CHAPTER THREE
Felix Linley, Lord Fenton, cast his roving eye over the gathering. Now that he was in the market for a wife, after a decade of idle dalliances, he’d never been more spoilt for choice.
And he’d never been more dissatisfied with what was on offer.
His companion, the undiscerning libertine George Bramley, was doing his best to acquaint Fenton with the dazzling debutantes new to society since Fenton’s return to England after two years abroad. The truth was that Fenton was too busy reliving his nocturnal adventure at Vauxhall Gardens to pay attention. He far preferred amorous intrigue to a roomful of eligible maidens parading their wares. Scowling at a Titian-haired miss whose smile faltered as she scuttled away, he realised he was comparing them all against a new standard—the exquisite ingénue he’d scooped up from under Alverley’s nose. As he watched the redhead’s return to the safety of her mama, his resolve hardened. Once he’d paid his respects to Lord Quamby this evening, he’d return to Vauxhall and see if the mysterious creature of the night was parading her far more delectable wares in one of the garden’s serpentine walks.
Excitement surged through him at the thought, for he was certain she was very new to the trade—though her lines had been very polished. “I am destined to marry a man I do not love.” Ha! What sort of credulous fool did she take him for? Nevertheless, he’d been a fool not to have snared her when he had the chance. He might be in the market for a wife but enjoying the pleasures offered by an enthusiastic and diverting mistress was a far more enticing prospect.
“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? Then he’d realised that even that kind of young woman had to start somewhere. He shuddered at the delicious, almost painful, recollection of her willingness to succumb to his ministrations—her body soft and pliant, her mouth yielding with growing eagerness. And…the wetness of her desire. Good God! She’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her, though she’d known nothing about the mechanics of desire. Now that she was presented to him in an entirely altered light, he was sure 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. Until Fenton had muscled in on her quiet dinner with Alverley—and who knew but that there had been some discreet chaperone hiding in the wings—Miss Brightwell had 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 felt 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. Oh, but he had so much more to teach Miss Brightwell and he would do so…without compromising her reputation. For the novel notion had popped into his head that he’d far prefer to take the enigmatic beauty for his wife than his mistress. He’d had plenty of mistresses, whose transitory excitement had quickly given way to an air of jaded experience he found quite unpalatable.
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?
“Just so long as it’s not a Brightwell.” Lady Fenton’s elegant nose had wrinkled with disgust. “They came back from exile last year, trying to insinuate their way into society. Like pretty, common dandelions dressing themselves up as exotic tulips.”
The recollection of his mother’s aversion was dampening, but of course no reason not to make up to a beautiful girl this evening. He would discover the truth for himself, and act accordingly.
Unable to drag his eyes away, he watched as the beautiful Brightwells, one so fair, the other so dark, were led into a cotillion. “If you’re trying to warn me off, Bramley,” he said, coolly, “you’ve not succeeded.”
“I was thinking of your poor mama,” Bramley assured him. “Mine had heart palpitations after I paid court to Miss Brightwell. When I learnt more of the young woman’s—er—colourful history, and her willingness to meet me halfway in the hopes she’d gain a wedding band, I’m afraid I shared Mama’s disgust.”
“Why does Quamby invite them if they are so beyond the pale?” Fenton’s bored drawl masked the tumult in his breast.
Bramley had clearly been awaiting an opportunity to elaborate. Adjusting a cufflink below his coat sleeve with exaggerated care, he said, “It’s been suggested by some that the lovely Miss Brightwell made it into this world before the church register was signed—”
“Good God, Bramley, that can be verified easily enough without your evil assertions!” “I have heard it said that Miss Brightwell enjoys her status purely on account of a little bribery and doctoring of dates in the church register.”
Fenton grappled with the ramifications of this. The stain of illegitimacy would be an all but impossible hurdle for a young woman to overcome—if what Bramley said was true.
Reason returned. Miss Brightwell’s presence here this evening was proof she was accepted into society and that was good enough for him.
