Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2)

by Beverley Oakley

  Again he noticed the girl’s bright eyes on him. He flashed a smile at her, delighted by the coy blush that spread across her cheeks, before he turned back to George Bramley who chuckled. “Ah, behold, yet another bold and beautiful Brightwell. But take care. They’re all penniless. Nevertheless, they’re exceedingly clever at drawing you into their orbit before singeing your wings on their flames.” Bramley patted Sylvester on the back and turned him to face another cluster of chattering young ladies. “Miss Amelia Huntingdon is far easier prey. She is pretty, with a sizeable portion, and I’ve noticed the glances she’s been sending you. Engage her for this dance and see if I’m right.”

  So Sylvester did and although it was pleasurable to hold her slender form against his during the daring waltz, his mind continued to be diverted by thoughts of Miss Brightwell’s curves moulding his own.

  Meanwhile, Thea was following his movements like a love-crazed schoolroom chit, her dismay at seeing him in the arms of the pale and insipid Miss Huntingdon as dampening as being caught in sleet.

  Bertram and Cousin Antoinette found her standing disconsolately at the depleted food table in the anteroom.

  “Why so low, cuz?” Bertram pinched her cheek. “You’re free for the next five minutes at any rate. Aunt Minerva has captured an audience, and anyone to whom she can give an earful on the subject of Prinny’s shameful treatment of his rightful queen is unlikely to escape quickly or lightly.” The previous week the former Prince Regent, now George IV, had divided public opinion by refusing his consort, Queen Caroline of Brunswick’s admission to his Coronation at Westminster Abbey, a matter on which Aunt Minerva had decided views not very flattering to the new king.

  Thea tried to take comfort from Bertram’s cousinly bolstering but it was hard to feel anything but hopeless despair at a lot she was sure held no pleasure for her ever again. Thanks to the generosity of Cousin Fanny, who was her size, she had clothes to wear that Aunt Minerva would never have paid for, but it was heart-breaking to know that while she might have access to public events while looking like a lady, every potential suitor was going to be fobbed off by Aunt Minerva.

  “I’m doomed to be an old maid,” she replied, knowing her lip trembled and that she was being overly dramatic, for there were others far worse off than she. “I shall know no joy, and my happiness will be confined to the amusements I can provide myself.”

  “That sounds no fun at all,” Antoinette sympathised. “I’d hate to be responsible for my own pleasure.” She gave a wicked smile. “If it’s as dire as all that, I might have to give you a lesson in what I think you know nothing about. Ah, speak of the devil, here is your handsome Mr Grayling. Good evening sir, I believe you have already met my cousin, Miss Thea Brightwell.”

  Mr Grayling bowed low over her hand, and when he rose, Thea could barely draw in a breath, she was so thrilled by the flattery and intensity in her erstwhile admirer’s lingering gaze.

  “An absolute pleasure, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured, and Thea had barely time to choke out a reply before her aunt’s stentorian demands to know where her niece was echoed throughout the room.

  Thea had sworn to remain sentinel at the gilt sofa her aunt had abandoned but she was torn. This might be her only chance to speak to Mr Grayling but if she crossed her aunt so publicly, tonight might also be her only evening of entertainment during the entire time she was a guest of her cousin.

  She hesitated, her gaze riveted on the handsome man before her. He had the most exquisite, noble nose, she thought. And his lips… oh, but how she longed to tenderly contour them with her fingers. Warmth surged through her and she blinked rapidly, shocked. No, not her fingers, her lips. Unconsciously, she ran the tip of her tongue over them, as if priming them, before realizing with embarrassment how transparent she was. How wicked to even entertain thoughts like that!

  “Thea Brightwell!”

  With weary acquiescence Thea inclined her head. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Mr Grayling.” It would be counter-productive to push for aunt too far. She’d pay for her rebellion with interest. She had to obey. “Pray excuse me, sir.”

  Sylvester stared after her in genuine bemusement and, to avoid looking like a fool, half-heartedly speared a slice of nearly transparent ham from the sad looking display before him and deposited it on his plate. This was not the way he’d expected matters to proceed.

