CHAPTER TWO
Fanny tiptoed across the threshold, her heart pounding as much from fear of being discovered by her mother as from exciting and disturbing recollections of her river crossing.
That evening she’d had both the disappointment and the thrill of a lifetime, and at that moment she wasn’t sure if she would ever recover from either.
The door that Mary, her maid, had left unbolted by special arrangement, made little noise as she closed it behind her. All was silent and dark within. If she was lucky, her mother would never even know she’d left the house.
She was not lucky. She felt the stinging slap of her mother’s hand across her cheek as she rose from shooting the bolt.
“Little fool!” hissed Lady Brightwell, flinging her daughter into the hallway. “Where have you been? Certainly not playing cards with Miss Brownhill in that scandalous rig-out! Helen of Troy, indeed. It’s a gossamer web that leaves nothing to the imagination! Answer me, girl! Have you brought our good name into disrepute?” Lady Brightwell, her thin lips pressed into a bloodless line, hustled her daughter into the dim, candlelit drawing room, slamming the door behind her.
“I told you Mama would find out.” Appearing out of the darkness from the other side of the room, Fanny’s younger sister resembled a pale ghost in her plain nightrail, her shining, golden hair cascading over her shoulders. “But I swear I didn’t tell her.”
“Quiet, Antoinette,” Lady Brightwell snapped as Fanny shrugged out of her grasp and stalked towards the dining table.
“Courtesy of Alverley, Mama!” she said, tossing a simple silver ring set with a garnet onto the table.
In tense silence, they watched its spiralling progress across the mahogany surface. “Alas, the ring comes without security. It was merely a sop.” Pain scoured her heart and lanced her pride, but of course losing Alverley was not the cause. She’d relegated him to her distant past. Had to, if she was to carry out her mother’s orders.
With a challenging look, she said, “Invite Lord Slyther to call, mother, but do not blame me if he does not make an offer. I’ve lost my touch. Perhaps you’ll have to look to Antoinette to fill the family coffers. Or Bertram.” Her voice broke.
She was suddenly desperately weary, though she felt she’d never sleep again—and not because of Alverley’s humiliating betrayal. She’d developed a small fondness for him during the past year, but there’d been no danger she’d lose her heart to him.
“Don’t be saucy with me, girl.” Lady Brightwell pocketed the ring. “We may be poor but we are respectable. You asked for this chance with Alverley on account of the interest he’d already shown and I had every reason to hope you would fulfil our expectations.” Her face looked haggard in the guttering candlelight as she sank into her chair. “Now let us hope Lord Slyther will be as forthcoming in his interest as he was three months ago. You know we depend on you, Fanny. Bertram is a wastrel, just like your father was.” She fixed her sharp eyes on the last of the glowing coals. “And Antoinette’s beauty won’t make up for the fact she is a pea goose. She’ll likely take her pleasure in a haystack with a footman and ruin us all.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mama, it’s only because of me we’ve been invited to the Earl of Quamby’s ball the night after next.” Antoinette, warming her hands by the fire, looked up, offended.
“That was luck, not cunning, Antoinette, and I helped him as much as you,” Fanny objected, kneeling beside her sister, for the room was freezing and their breath clouded in the guttering light.
“You only returned his walking sticks. It was my screams which frightened away the footpads.”
“Girls, girls!” Lady Brightwell admonished wearily.
Antoinette giggled, pushing aside the curtain of her glorious hair as she simpered, “Lord Quamby likes me immensely. I make him laugh.”
“I’d rather you made him your husband”—Lady Brightwell’s lip curled—“though I fear Lord Quamby is not about to marry anyone. Otherwise I’d relent, Fanny, knowing the aversion you feel for Lord Slyther, and send you after the earl instead.”
“I’d infinitely prefer Lord Quamby, with his frightful red wig and his crippled legs and his brilliant wit.” Despite herself, Fanny smiled, recalling her last spirited exchange with the eccentric earl who sometimes sent for the Brightwells at the oddest times, merely so Fanny could play cribbage with him—an excuse, Fanny knew, for some lively banter—or when he was in the doldrums because he’d been required to bail out his detested nephew and heir, George Bramley, once more.
George Bramley. Fanny’s lip curled, just like her mother’s but with far more reason. Small wonder Lord Quamby detested his nephew, a boorish young man with not one redeeming quality she could think of.