“The Beauty of Blackfriars, as the mother was known in the trade, was an engaging little Ladybird Lord Brightwell whisked off to France with him from some house of ill-repute. You know our good baron’s proclivities for spice and scandal.” Bramley’s nostrils flared. Slanting a look at Fenton, he added, “It’s not just the uncertainty of Miss Brightwell’s origins, my friend, which need to be investigated if you are serious about paying her attention, for there are other toes you must beware treading upon…”
Fenton curbed the desire for a more forceful response to the smug manner in which Bramley delivered his cautions, as if he were the arbiter of what was morally acceptable.
“Miss Brightwell is very adept at playing the untutored innocent. Just ask Lord Bickling, whom she provided with some much-appreciated nocturnal diversion during his wife’s confinement last year.”
Bramley lied. And yet…
Fenton watched the Brightwell sisters perform their figures on the dance floor with as much grace as any duke’s daughter. Could she be such an actress? He imagined the dark-haired beauty pretending the same ecstasy she’d shown with him in the ferry as she writhed beneath the fat and leering Bramley and the philandering Lord Bickling.
Fenton’s heart pounded. If Bramley was spouting evil tales with no foundation, he should stop him now—but what if they were true? Was that why his mother had taken so against the Brightwell females? Because they pretended one thing while being quite another?
“Rumour also has it that Lord Slyther has just offered her a carte blanche.” “Lord Slyther! That fat old toad?”
Bramley inclined his head. “You sound sceptical, but I speak the truth. Gout has him laid up in bed this evening, but if you wish to keep Miss Brightwell in your sights you’ll discover she’s prepared to trade her favours for a little pecuniary respite. All of London knows the creditors are pounding at the door while the brother is under the hatches and persona non grata at his club.”
During Bramley’s denunciation, Fenton’s eyes never left the lovely creature who moved with such fluid grace, who spoke to her companions with such animation, and whose every gesture conjured up in him the almost unbearable urge to whisk her away so he could have her all to himself. Again.
This was what he’d hoped to find in a wife. He didn’t want some obedient miss who knew nothing of how to whip up his desire or make him feel a man—the very elements that made Miss Brightwell the most desirable contender yet for his lifelong companion.
Though, of course, a companion of any sort would be better than nothing.
“Your fanciful tales, Bramley, are no impediment to my desire to further my acquaintance with Miss Brightwell.” He offered his friend a curt smile before realising his error and amending, hurriedly. “I mean, to be introduced to Miss Brightwell.”
Desire was at the heart of it. She had bewitched him.
Now, here she was, presented to him on a platter, and he was not going to let her slip away again.
~ * ~
The Earl of Quamby shifted the weight off his withered leg. He gripped Fanny’s arm for support as she helped him onto a gilt settee beneath a potted plant with luxuriantly sprouting leaves. In a thin, rasping voice, he said, “Never have I seen you in greater beauty, my dear Miss Brightwell. But if my instincts are as finely honed as I believe them to be, I’d say the flush on your cheek was due to some fascinating object of the male species amongst us this evening.”
Transferring his gaze from the lavish water display before him, complete with leaping goldfish, to the point upon which Fanny’s eyes were focused, he added, “Young Alverley didn’t come up to scratch, I heard. But then, I did warn you.”
Fanny jerked her head around but the Earl’s regretful expression did not suggest he’d heard anything else that might reflect badly upon her.
Her relief was short lived. Lord Slyther knew and he was extracting the greatest price she could pay. She fingered the ring that her loathsome future husband had given her. It hung on a chain around her neck and he’d be expecting to see it as a sign of her dutiful submission when he arrived here this evening, though the rumour that gout had laid him up in bed offered a sliver of hope for her temporary deliverance. She shuddered as she recalled the feel of his fingers when he’d fastened it there. It might as well have been a cowbell signifying ownership. How he’d enjoyed her submission.
Antoinette patted her on the shoulder. “Are you thinking of Lord Slyther again, Fanny?” Her sister sounded genuinely sympathetic as the Earl’s attention was claimed by one of his handsome young acolytes. “You must not let it upset you. Really, I am quite surprised, for I have never seen you display feeling like this. I’d have had him quite happily.”
