CHAPTER FOUR
With a determined squaring of his shoulders, Fenton forced his gaze away from his host’s tribute to lust. It was impossible to look upon such scenes and not become prisoner to almost uncontrollable impulses regarding the lovely Miss Fanny Brightwell.
Just as well Bramley had fumed off in the other direction and he was alone, Fenton thought wryly as he adjusted his bulging breeches and prepared to return to the ballroom. Miss Brightwell may well have been taken for the next set and he wanted very urgently to commandeer her for the rest of the evening.
He knew he had behaved badly, both two nights ago and with his teasing this evening. The time had come to offer Miss Brightwell the formal apology she deserved. The truth was, he’d not known how to treat her in view of what had transpired between them, while Bramley’s assertions…
He shook his head. Bramley was not a man he’d trust above his own instincts and he’d been a fool to concede even a jot of what he’d suggested about Miss Brightwell, as if she were no better than a tuppenny whore! It was sour grapes on Bramley’s side, he was sure of it.
No, there was something curiously affecting about Miss Brightwell’s combination of boldness and hauteur. If Fenton were to go on instinct alone, he’d venture that Miss Brightwell was only too well aware of her fragile foothold on the society ladder and that every reason she’d given regarding her conduct with Alverley was true. He also smugly believed he was her first introduction to the sensual world. Lord, she’d responded to him like he was a master violinist and she the strings his genius played upon.
Yet what else had she said? That she was betrothed to a man she found abhorrent? He needed to discover more. He needed to discover what steps to take to secure her for himself. After the experienced women whose pleasures he’d enjoyed during his two years abroad he was very responsive to Miss Brightwell’s charms. Oh yes, the European whores had flattered him, pandered to his every desire and exhibited the utmost artistry in their ability to raise him to ever greater heights of sexual gratification. He’d taken the Grand Tour to become the cultured man his mother required to take the reins and run the estate when he returned. Any culture he might have acquired had been incidental to the surfeit of lust that had consumed him after discovering how fascinating he was to women. Now it was time to settle down. He realised he was in danger of losing himself to vanity. He’d been given a long leash and he’d taken advantage of his opportunities until he’d felt tethered to nothing.
Now he wanted to return home to Grantham, the family seat for more than three hundred years, and start behaving responsibly. To do that, he needed a wife. Preferably one who would keep him interested and keep him in check.
Miss Brightwell showed every potential of fulfilling both criteria once he’d satisfied himself that Bramley spoke nothing but evil lies, that his mother had no reasonable grounds for her objections…
…and that Miss Brightwell’s attraction to him went beyond his pocket book.
Shaking his head as he passed a depiction of bedroom sport that was, even to one of his jaded experience, extreme, Fenton was about to return to the entertainment when he was arrested by a short, sharp squeal and the sound of tearing fabric. He turned, his eyes quickly becoming accustomed to the gloom until he caught sight of movement.
After a pregnant silence came a deep sigh followed by Miss Brightwell’s dry, unmistakable tones. “Of all the inconvenient times to be disrobed.”
Fenton moved closer, following the direction of her voice. He melted into the shadows and watched her in a shaft of light cast by a candle set high on the wall.
She was at the bottom of the pit, sitting amongst a collection of brightly coloured silk cushions, staring with dismay at her gold-flecked skirts. The diaphanous fabric hung limply, torn almost entirely free of her bodice, exposing her chemise. The sight of the crisp linen undergarment thus revealed—so pristine, yet so shocking—was strangely erotic.
Fenton was torn, too—torn between what a real gentleman ought to do and what, in truth, he felt like doing.
The ladies’ sewing room was just down the corridor. A real gentleman would hasten there and return with needle and thread to render assistance.
By contrast, he wanted to hurl himself upon her and roll around in that pit of cushions, tearing the rest of her gown from her and running his hands over all her intimate places. He wanted to thrust himself into her moist velvet folds with all the passion of a first-time smitten green boy. His scalp prickled when he felt himself harden so quickly it was almost painful.