Fanny was always carefully chaperoned during her visits to the earl, though never had she gained the impression he was even slightly interested in her feminine attributes. It was all quite confusing.
Her mother grunted, her shoulders slumping as if she really was preparing for the end. “If Lord Slyther declines my invitation to call, Thursday’s ball is your last chance, girls. We’ve received no further invitations.”
Both daughters looked at her. For the first time, their mother appeared weak, her usually hard, flinty tone a mere whisper as she added, “The truth is, unless one of you contracts a good marriage by the end of this season, we have not the funds to maintain the household.”
Antoinette gasped. “You mean—”
“I mean that if you girls are determined to be ape-leaders like hatchet-faced Aunt Hester, we’ll have no choice but to accept her charity—or else you will both have to seek employment.”
~ * ~
But Lord Slyther did accept, with alacrity. The gleam in his eye hinted at victory as he shuffled into the drawing room, puffing at the exertion expended by his bloated body. Fanny and Antoinette had watched from the window as he’d been delivered to the front portico by sedan chair. He’d then been all but manually hoisted up the steps, causing Antoinette to remark happily, “He’s unlikely to live long, Fanny. Look at him!”
Fanny did, then covered her face with her hands as she turned back from the window and sank into a chair with a groan. “Oh, Mama, what if he doesn’t? He’s so repulsive!”
“Doesn’t what? Doesn’t live long or doesn’t offer?” Antoinette asked with another giggle, prompting their mother to snap, “It’s of no account whether you find him repulsive, provided he does not find Fanny so. Now, my girl, pinch your cheeks and remember everything I’ve taught you. Hush!” For his laboured breaths could already be heard from halfway down the passage. “This is our last chance.”
Within a few minutes Fanny found herself alone in the drawing room with her erstwhile suitor, abandoned by her mother and siblings at the request of the ageing viscount who had ‘something of importance’ he wished to say to Miss Brightwell.
She felt like slumping from…what? Disappointment at her likely success? There’d been a time when she’d have done anything to evoke the gleam in her mother’s eye that had been in evidence before Lady Brightwell had unctuously acceded to Lord Slyther’s request for privacy.
Lord Slyther was about to make her an offer and she should be overjoyed. At the very least, she should take consolation from Antoinette’s remark regarding his imminent demise. Until last night she would have—but until then she’d not known the liberties, the intimacies that would become the preserve of her new husband. In return for the Brightwells retaining their position amongst the ton, Fanny must give herself to this disgusting, odious man mind, body and soul.
As she straightened in her spindly, uncomfortable little chair opposite Lord Slyther, striving for the demure pose required, she thought of the thrilling events of last night and nearly wept. That was what she wanted—mutual excitement in a meeting of two well-matched minds and bodies coming together…
“Come here.”
Fanny blinked with surprise. The viscount was leaning forward, indicating with an imperious wave of one bejewelled hand that she should seat herself on the footstool on which he rested his bandaged foot.
From their first meeting at a dinner three months ago, he’d made no secret of his interest in her, and within the week had spoken to Lady Brightwell.
“You wish me to sit by you, my lord? On the footstool?”
He grunted his agreement.
It was irregular and not very courteous, Fanny thought, as she transferred herself and awkwardly lifted his leg so she could sit down. Not knowing what to do next, she gingerly replaced his heavy, swollen limb across her lap. With an effort she managed not to wrinkle her nose at the unpleasant odour of ulcerating flesh, which all the bandaging could not disguise.
Lord Slyther grunted again as he shifted himself more comfortably in his chair. “So, you know why I’m here, and you’re prepared, are ye, Miss Brightwell?”
Despite herself, Fanny blushed. Was she that transparent? Yet it was hardly a crime. She was no different from any other penniless young woman seeking security in a perilous world that offered little to those whom fortune failed to smile upon. Yet most gentlemen making an offer in such circumstances would maintain the charade required by good manners.
She hesitated before saying demurely, “I do not know what you mean, my Lord.”
“I think you do.” He chuckled. “Well, keep up the play acting, my lovely Miss Brightwell. The prospect of tutoring an innocent pleases me…for all you were not so innocent last night.”
She was unable to disguise her gasp, not at his manner of speech but at the thought of what he might be referring to. The shock surely blanching her skin white and bloodless would be a testament to her guilt.
“It’s pleasing to observe genuine contrition for such unladylike behaviour, but you failed, did you not, Miss Brightwell?” He leant down, bringing his face close to hers, and she smelt the stink of his breath, like there was something rotting within him. Forcing herself not to recoil, she braced herself for his next words.