“Then obviously I am more discerning than you, Antoinette,” Fanny sniffed, retreating further behind the potted palm. “Have you not considered what liberties marriage allows a man? Perhaps this is not the place to say it, but beware of offers made by creatures who make your skin crawl, for you’re going to have to please them in ways you can’t imagine!”
Antoinette offered Fanny a knowing smile. “I am not as naïve as you think, Fanny, and it doesn’t bother me one bit. As long as I have a title and the respect I deserve and all the pretty clothes I could want, I don’t care what I have to do.”
Fanny glanced over her shoulder, fearful that Lord Slyther was advancing upon her at that very moment.
Dear Lord, to imagine the man of her desires was at this moment not ten feet away. Though dressed now in the height of sartorial elegance, she’d have recognised him anywhere. How could she not? The dark curl that flopped over one brooding eye, the sardonic twist to his sensuous mouth… The recollection of the reactions that mouth had aroused in her made her hot with longing.
And shame.
Yet had not his boldness exceeded hers? Who was he to make her feel she’d been the only one to venture beyond the limits of propriety?
“Lord Fenton would have been my choice, too.” Returning his attention to Fanny once her sister had left her side, the Earl sighed, wistfully. “Such a beautiful young man—so perfect in every way.” He clicked his tongue. “I’m sure he’d do very well for you, Miss Brightwell. He returned to London only last week after two years travelling the Continent, prostrating the women with his wicked poems and manly attractions. I believe he’s mellowed sufficiently for me to introduce you, though I must warn you again, he’s an incorrigible rake. Dashed irresistible, nonetheless.”
“No!” Fanny ground out, adding in response to his look of enquiry, “That is, I already know he’s a rake.” The hand that held her champagne coupe trembled. Taking a great leap of faith and desperate to unburden herself now that Antoinette had gone, she said softly, “I believe he is the gentleman who—er—whisked me away from Alverley several nights ago in the Druid Walk.” She took a convulsive sip of champagne before explaining briefly what had happened. “You are the only one to whom I could admit such a thing.”
Lord Quamby raised an effete hand to pat a faded red curl into place.
“Masquerades carry that risk,” he soothed. “One quite forgets oneself and then one is awfully sorry in the morning. Well, I don’t feel that way anymore now, but I remember it when I was young and guilt was my faithful companion. I was convinced I was damned for all those desires of the flesh I could not control. If it’s any reassurance, Lord Fenton is a rake who adheres to Rake’s Honour.”
Fanny closed her eyes briefly. A man who adhered to Rake’s Honour would never divulge that which might compromise a lady. It was reassuring that Lord Quamby appeared so confident but what if his confidence was misplaced? “If Lord Fenton uttered one word about what had happened…” She couldn’t continue. The thought of losing her reputation on account of her simple, mindless stupidity was too dreadful to contemplate.
“Lord Fenton would never knowingly take liberties with a lady. He may be a rake but he is first and foremost a gentleman. Another thing that may be of interest”—Lord Quamby’s tone was contemplative—“he has promised his mama that by season’s end he will have found a wife.”
Fanny refused to be drawn by his obvious allusion. “If he’s marrying to please his mama, he’ll have the pick of the company here tonight.”
“Why, Miss Brightwell, you are his equal in every way”—her companion cleared his throat—“if we neglect to mention your dissolute father and the daughters’ dowries he gambled away.”
Fanny’s gaze remained fixed on the tousle-haired young man whose poetic good looks would surely win him an earl’s daughter with ten thousand a year. And that was discounting the fact that he was a viscount with a long-established title and vast estates in the north, which he’d inherited two years before.
Lord Fenton.
The mere sight of him heated her blood as much this evening as two nights ago—and would have done so had he been no more than an impecunious poet.
If only he had been!
Intruding upon her lustful fantasies came the reality of Lord Slyther. How could she give herself to such a repulsive creature when she could enjoy a lifetime of bedroom delights with a man like Viscount Fenton—legally? Apart from the fact that she was penniless, she had the credentials that made her Fenton’s equal—and it was quite apparent by the heated glances he’d sent her earlier that he felt the same connection.