Such unadulterated lust was combined, however, with a healthy desire to atone. He looked down at himself and realised that with an erection the size he was sporting he was in no fit state to present himself to any young lady. Therefore, a trip to the ladies’ sewing room and the prospect of two minutes’ conversation with hatchet-faced Miss Mortimer whose domain it was would hopefully have the required dampening effect.
He turned his footsteps in that direction. He wanted Miss Brightwell but he had no intention of repeating his rash overtures—albeit delicious—of the other night if it should in any way compromise her. She featured in his more long-term plans and he wanted her to know it. Delivering to Miss Brightwell the means to return to the ballroom with her dignity intact might be one way to reassure her that his intentions towards her were honourable.
He was unprepared, upon his return, for his crushing disappointment at discovering the object of his desire gone.
Raising his candle, he peered through the gloom, expectant hope returning at a very unladylike exclamation from the darkness beyond what he had at first taken to be a screen.
Drawing nearer, he discovered it was a tent festooned with swathes of red silk woven with elaborate designs in green and royal purple. About to announce his presence as he searched for the entrance, he was taken aback to discover what could only be a series of peepholes cut into the fabric.
Fenton’s mission to the ladies’ mending room in the face of almost insurmountable temptation had surely established his credentials as a gentleman. But what gentleman could resist putting his eye to the peephole?
It was spontaneous curiosity, not the conscious intention to spy, that had him gazing upon the incredibly arousing sight of Miss Brightwell, with her hair in disarray, hitching her skirts thigh-high to adjust her garter.
Such a sight would, he felt sure, have robbed far more gentlemanly gentlemen than he of their good manners. Yet good manners demanded that he step away and announce his presence, giving her time to make herself presentable.
Indeed, he was on the point of doing just that—had moved his head away from the peephole and was stepping back—when his practiced eye was caught by a flash of creamy, womanly curves that surely not even the most disciplined of gentleman could resist. Had a marauding tiger been bearing down upon him, Fenton would not have had the power to move.
He returned his eye to the peephole, all concentration focused on the scene before him, all his energy gathering in his loins, like a cannon about to explode. His prick jumped to attention once more and the surface of his skin tingled. With breath fast and shallow he watched the strip of naked flesh lengthen between knee and thigh as she raised her arms to pull off her gown, taking with it the chemise beneath.
He saw slender hips, a triangle of dark hair, creamy, gently rounded belly and a pair of breasts so pert they almost seemed to beckon to him. His own sigh echoed hers as she sank onto an Egyptian sofa with armrests carved in the shape of sphinxes, almost instantly covering her briefly revealed nakedness as she studied the damage done to her gown.
God, how he wanted her.
The gold-flecked gossamer fabric and crisp cotton chemise pooled in her lap. Fenton could see her slipper peeking from beneath the chair and willed her to rise and allow the fabric to fall in a shimmer to her feet.
He shifted position, trying to ease his discomfort, for his prick was ready for action and threatening to part company with the rest of him.
Closing his eyes, he tried to control his heathen impulses. He had promised to act the gentleman therefore he should go.
Yet how could he tear himself away from the most seductive, sensuous sight he’d experienced—ever? He realised that even he who prided himself on his self-control was defeated, and stepped forward to return his eye to the peephole.
Miss Brightwell’s long, dark hair had come loose from its coiffure and a tendril curled around the rosy peak cresting one of her full, pert breasts, surely the most magnificent bosom he’d ever seen. His vision blurred and his cock felt hot and heavy as it strained against his breeches.
He held his breath. The anticipation was killing him but he dare not reveal his presence or the show would be over—and what would be his reward?
He swallowed. Outrage? Or would she melt into his arms if he promised to restore her dignity?
She shifted a little and he caught a glimpse of naked thigh, a shapely calf encased in its white stocking tied at the knee. He’d seen many a Cyprian in greater undress than this, but the fact that he now gazed upon a lady made the blood sting the surface of his skin. He stifled another groan.
If ever a man was close to the brink of drowning in desire…
It was time to bring matters to a head. In the boat, he’d felt her slick with want for a stranger whom she clearly desired considerably more than either Alverley or her intended groom. He’d suckled at her breast while his hands had caressed her thighs slippery with the womanly juices that indicated an unfeigned lust for her mystery lover.