“You accompanied young Alverley to Vauxhall, alone and unchaperoned, but he did not make you the offer you took such risks for, did he?”
Fanny hung her head, the weight of Lord Slyther’s bandaged leg making her thigh hurt. Like her heart, her dignity…
“Who told you this, my lord?” There was no point denying it. Survival depended upon knowing what else and how much else he knew.
“Never you mind, my dear. Suffice it to say it was a friend. A friend I did not know I had until he came to me shortly after your mother’s surprise and welcome visit to see me yesterday.”
She felt rather than heard him chuckle, his body creating ripples of movement that increased her fear like a rising tide.
“Your friend must dislike me very much.” What else could Fanny say? Somehow she had to discover the identity of her enemy if she was to salvage what was left of her reputation.
“On the contrary, your friend likes you only too well. Like me, he was vastly put out when the engaging Miss Brightwell felt her beauty and her wit could override her lack of dowry and the scandal of her father, putting her above the likes of…”
“George Bramley!” She gasped the name, fury rising within her like trapped steam about to explode.
Lord Slyther gave a grunt of satisfaction. “I’m glad his name immediately came to mind, for I’d like to think there were no others competing for the role of rejected suitor. Ah, but, Miss Brightwell, your misfortune is that you have miscalculated, and my fortune is that it gives me all the bargaining power in the world.”
Her already great horror was compounded as she felt his hand upon her neck, gently caressing her skin. Frozen, unable to move as she accepted the truth of his assessment, she trembled as she tried to assimilate his words. Until last night, she had conducted herself with all the decorum required by a chaste innocent, hopeful of contracting a suitable marriage. True, she wasn’t decorous by nature, but only the gleam in her eye when a handsome gentleman showed interest would give her away, surely? Not her actions. Her mother had spent her lifetime trying to subdue that reckless, adventurous streak Fanny had inherited from her ill-fated father and, until last night, Fanny could not have been accused of anything that would compromise her reputation.
“It is true, my lord, that I accompanied Lord Alverley to Vauxhall, alone, in masquerade,” she whispered, “but my virtue is unblemished.”
“Surely the boy tried to kiss you.” In the firelight she saw Lord Slyther’s stained teeth bared with prurient interest before he burst out laughing. “You didn’t enjoy it, eh? Well, that’s good, because as your future husband it’s my job to show you how to kiss. Now stand up, Miss Brightwell, if you please, and face me.”
Fanny rose, silent while her mind whirled at this new and dreadful situation. Her mother was in the next room with Antoinette. When Fanny emerged with Lord Slyther to announce the news of their engagement, Lady Brightwell would clasp Fanny tenderly to her bosom in perhaps the only gesture of genuine pleasure she’d ever extend towards her eldest daughter—the daughter upon whom she was pinning all her hopes. All the family’s hopes, Fanny amended silently. Either she or Antoinette was required to make a decent marriage if the Brightwell family was not to slide into worse than simply genteel poverty. If Fanny was not prepared to sacrifice herself to this horror, there would be no more rubbing shoulders with the haut ton. No, she’d be rubbing the chilblains of some crotchety old woman to whom she’d be paid companion, while Antoinette worked as a governess and their mother lived out her days beholden to her detested cousin, having never forgiven Fanny for failing in her duty.
“Show me your ankles.”
Fanny swallowed down her surprised outrage, only raising the skirts of her cerulean blue lutestring gown when he repeated the command, his voice now cajoling.
He relaxed deeper into his chair with a sigh. “Such prettily turned little ankles, Miss Brightwell.” He patted his heart. “Indeed, you are going to bring me much pleasure in my dotage. Now let me feel your ankle, if you please. That’s right—raise your leg upon the footstool so I may bend forward and caress your pretty little limb.”
At this, Fanny objected while trying not to cry. Never had she been so demeaned in all her life. “With all due respect, my Lord, I committed no sin greater than conversing alone with Lord Alverley.”
“And kissing him.” “One kiss—”
“Your reputation is besmirched, Miss Brightwell, and only I will be prepared to overlook it once it becomes public knowledge. Now, if you please, my dear, raise your little ankle over the arm of my chair so I may stroke it for you while we discuss the terms of this marriage you’re in no position to refuse.”