Sucking in a breath through constricted airways, she took another sip of her champagne. Within twenty-four hours, if Lord Slyther had his way, she would be married. There was no time!
Lord Quamby chuckled and said, oblivious to her distress, “I shall enjoy watching the incomparable Miss Fanny Brightwell charm the deliciously dangerous-to-know Lord Fenton from the boughs.”
Fanny scanned the room. Lord Slyther intended announcing news of their upcoming nuptials tonight, but still there was no sign of him. If gout had not laid him up in bed perhaps his sedan chair had broken down, she thought wryly. He lived only two streets away, but he was in such ill health he’d need to be conveyed physically from door to door.
Lord Quamby patted her arm and said, still referring to Lord Fenton, “The dear boy wants a wife with a bit of dash and spirit. Needs one, if you ask me, as a first line of defence against his appalling mama to whom he is devoted but whom I should warn you”—he grimaced—“is reason alone for you to stay well clear of our dashing viscount.”
This he said with a pointed look at his own mama, who was propped up on pillows on a sofa against the far wall. The trailing feather in her purple toque trembled in time to her gentle snoring.
“Your reputation is safe, my dear Miss Brightwell, if only on account of Mama’s presence here tonight. Everyone knows that if the venerable dowager duchess is in attendance the company is beyond reproach, though I will admit to enjoying my other entertainments better.” The wistful look returned. “Such handsome young men rushing from the stage to dance upon my table. I see a glint of longing in your eye but you’ll never be invited. I would not dream of injuring your reputation.
“Ah, here’s my detestable nephew come to pay his respects. Evening Bramley. Trading on your expectations once again, I hear. Your distracted mama called on Monday asking me to bail you out.”
Fanny watched the fulminating look cross her erstwhile admirer’s face. A thug in gentleman’s attire, with his thick nose and close-set eyes, George Bramley had never forgiven her for spurning his advances the previous summer.
A supercilious smile replaced the young man’s ill humour. Bowing, he said smoothly, “Evening Uncle; Miss Brightwell. Allow me to introduce my old friend, Lord Fenton.”
Fanny inclined her head, her smile brittle as the object of her palpitating heart rose from his bow. Adept in the art of using her fan, she was uncomfortably aware it was of little use in concealing the deep blush that spread upwards from her bosom at the memory of their recent intimacy. A discomfort not eased by the intensity of his gaze and the knowing smile that turned up the corners of his handsome, generous mouth. He was making no secret of the fact that he knew exactly who she was.
Another moment under his searing gaze and she would have a fit of the vapours, run screaming from the room or hurl herself upon his person and scandalise the entire company.
The strains of the orchestra tuning up for another cotillion drifted from the next room. Lord Fenton held out his hand.
“Miss Brightwell, would you do me the honour…?”
Her skin prickled under his assessing look as they arranged themselves in a group of four couples. She felt as exposed as if she were standing, naked, under a blazing sun.
“With your dark hair and proud blue eyes you’d have made the perfect Anne Boleyn at the Vauxhall masquerade,” he murmured.
Fanny stared fixedly ahead as she prepared for the dance. It was the only way she could maintain even shaky control of her feelings, especially as Lord Fenton made it clear there was to be no coy tiptoeing around the truth.
“You certainly risked that beautiful neck of yours,” he went on, as they performed their figures in the centre of the group before returning to the sidelines. With a smile as cloying as a teaspoon full of sugar, he murmured, “I just want to assure you that, as a gentleman, your secret is safe with me.”
Was this sport at her expense?
“A great relief, sir,” she responded warily as they watched the other dancers go through the motions, “though I believe that in carrying me off forcibly yours was the greater crime. I had become separated from my friends and Lord Alverley was about to help me find them before you took advantage of the situation.”
Though she said it with hauteur, the memory of the burning kisses this man had trailed over her throat and across her collarbone made her desperate for more. The other liberties she’d allowed made her want to crawl into a dark hole.