He was that man—the man who had made her heart beat fast and furiously during the short ferry crossing.
Now he was back, and he was ready to do far more than just make her heart beat fast and furiously. Why, before he was done with her tonight, there’d be no doubt in his mind that untutored Miss Fanny Brightwell was ready to pledge herself to him, heart, body and soul. If her kisses were as sweet as the other night and her body as yielding and pliant, then he intended to woo her right from under the nose of her mystery intended. He would hustle her down the aisle and into his bed as his legal, wedded wife.
Strange what a sense of satisfaction the thought brought to a man who’d feared the shackles of matrimony for his entire life.
“Miss Brightwell?” With conscious devilry, Fenton chose that moment to announce his presence, his intonation suggesting he had not yet ascertained her whereabouts.
Observing her confusion added to his excitement. He’d atone when he handed her needle and thread. Then he’d make her reel from his tender ministrations and he’d show her how exquisite their union could be—without actually taking her virginity. That would be his reward on her wedding night.
“One moment, sir.”
The fierce blush that rose from her bosom upwards was enchanting. As was the faint tremble in her voice. Miss Brightwell was not a young lady accustomed to allowing herself to feel at a disadvantage—he’d discovered that much about her.
Now he had to rediscover what she felt like beneath the diaphanous skirts she’d raised so high. The brief sampling of her charms aboard the ferry had been enough to drive him mad to know more. His ungentlemanly spying was driving him to the brink.
~ * ~
Dear Lord, he must not see her like this, thought Fanny as she scrambled into her gown. What on earth had made her eschew undergarments? Vanity, of course. And a desperation to cut more of a dash than anyone else at the ball. Her diaphanous skirts clung far more alluringly to her limbs when dampened. Her chemise provided sufficient modesty. Yet what had possessed her to remove that as well? She’d hoped to engineer some means of joining the two garments together but now she was completely at a disadvantage.
Anxiety and urgency made her fingers clumsy in their haste, but dismay nearly struck her down as she stared at her reflection in the huge gilt mirror that formed one entire wall of the festooned tent.
How was she to re-fashion her Grecian coiffure when she had lost most of the necessary hairpins? If that was not bad enough, how could she ever make her reappearance at the ball in a gown so badly damaged?
She was conscious of his presence near the entrance and both longed for and feared his arrival.
“I… I’m not quite ready.” Would she ever be?
The insidious knot of self-doubt always lurking beneath the surface grew. It hardened, lodging in her chest cavity, and ground away at the self-assurance she’d polished to a shine. Who did she think she was, parading as a society miss, dangling her brassy powers of attraction before Britain’s ten thousand in the hopes of snaring a husband who would benefit the Brightwell family, collectively? A baron’s daughter she may be, but she had nothing other than good looks and a reputation still intact—if Fenton kept his word—to recommend her. At this moment, even that was imperilled on account of her careless pea goose of a sister. Her feverish attempts at feigning a life of leisure and frivolity in accord with those whose life she sought to share seemed suddenly stupid and pathetic. She’d be a laughing stock if people knew the long hours she plied needle and thread to clothe her sister and herself in the latest splendour.
Desperation at her plight was shredding her insides. Tomorrow she was to marry Lord Slyther, unless…
Unless what? There was not time. Lord Fenton was waiting for her and all she could do was stare into the looking-glass like some unworldly debutante frozen by fear.
A sob of grief and despair shook her. Right now, in her hour of need, she could not even find a threaded needle to save her reputation. Lord Fenton would think her little better than a costermonger when he saw her with her torn skirt and disordered hair. What would he think if he could see into her shrivelled-up little soul?
It was enough to make her toes curl and her insides cleave with frustrated longing. Tonight she’d recognised in his eye the mysterious fascination she wielded. She’d wielded the same power over Alverley—puling Alverley, who was so afraid of displeasing his mama that he’d sacrifice his happiness by forsaking Fanny.