Sucking in a shuddering breath, Fanny raised her leg, hooking her ankle over the arm of Lord Slyther’s chair, bracing herself against the horror of the liberties he was about to take.
When his fat, bejewelled hands clasped her calf and began to stroke the contours up to her garters, just below the knee, she tried to transport herself back to the evening before, when in the arms of the thrilling stranger she had discovered her body’s responses to pleasures unknown. It was no use. Lord Slyther’s loathsome touch put him in the league of some wart-ridden toad, crawling, fat and oily to the touch.
At least she had the protection of a sheath of white silk, but when he tugged at the ribbon of her garter and slowly eased one stocking down to her ankle, she felt her defences all but crumble.
Lord Slyther rested his cheek against the bare flesh of her calf and, as if reading her thoughts, said between laboured breaths, “If you call your mother there will be no wedding and your peccadilloes, Miss Brightwell, will be all over town. Ah, such sweet young flesh. Let me press a kiss to that adorable point just behind the knee. Yes, you’ll have to turn around so I can reach it better.”
Horrified, Fanny gasped, “You’ve already determined the terms of our marriage with my mother?” She squeezed her eyes shut as Lord Slyther put his hands on her hips and drew her closer. Clutching the hem of her skirt, he raised it thigh high and she braced for the wetness of his lips against her skin.
“At great length, Miss Brightwell. Indeed, she was most forthcoming, offering me first your younger sister, Antoinette, whom she described as much more manageable.” He chuckled as she shuddered at the touch of his wet tongue upon the sensitive flesh behind her knee, while he steadied her, his stubby fingers digging into her thighs. “Less likely to cause me problems. I told her I had eyes only for you.” He had to stop to draw in another shuddering breath. “Turn around again, Miss Brightwell, so I can see your face. That’s right, yes…and just what I’d hoped to see. Fear. Innocent creature though you are now, I intend to keep you true to your adoring and—as long as you play your cards right—indulgent husband.”
Fanny fought hard not to cry. She was helpless. Her mother would not come at her screams, she knew that, for her mother had all but sold her to this loathsome creature.
“I also relish the idea of keeping such a bold and beautiful creature as you in check, my dearest Miss Brightwell. Now, sit on my lap. As I have satisfied myself that your lovely limbs are as soft and well-formed as in my fevered imaginings, it is time to satisfy myself as to your wondrous bosom. No, do not be afraid, Miss Brightwell. I plan to keep some surprises on hold. No doubt you wish to build up your anticipation for our wedding night as much as I do. For now, I wish merely to caress those magnificent mounds of creamy flesh while we discuss some of my stipulations as regards our happy union.”
Like a trapped and hunted creature, Fanny lowered herself onto his lap while her mind screamed out at her lack of options. Escape was not possible. Even for one as bold and clever as she, there was nowhere to turn. Her mother would cast her out, meaning that, without protection, Fanny would have to resort to selling her body for a few shillings—though the whole business of what that was all about was still clouded in obscurity. However, much as she abhorred the idea, common sense told her she was still better off selling herself—for a better price—to Lord Slyther.
Wordless, she suffered his hands to roam over her bodice before insinuating themselves beneath the fine silk, kneading and stroking her breasts. Resignation helped to dull her feelings and mute her mind to the silent screams she could not utter.
“You have no questions, Miss Brightwell? No? Well, I am pleased you are so accepting. Like a good little debutante, you know who is master. When we are married, I shall enjoy coaxing from you a little of the fire and passion I know lurks just below the surface. I saw it in your knowing eyes the first time we met, my dear, and so was disappointed you saw fit to take such a gamble and cast a lure at that milksop Alverley when you could have had me.”
His laugh was tinged with malice as a pinch to her nipple made her jump. He continued his taunting. “However, your little act of rashness put the ball back in my court, didn’t it, Miss Brightwell? Ah, I see you squirming. It would appear I am coaxing a little pleasure from you, after all.”
The reason for Fanny’s squirming was the hard, uncomfortable bulge she was sitting on. Lord Slyther had something in his trousers that appeared to be wriggling.
He must have understood her confusion, for he burst out laughing and grabbed her wrist, shifting her bottom aside to force her hand onto his crotch.
“Meet my Magnificent Member, Miss Brightwell.” His eyes gleamed. He seemed suddenly far from infirm. “As you can see, my Magnificent Member is in far better health than the rest of me. You and he are going to enjoy great sport together.”