“You’re flushed, Miss Brightwell. Perhaps you need air. Shall we step outside?”
“How dare you—?” she began in an angry undertone, but was cut short by the realisation that indeed he was only teasing her.
His deep brown eyes held laughter. “My dear Miss Brightwell, you surely do not imagine I would be so bold as to whisk you away from tonight’s company as I did two nights ago?” He grazed the sensitive skin of her forearm with his hand and she shivered as he added, “Much as I would like it. Nevertheless…”
She glanced at the nearest couple, afraid their conversation might be overheard, relieved when he murmured with surprising intensity, “Let me assure you, that was between you and me…alone.”
Holding Lord Fenton’s gaze, Fanny executed her dance steps like an automaton. They’d been drilled into her as thoroughly as her need to perform in the marriage mart. Was he no longer mocking her?
The brittle pride that had armoured her against the damage he could do her—in so many ways—was replaced by a tiny kernel of hope. Lord Fenton was studying Fanny with the greatest interest and, despite all that had passed between them, she’d venture, respect.
She thought of her impending marriage to Lord Slyther and whispered, “In your arms, my Lord, something came over me… I don’t know how to explain it, but I’d never felt it before and”—she kept her eyes trained on his as they linked elbows to dos-à-dos down the centre of the room—“I felt I was in heaven.”
Clearly he was not used to such plain talking and clearly he liked it. Looking decidedly pleased, he put his head close to hers before they separated briefly once more. “Then we shall have to do it again, Miss Brightwell—only this time I promise to proceed in a far more gentlemanly manner.”
Was there any clearer way for him to indicate his interest? She was about to respond, to indicate her pleasure and hopefully prolong the boyish charm that had replaced for the moment his rakish self-confidence, but her words were truncated by a gasp. Right before her very eyes she was bearing witness to what threatened to be her sister’s greatest impropriety yet.
“Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered, clutching the hated ring on its chain, which she had all but forgotten.
“Miss Brightwell?”
When he touched her arm, bare above her gloves, she jerked into sensual awareness, her heart rate speeding up now on more than just her sister’s account. Wilting against him, she pointed. “My sister has this moment disappeared through a door behind that tapestry.” Her head swam as she contemplated her mother’s fury at the possible repercussions. A fury that would, in this case, be warranted. “Not five seconds after Mr Bramley,” she added, faintly.
“George Bramley knows this is your sister’s first ball.” She heard concern in Lord Fenton’s tone. His dark eyes gentled. “I’m sure he wouldn’t—”
“You don’t know Bramley if you believe that, sir.” She knew she spoke too hotly but her mind was running circles around Antoinette’s potential for ruining the entire Brightwell family’s prospects.
The squeeze of his hand upon her wrist brought her close to tears. Again he lowered his head to speak softly, his warm breath against her ear spearing tingles of almost unbearable need throughout her entire body.
“The moment this set ends I’ll follow them. We need to be discreet. Don’t worry, Miss Brightwell—Mr Bramley will not ruin your family’s good name under my watch.” Pointing to a single door at the end of the saloon that led to the ladies’ mending room, he added, “Follow the passage to your right until the last door. I’ll meet you in the chamber beyond.”
Fighting her impatience, Fanny watched his judicious exit. As soon as she deemed it appropriate, she hurried away to carry out his instructions…right into the path of her chaperone for the evening.
“Lady Harwood, I have two loose buttons that need securing,” she gasped. “Please excuse me.”
Although Lady Harwood’s sponsorship of the Brightwell girls was a discreet arrangement that eased the dowager duchess’s pecuniary difficulties and gilded Fanny and Antoinette’s prospects, she took her duties seriously. Holding her lorgnette up to her hooded eyes, she scanned the assembly.
“I trust the ladies’ mending room is where we’ll find Antoinette.” She gave a disapproving sniff. “The girl is too pretty with too little sense to make me easy.”
“She accompanied Miss Conyngham to the library, I believe,” Fanny lied.
To her relief an old acquaintance chose that fortuitous moment to address the dowager and Fanny was able to slip away.