She’d not wanted Alverley but he’d offered the means of survival. Hers and her family’s. Lord, but she wanted Fenton.
With an effort she steadied her breathing as she recognised the truth, cupping her face as she continued to stare at her reflection with glazed eyes. Fenton provided the same opportunities as Lord Slyther. He had lineage, money, prospects enough to offer the entire Brightwell clan. Her mother would be as delighted over a match with Fenton as she was with Lord Slyther.
Fanny could be a wife worthy of Lord Fenton. Fanny needed a man like Lord Fenton. And Fanny wanted…Lord Fenton.
Actually wanted him, like she’d never wanted a man. The need to reconnect with him, physically, was so powerfully intense she had to grip the sofa arm to steady herself.
Beware. She closed her eyes and forced reason to prevail. Fenton had the power to make her forget herself. It had happened before and she’d been lucky.
In Fenton she’d met her match. His devil-may-care attitude mirrored her boldness. She recognised in him qualities that went deeper than the ironic façade he chose to present to the world—for she practiced the same deception. A necessary deception if she were to shield her most vulnerable self from an exacting and judgemental society.
She bit her trembling lip and tried to collect her wits. If she had time she could work herself into the woman of Fenton’s dreams—dreams that would last beyond the here and now…
…if only she had time.
“You may come, Lord Fenton.”
She sat heavily upon the sofa and buried her head in her hands. There was no time. No time to insinuate herself into not just his heart, but his soul, his psyche. No time to receive the marriage offer that would save her from Lord Slyther.
The season was winding down. Matches were being made and the capital was emptying—as were the Brightwell coffers. With the parlous state of their finances came desperation. Fanny could not risk refusing Lord Slyther in case Lord Fenton proved as disappointing as Alverley. Her mother would never allow it, for, unless Fanny married a man who not only was prepared to overlook her lack of dowry but would be generous to the rest of her family, they were all lost.
“Miss Brightwell!”
She jerked up her head at his entrance and hope clawed a jagged journey from the soles of her feet to pound in her chest. Framed in the opening of the silken tent, the smile that hovered about Lord Fenton’s wide sensuous mouth echoed the salvation in his eyes.
Everything for which she could have hoped was reflected in their depths. Admiration, curiosity—and, above all, desire. Yet while it was his desire upon which she’d pinned her hopes, it was the kindness of his words that gave her the reassurance she needed.
“I’ve brought needle and thread,” he said, offering her the tools to restore her respectability, “which I snatched from the sewing room when I witnessed the unfortunate results of your fall.”
She managed to muffle the hysteria that tinged her laugh as she rose and took up the threaded needle.
“I’m not sure I’m in a position to play the seamstress.” With a wry look at her jutting bosom, which obscured the seam she must sew, her hand trembled as she handed the needle back to him. “Perhaps you, Lord Fenton, have hidden talents.” Her smile was as unsteady as her shaking hand. What was happening to the cool façade she’d cultivated to such a fine art? Her nipples ached and she was conscious of the sudden heat and moisture between her legs.
She swallowed, barely able to force the words out through dry lips. “I cannot see to sew, but you will be my hero if you can stitch a straight seam.”
Lord Fenton took the needle, resting his other hand upon her shoulder. Whether that was to steady her or himself, Fanny wasn’t sure, but that was immaterial as her whole body seemed to come alive at his touch. A dull, needy ache started in the pit of her belly as his eyes, full of sympathetic understanding, bored into hers. The usual, calculating gleam of the rake was replaced with something deeper and more sincere that nearly took her breath away.
But it was his lack of skill with a needle that, in fact, did so. At her exclamation of pain they jerked apart.
“My apologies!” he cried, reflexively clasping her wounded breast.
Each froze at the contact. With a soft gasp Fanny swayed and he caught her to him. His touch seared her soul, branded her his, melting her insides into a pool of heated longing. It was apparent he wanted something between them to happen as much as she did. She could feel his enormous erection pressed against her stomach. Lord Slyther had at least imparted some useful information on the mechanics of intimate relations between men and women. The thought burst into her head that, as God was her witness, she had no intention of allowing Lord Slyther to rend her asunder with his Magnificent Member when the man before her was just as willing to do so – and, oh, so damnably irresistible.