  Surely the scorching looks Miss Brightwell had sent him could not have been misconstrued? Yet no sooner had he contrived to present himself once more to her when she was no longer in company with the oyster-velvet-clad gorgon, than she’d run off like a frightened rabbit…or a coquette. Which was it? Could she really have been playing games?

  “Charming chit, ain’t she?” Bertram Brightwell’s bluff laugh cut into Sylvester’s musings and he turned to raise an eyebrow at the young man accompanied by his beautiful sister, the youngest, blonde—not to mention, scandalous—Miss Antoinette, who’d snared an earl and whose supposed antics behind closed doors titillated society.

  He’d met Lady Quamby—though he could only think of her as Miss Antoinette—at the earl’s birthday celebration earlier that year, just weeks after she’d given birth, in fact. Not that one could tell. The girl was exquisite in pale pink silk with silver trimmings, and her bearing was confident, almost conspiratorial, yet when he glanced over her creamy bared shoulder towards the far corner of the room, where her lovely, chestnut-haired but less flamboyant cousin had just jilted him by the food table, she paled into insignificance.

  “More of a charming enigma,” Sylvester responded.

  “Pray enlarge?” Miss Antoinette’s blue eyes danced with mischief. There was nothing maternal about her, he thought. She was as flirtatious as he imagined she must have been before she’d become Lord Quamby’s countess. Forcing his gaze away from the more sober but more enticing—to his eyes, at least—Miss Brightwell he tried not to stare, but the stories he’d heard about Quamby’s wife were incredible; that the earl gave her complete licence to seek out pleasure discreetly as her reward for silence regarding his own peccadilloes. Dangerous ones, he understood, that courted the death penalty.

  Before he had a chance to respond, Bertram said, with an intense frown, “No telling what a gel will do if she’s only got six months to live.”

  “What?”

  It tumbled from Miss Antoinette’s lips with an expletive and Sylvester’s own as a gasp of dismay. “Six months?”

  Miss Antoinette looked shocked. “What are you saying, Bertram?” she demanded.

  Bertram sighed heavily. “I overheard Dr Horne telling Cousin Thea the terrible news. Don’t you wonder why she looks so sad and won’t dance? Her heart cannot be exposed to sudden shocks…although,” he looked contemplative, “I did also hear the doctor say that gentle pleasures and mild, controlled excitement might well prolong her life.” He cleared his throat, adding, “That is, by a couple of months or so only.”

  Sylvester shook his head, his horror echoing Miss Antoinette’s, who clearly had not been privy to the news of her lovely cousin’s imminent demise. “Poor young woman,” he murmured. “So lovely and so…”

  “Doomed,” Bertram supplied with a sigh. “Still,” he brightened, “she is to be commended on her stoic acceptance of her miserable lot. Her aunt has brought her to Bath to take the waters but sadly is so concerned for her niece’s health, she will allow Miss Brightwell no pleasure whatsoever.”

  “She would not allow me to even dance with her,” Sylvester recalled, the rejection taking on a different hue. “Is she…so reduced in health?”

  “Oh, Miss Brightwell would dance a jig if she were allowed. She simply craves something that will draw her out of the unhappy final few months she’s been allotted.” He shrugged before fixing Sylvester with a long and meaningful stare. “But what chance is there of that?”

  Chapter 5

  ANTOINETTE swung round the moment a contemplative Mr Grayling had made his excuses and departed.

  “What o
n earth—”

  “Clever, eh?” Bertram asked, clearly pleased with himself as he leaned against the door lintel that separated the supper room from the ballroom. “Thea needs a husband and Mr Grayling is clearly entranced. Haven’t I just aided her prospects if he thinks he won’t be saddled with a wife with no financial prospects? Well, not beyond four months at most, if they elope soon enough.”

  Antoinette looked admiring. “Goodness, that is inspired, Bertram.”

  Her brother grinned. “And soon our dear sister, Fanny, will be saying it, too.” He tossed back his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aunt Minerva thinks I’m not too bright, sis, but let me tell you, the whole Brightwell clan will soon be thanking me for providing Cousin Thea with more than just the husband of her dreams. Mr Grayling is worth a pretty penny, I’ve heard.”