She was unprepared for the scene that greeted her in the Earl of Quamby’s ‘chamber beyond’. At first she could see no sign of Antoinette or Bramley. Nor did she immediately seek them out, such was her shock as she pushed open the double doors. The room was clearly for entertaining on a lavish scale, but for a purpose that Fanny could only imagine. Lit now by a series of candles in wall sconces, its lofty proportions disappeared into darkness.
But enough could be seen of the entwined limbs and glazed eyes of the Bacchanalian orgy wall murals reflected in a myriad mirrors that Fanny turned away with a gasp. This was not a room she should enter.
It was only when she heard weeping overlaid by Lord Fenton’s stern tones that she forced herself to venture in.
Following the sounds of a heated exchange between two men, punctuated by Antoinette’s sobbing, Fanny came upon them by the edge of a sunken area piled high with red and gold silk cushions.
Antoinette sent her sister a baleful look from where she sat hunched on a richly embroidered banquette. Mr Bramley and Lord Fenton angrily faced each other across her.
“I suppose this is your doing,” she sniffed.
Instantly, Lord Fenton came to Fanny’s defence. “With your best interests at heart, Miss Antoinette.” The glower he directed at her younger sister sent a vicarious thrill right through to Fanny’s bones. It was enormously comforting to see the man who’d imprisoned her in his arms two nights before read the two miscreants the riot act regarding the proprieties.
“Good God, Bramley,” Fenton railed at him. “Have you no concern for how damaging your rash overtures are to someone of Miss Antoinette’s lack of experience?”
Fanny watched, fascinated by the transformation. The sensual mouth and poetic eyes were hard with anger. This man was much more than just a brooding poet with the usual masculine propensity to notch up conquests without regard for consequences. Fanny was awed, as she would be by anyone who could wipe the cynical smirk from Bramley’s thuggish face.
Stepping forward, she addressed her sister sternly. “Antoinette, your absence will be noticed unless we return you immediately to the ballroom. Good evening, gentlemen.” Nodding coldly to Bramley, she pulled her sister up from her seat.
“No one would have missed us for five minutes longer,” Antoinette muttered as Fanny hustled her along the corridor.
“A lot of things that can’t be undone are done within five minutes. Are you such a fool, Antoinette,” Fanny asked under her breath, “that you would ruin your chances—and quite possibly mine, too—because that knave Bramley sees you as easy prey?”
Antoinette tugged her arm free of Fanny’s grip, her mouth sulky, as she stopped in the middle of the passage to face her sister.
“Bramley’s next in line to inherit from Lord Quamby and we all know Quamby’s never going to produce an heir. Why, Mama would be thrilled.”
Fanny shook her head, taking her sister’s arm again and hustling her once more along the corridor. “How credulous you are. Bramley is toying with you to avenge himself against me for rejecting his advances last summer. Now, here comes Lady Harwood. If I see you move out of her sight I swear I shall tell Mama everything.”
She was already turning, barely able to contain her impatience to thank Lord Fenton, when Antoinette gasped, “Oh Fanny, I’ve lost Lady Harwood’s bracelet—”
Fanny felt like throttling her. As their mother had predicted, Antoinette was well on track to doom the Brightwell family’s chances.
“Stay there and don’t move!” she hissed. “I’ll find it. It must have come undone when…”
Now was not the time to put her sister’s misdemeanours into words. Seething, Fanny returned to the large, immoral room, hesitating before the double doors. How could she venture, alone, into a room that would shock any well brought up young lady? Indeed, she had been shocked, but she had found the scenes disturbing.
Disturbingly compelling.
They filled her with strange longings she could not put into words.
Forcing her gaze downwards, she searched the gold laurel leaf pattern of the luxurious carpet for the lost bracelet, seizing upon it with relief. It was a pity, she reflected seconds later as she picked herself up after an undignified tumble into the pit, that she had not paid more attention to the hazardous terrain.
Dismay turned to horror as she glanced down, smoothing her hands over her lovely, damaged gown. How could she possibly return to the ball when her skirt had all but been completely ripped from her bodice?