Suspended in an agony of waiting, she watched Lord Fenton’s sudden awareness combust into something far more primal, tensed for his response, then wilted as he gathered her in his arms with a low groan. She had wit only to be thankful for the fact that the needle was no longer between them before she responded—completely, and with every particle of body and soul.
“Oh, my Lord!” The fast and furious pounding of her heart and the urgency of her breathing almost deafened her. Or was that Lord Fenton’s breathing? The gaze he trained upon her was rapt. His eyes were glazed. In fact, for a moment he looked like a sleek, handsome wolf contemplating his dinner. Miss Fanny Brightwell? Oh, she was more than ready. Her nipples ached with need and she felt herself relinquishing all logical thought as her mind was tugged ever more insistently into the dangerous swirl of sensation that threatened.
When his mouth came down on hers she was ready and eager as she’d never been with Alverley—as she’d never been with any man. Her heart, pumping ever more furiously, seemed to carry hope, fire and passion through her veins, not the familiar resignation wrought by a man’s interest. The body she’d groomed since womanhood, the mind her mother had filled with careful calculation, all for the purpose of snaring a husband, no longer screamed its endless litany of ‘caution, as long as you catch him’.
Fanny’s mind emptied itself of every last drop of the careful advice with which it had been filled by her mother over a lifetime. As Lord Fenton’s hand contoured her from breast to knee, resistance was the furthest thing from her mind. The inner voice of warning that should have pierced her consciousness was stifled by the heady sensations that pumped through her like honey.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured against her lips as his hands roamed all over her, making her gasp as they skimmed her waist and thighs, cupping her bottom and pulling her against him—hard against his jutting erection.
She sucked in a breath at the contact. Lord Slyther’s sly insinuations and the forced physicality in which she’d been an unwilling participant the night before had been her first initiation into the underworld of desire. Of the effect desire had on men. There was nothing sly or forced about this contact.
Excitement took on a life of its own as Lord Fenton's mouth, a hot, wet cavern of mystery and delight, became a playground of tangling tongues and panting desire.
A desire that became increasingly mindless in response to her throbbing need as he bent to clasp her knee, hooking her leg over the armrest of the Egyptian sofa. He cupped her face before burying his mouth in her décolletage, his lips probing, his hands massaging until her breast burst free of its confinement and his tongue curled around her nipple.
Delighted, she moaned, arching against him, prickles of excitement shooting from her breast to her lower belly, the apex of her legs now a mass of quivering sensation. When he cupped her mound she cried out with frustration at the intrusion of her clothing against heated skin, an unnecessary layer that kept them apart. For they were destined to be one— she felt it in the basest regions of her mind, body and soul.
“Oh, God!” she gasped as the laving of his tongue heated the tip of her nipple beyond endurance. In an agony of ecstasy she rained kisses upon his crisp, dark curls, unsure whether to push him away or hold him closer.
She thought she had reached the summit of her pleasure, but it was just the beginning, she realised, as he insinuated his hand beneath the hem of her gown. She held her breath, poised on the edge of she knew not what as he trailed gentle, probing fingertips up her leg. He massaged the heated, highly sensitised skin of her inner thigh with agonising slowness, until he reached her mound, slick with the juices of her desire.
“You like it?” His voice was hoarse as he stroked the contours of her body with a tenderness at odds with the hard masculine strength of his own. It seemed he had barely the strength needed to groan, “Just say the word, and I’ll do whatever pleases you, my love.” The tension and effort it clearly cost him to remain gentle only intensified the thrill. He was hers to command and she was enthralled.
Gasping as he gently parted her folds with probing fingers to resume his secret exploration, she felt as if her soul were on a string he was pulling ever tighter. And tighter. The rhythmic motion was creating needs she had never known she had. She held her breath, digging her fingers into his back and shoulders as he pleasured her, the tension within building to almost unbearable limits.