  Deep in thought, Sylvester wove his way across the crowded Assembly Room, all the while keeping the lovely…dying…Miss Brightwell in his sights. He observed how well she attended her aunt and her air of quiet acceptance touched his heart and stirred his admiration. What would he feel if he had been given only six months to live?

  A great melancholy descended upon him as he contemplated the question. Why, he’d want to live life to the fullest, he decided, locking eyes at that moment with the chestnut haired beauty. Her dazzling smile sent a surge of excitement to his loins, arresting his progress. Lord, she was breathtaking. Her sheath of a gown followed the lush curves of her willowy body like a wicked enticement. Yet there she was, a prisoner at her aunt’s side, her smooth, lovely face a beautiful mask hiding her hopes and desires; a prisoner of her death sentence and the strictures of her relative.

  Sylvester continued to observe her covertly. He’d not missed the disappointment in her expression when she thought he’d passed out of her orbit. Ah, but she’d have no chance of learning of the passions she inspired; a beautiful young woman like herself, so coy and modest. To think that she’d die a virgin, denied the pleasure of a man’s kiss…a man’s possession. He closed his eyes against images of Miss Brightwell pressed against his chest, the pair of them standing alone in a dense forest as they gazed into one another’s eyes.

  But at the memory of her longing looks, her very clear interest, the forest was suddenly replaced by a large four poster bed, Miss Brightwell beneath him and, what’s more, responding with all the passion and ardour he’d hopefully imagined would be displayed by the young lady he’d choose as his bride upon their nuptials.

  An unexpected vision indeed and not at all the kind of thoughts he should be entertaining if he were to maintain a bearing of respectability wearing such tight trousers in a public place.

  Turning, he nearly collided with a footman holding aloft a tray.

  What a fool he was! Miss Thea was an invalid and she would die a virgin, for if he followed through on his desires, he’d not only ruin her, he’d quite possibly reduce even further her remaining few months.

  But then, he thought, sipping his champagne, if he played the caring suitor, he could contrive to give them both pleasure without damaging her health or limited prospects.

  He brought himself up short. No, he was self aware enough to know that he was a bull in a china shop with no sense of delicacy once his passions were aroused. Indeed, he was the last man who could be trusted to safeguard Miss Brightwell’s delicate constitution the moment she allowed him past a certain threshold.

  So intent was he on focussing his gaze upon Miss Brightwell’s serene visage while she was engaged in conversation with her aunt that when her name was borne upon the lips of a gentleman in conversation only a foot from him, he leapt as if stung. He strained to listen.

  “Miss Brightwell is well aware of the dangers. If only she’d heed her doctor’s advice.”

  Sylvester eased a little closer to the ginger-whiskered gentleman who spoke with such authority.

  “It was you who advised her to take the waters, was it not, Dr Horne?” His rotund companion tilted his head. “Aye, she does not always take your advice, does she?”

  “She’d live a good deal longer if she only did, but stubbornness has served her well thus far. I’d have predicted she’d be in her eternity box a good many years ago.”

  As soon as the rotund gentleman had moved away Sylvester took his opportunity. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  Introducing himself, he cleared his throat and frowned, giving the appearance of trying to tackle a difficult topic, which indeed it was. “Excuse me…Dr Horne? Ah yes, I hoped I was right. You’re the eminent physician whose fine reputation I’ve heard so much about.”

  The gentleman’s wary look was replaced by one of smug acquiescence of the compliment. He stroked his whispers and puffed out his chest. “There are some ladies who greatly inflate the value of my contributions to the health of this town but I can’t help but admit it pleases me to hear it, sir.”

  Sylvester smiled. “While I would not dream of mentioning names, sir, I would appreciate a word of advice from you on how I might tackle the delicate health of a person who…means a great deal to me.”

  Dr Horne inclined his head, a little more guarded now. “I’m afraid I cannot discuss matters of a personal nature.”

  “Nor would I expect it,” Sylvester assured him hastily, “but it’s on account of wishing to prolong Miss Brightwell’s good health—oh dear! I did not intend to name her— that I’ve sought you out.”

