushness of her body, were branded on his thoughts and it took all his willpower not to groan aloud. What had he done? He’d compromised an innocent! He’d whisked her away from Alverley, thinking it no more than a game that would teach the silly boy a lesson, and before he knew it he’d been bewitched by his captive.
At first he’d not believed her insinuations about her inexperience, for what kind of young woman would allow herself such liberties with a strange man in a boat?
Uncomfortably he realised he’d not put her down when she’d requested. But that had been much earlier. In the boat she’d made it clear she wanted him to kiss her.
Thank the Lord it had gone no further than that though if they’d been discovered… He shuddered. He dare not think of it.
Fenton tried to breathe evenly. He’d abducted the girl and, despite their respective disguises and lack of knowledge of one another, they’d discovered some powerful, unexpected chemistry between them.
He closed his eyes in contemplation of her soft arms, cool to the touch, her body radiating a delightful, fragrant mix of sweetness and desire.
Desire!
He jerked his eyes open as he tried to cast his mind back to the worst of what he’d done.
Kissed her. Yes, that’s all. She’d not let his hands stray which he’d though coy playacting. Fenton swallowed, hoping it wasn’t too soon to feel relief. It was an uncomfortable notion but until he’d intruded on her heated exchange with Alverley—and who knew but that there had been some discreet chaperone hiding in the wings—Miss Brightwell had quite likely had no experience of relations between men and women.
Now she was here, a respectable debutante, and if word got out as to what he’d done he’d be pilloried. It would be no more than he deserved. The thought that he’d compromised an innocent was not something that sat well with him. However, the more he thought about it, the more appealing was the idea of atonement.
He was conscious of the irregular beat of his heart, the suspended pause as, glancing up, she locked eyes with him. Holding her gaze, he watched the play of emotions flit across her lovely, mobile face. God, she was a beauty. He longed to cross the floor and offer the most abject of apologies.
Except he could not do that. He could say nothing in company that would suggest she was guilty of any impropriety, yet he was screaming inside to whisk her away to some secluded arbour so he could determine her feelings for him after two days of sober reflection.
On the short ferry crossing, he’d been taken aback by the unexpected sizzle of excitement that had been lacking during his numerous encounters with other women. Miss Brightwell was as charmingly refreshing a contradiction as had ever crossed his path.
Just then, her attention was claimed by her companion and Fenton returned reluctantly to Bramley’s unflattering monologue.
“…likes to think she’s a cut above the rest, though she’ll be lucky to snare a rich merchant prepared to overlook her reputation. She’s more than willing to make discreet compromises when a fellow makes her a good offer.”
Fenton unleashed a cold, level stare upon Bramley, then allowed him to drone on while his thoughts ran their own course. His kiss with Miss Brightwell in the boat had unleashed his desire. Oh, he wanted to teach her so much more…but without compromising her reputation. For the novel notion had popped into his head that it would be rather splendid to take for his wife a woman with whom he’d experienced instant attraction. He’d had plenty of mistresses whose transitory excitement had quickly given way to an air of jaded experience he found quite unpalatable but he was ready for a wife now.
And he wanted one he found pleasing and who responded to him with genuine enthusiasm. At the very least, he would pay his respects to the young woman across the room and set matters in motion. It would be interesting to see where they led.
Yet wasn’t there was something about the Brightwell name to which his mother had also taken exception?
Brightwell… Fenton racked his brains to capture the elusive drift of memory. What had his mother’s caveat been, following her joy at his admission that he’d decided to find himself a wife?