His breath, husky with need, tickled her ear. “I want you like I’ve never wanted any woman.” Briefly, he held her face with both hands and she breathed in the scent of her own desire—a musky, heady fragrance that made her mind swim into a nether realm where her life existed on another plane and her body was a temple to this man whose touch unleashed such dangerous, forbidden impulses.
She clenched her jaw in sudden determination that overrode every sensible notion her mother had ever instilled in her when it came to weighing up her future.
Lord Slyther was a sure bet. She’d marry him tomorrow and perhaps be a widow within the year. Or ten. Meanwhile Fenton would wed another.
She couldn’t let it happen…wouldn’t let it, whatever the sacrifices she must make. Fanny had never truly desired anything with complete and utter conviction as she desired Fenton as her legal wedded husband in that moment.
Whatever it took, she would…
All rational thought was sucked out of her brain by his next exquisite ploy.
Fanny gasped, shuddering with shock and excitement as Fenton slid two fingers deep inside her. Rhythmically, he moved them in and out while cupping the back of her head with his other hand.
Then, suddenly, he was on his knees, easing her down upon the sofa while he bent before her, parting her legs and glancing up at her for but a moment before she felt the sweep of his tongue across her slick opening.
She bit down upon the ecstatic moan that burst from her, managed to gasp, “Oh, dear God, what are you doing?”
But he did not answer, so engrossed was he in pleasuring her with his hot, clever tongue. Moisture slid down her inner thighs and she arched backwards as she twined her hands in his hair.
It was ecstasy, but it was agony too. She ground her hips, desperate for something she couldn’t articulate, while the tension within her built in ever greater waves.
“Nearly there, darling!” He withdrew for long enough to grin the self-satisfied grin of someone who knows they’re excelling at their task, before clamping his mouth once more upon her mound.
She gave a squeal of shock and pleasure. It was too much! She couldn’t survive another minute of such exquisite…
Then she was caught in a maelstrom of sensation that threatened to rend her asunder. A split second of screaming silence, a red and black haze veiling her pounding brain, then wave after delicious wave of molten desire washed over her, blinding her to all but the man who held her and the magic he wrought. If this was the carnal desire her mother had warned her against, she’d throw every stricture to the wind to drown in it. His masculine, leathery fragrance and the hardness of muscle and sinew beneath his watered silk waistcoat combined to intoxicate her.
He was as enraptured—she could tell by the excitement of his breathing, the gleam in his eye as he rose to hold her, and his bulging breeches, which pressed against her stomach. The contact, which should have terrified her, only intensified her sense of feminine dominance.
He wanted her as much as she wanted him and the key to her happiness lay in sustaining his fascination with her.
Her mother would have told her that a graceful retreat would leave him dangling for more. The faint voice of her own sensible self said the same. But Fanny didn’t have time to take risks. And letting him go with nothing more than a kiss to bind them was too great a risk.
Or was it that her pleasure was mindless and she’d never felt so secure in her powers of attraction?
He hadn’t stopped kissing her and now it was starting all over again as his clever fingers played her like a harp. The intense sensation that started with the throbbing between her legs and built up in every fibre of her body, pulling on her heart strings until they threatened to snap, was enough to make any girl cry out for more. She was gasping her desire for—what? She could not know and when, with a groan, he dragged his mouth from hers to say, raggedly, he was honour-bound to release her, the idea was like an end to her world.
“No!” she cried, her hands fumbling for the buttons of his breeches. Rake’s Honour. He wanted her, and if he took her now she’d be his forever. The powers she exercised tonight would be nothing to those she’d exert to ensure he never regretted it.
The next few moments passed in a whirlpool of ecstatic sensation. Her cry of assent redoubled his passion. She did not know how he’d managed it, but her legs were wrapped around his waist and she held his swollen member, hot and heavy in her hand as he plundered her mouth like an oasis in a desert. His deft, clever hands swept over her bottom, turning the swollen bud at her very core once more into a quivering mass of sensation. When, groaning, he thrust himself into her, the surprising second of searing pain was immediately swept away by an encore of the first act—wave after wave of blissful, wicked, intense pleasure.