Fanny stared as her horror mounted. Beneath her hand, the shiny gold satin of his breeches was raised like a tent—one that was rising ever larger and more rigid.
“That’s right, give him a little stroke. He likes that, as you can see.” Lord Slyther’s hand was still forcing hers against his crotch and now he curled her fingers around the mound while he ground his hips beneath her and uttered a sigh of ecstasy.
Never had Fanny been closer to suffering a fit of the vapours. She wanted to run screaming from the room, but she was trapped, words and shrieks no use to her in this nightmare from which there was no escape—would never be any escape.
Lord Slyther, reclining in his chair with his eyes closed, patted his heart. “In my coat pocket I have the special licence that will see us married tomorrow, my pretty.” His words were laboured as he gave himself up to the pleasure he was experiencing beneath Fanny’s forced hand.
“Tomorrow! Oh no, Lord Slyther, it is too soon! I…I need to prepare.”
“The day after that, then—and that’s as long as I’m prepared to wait. The anticipation of my Magnificent Member to feel the smooth, slippery wetness of your caverns of delight, Miss Brightwell, can be put on hold no longer.”
Fanny was almost sick upon the spot. Last night was the first time in her life she had experienced the ‘slippery wetness’ to which he must obviously refer. The exciting young body of her mystery rescuer had evoked desire like she’d never known—sexual desire, though she’d not been prepared to label it as such. What inexperienced debutante would?
Lord Slyther intended to strip her naked, feel her all over, then thrust his disgusting Magnificent Member right into her, tearing her apart, body and soul.
“Tears, Miss Brighwell?” He jerked forward and released her hand, muttering, as he smoothed the silk over his crotch, “No time to get too carried away when there are appearances to be maintained, eh?” After an initial pained look while he straightened his breeches, his sigh was one of immense satisfaction as he regarded Fanny slumped on the footstool. She covered her face with her hands to hide her distress. Nevertheless, he must have been aware of the sobs shaking her shoulders.
“I am a kind master, Miss Brightwell,” he said, his tone fatherly as he patted her shoulder, “who shall govern you appropriately, as will be my duty as your new husband. As long as no whisper regarding unseemly conduct on your part ever comes to my ear, and no suspicions as regards your straying interest lodge in my brain, you shall have all the pretty clothes and indulgences you could wish for. Your mother will have her own residence and, in view of her willingness to please me as regards the terms of this marriage, her own carriage. I shall also bail out your wastrel brother, Bertram, for we can’t have him following in his father’s footsteps, can we? Your father owed a lot of money when he died, and it was just as well, some would say, that he chose the time and method of his death—else there were others prepared to help him along.”
She tried to block her ears to Lord Slyther’s chuckle but could not. It would haunt her. There was no way out. She was doomed and he spoke nothing but the truth when he insinuated there were no other contenders prepared to overlook the collective Brightwell failings.
He pulled her around to face him.
“So, Miss Brightwell, the day after tomorrow will be the happy day, eh? You can think of nothing to stand in the way of our happiness, I trust, after this very satisfying little discussion? No? Good. Then call your mother through, so we may impart the happy news.”
Wearily, unsmiling, she rose, but he stopped her as she had her hand upon the doorknob.
“Appearances, Miss Brightwell”—his voice was warning, his expression evil—“are everything. You will be my joyful bride and my constant wife.”
A green log in the fire hissed. Fanny forced her lips into the required smile, wondering how far it was possible to pretend joy when her soul was all but dead.
“Tomorrow you shall wear my ring—the Slyther ring—to Lord Quamby’s ball, where you shall have eyes only for me and my comfort. The morning following that, we shall be married.”
Fanny curtsied. “Yes, my Lord.” “One other thing, Miss Brightwell…”
“Yes?”
“If I hear a word to suggest that your behaviour is anything but beyond reproach, and your heart and body are not wholly dedicated to me, then I shall cut off your mother’s pension and refuse all assistance to your siblings. You will discover I am not the kind and indulgent husband you thought you’d married. Is that understood?”
Fanny met his eye, even as she felt the boldness of a lifetime drain from her. Lord Slyther held all the cards. She was powerless to resist. All she could hope for was that salvation would come before she was a dried-up prune of a creature with all her joy in life sucked from her.
Once more she curtsied, before she offered Lord Slyther the response required of a dispirited, subjugated bride-to-be when she’d so hoped to be happy.
Through constricted airways, she forced her words past the threatening tears, “Yes, my Lord.”