  Dr Horne looked surprised. “You have an interest in…that eminent woman’s good health?”

  Sylvester floundered a little here. “It is in fact…er…a friend who has an interest and who has asked me, on his behalf, to ascertain what he might do to facilitate the…individual in question’s…er…pleasure during the remaining time allotted to her.”

  Dr Horne’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Your friend is an admirer?”

  Sylvester nodded. “Yes, my friend has in fact admired her from afar, and unbeknownst to her, for many a year. Now that word has filtered through to him of her delicate health, he confided to me that if he only knew how to please her, he would do it. But he is driven distracted by worry that he will make a blunder of it. He’s not declared himself and he fears that if he should surprise her too greatly, it may be fatal. My friend demanded of me, how far he could go before his attentions become dangerous to her health but I know nothing of such matters. And then I overheard that you were the eminent physician, Dr Horne.”

  Dr Horne pulled at his ginger moustache. Words seemed to have failed him. “I am flattered that you should have heard of me. But…you say your friend wishes to pay his attentions to Miss Brightwell?” He blinked rapidly before saying in a rush, “I did not mean to mention names, sir.”

  “Of course not.” Sylvester nodded, understandingly.

  Dr Horne’s expression became cynical. “The person of which we speak has no desire to marry.”

  “Indeed, marriage was not what my friend had in mind. He wished merely to extend to her the hand of friendship, to offer her the admiration he has long kept secret. Would she be amenable to receiving such declarations? Or would they cause perhaps palpitations of the heart, which would have the opposite effect of that desired by my friend? That is what my friend has asked me to ascertain.” Sylvester waited hopefully.

  Dr Horne contemplated him through narrowed eyes. “My patient is stronger than she looks. If she felt the recipient worthy of her regard, I’ve no doubt she could entertain him with no risk to her health whatsoever.”

  “Perhaps you would be so good as to broach the matter with her,” Sylvester suggested cautiously.

  Dr Horne raised his chin. “Your friend ought to do his own work rather than send someone else. Certainly not her physician.”

  Sylvester sighed. “Alas, his acute shyness has been the reason the gentleman of whom I speak has never found the courage to address Miss Brightwell but has instead held a candle to her charms for many a year. That is why I offered myself as proxy. I would hope to se
e some happy resolution to his unfortunate situation.”

  Dr Horne continued to stroke his whiskers and look contemplative. After a long pause he said, cautiously, “This is an interesting situation I had not considered. Perhaps such unexpected admiration would be conducive to an altering in my patient’s disposition.” He tapped his fingers upon the side of the glass he held, his frown deepening as he added, “Indeed, perhaps what you suggest could in fact work in favour of her health.”

  Sylvester allowed himself to hope. “I assure you, my friend would hate to cause offence. His motivations are entirely honourable.”

  Dr Horne nodded and pursed his lips. “All right then. If appropriate, I shall endeavour to elicit the good lady’s feelings on being approached by a secret admirer who has held a candle to her since she was barely out of the schoolroom, as you seem to infer.”

  Sylvester gave a silent sigh of satisfaction. He’d been deeply shaken by the dire prognosis Bertram Brightwell had issued regarding Miss Brightwell’s health, but if she could be encouraged to accept his attentions—or if her aunt could be persuaded by Dr Horne that his attentions were in lovely young Miss Brightwell’s best interests—Sylvester was more than amenable to doing what he could to facilitate her…pleasure, as Bertram called it. Pleasure? The gleam in that other young gentleman’s eye had conveyed a broad interpretation of the word, though Sylvester could see that poor Miss Thea Brightwell enjoyed very little pleasure of any kind with that terrible relative forever rattling the keys of her incarceration by her ear.

  Helping himself to another champagne from a passing tray, he tried to reconcile the image of sweet-faced Miss Brightwell, the lively smile she’d shone on him fading like a rose as the next few weeks passed. A sweet, gentle creature who’d be quite dead in six months. That is, unless he could coax some more life into her for her remaining earthly tenure and thereby extend her existence by even a few weeks.