Pleasure? Again he mulled over the word and its meaning. He was a gentleman who’d not dream of sullying a lady’s reputation but of course Miss Brightwell would not be contemplating marriage in her delicate condition.
So, what could pleasure entail in such a scenario?
Bertram Brightwell had rolled the word across his tongue with such salacious pleasure suggesting a far lewder interpretation than Sylvester’s. But was Miss Brightwell the innocent she appeared? Sylvester had recently been treated to a comprehensive summation of the Brightwells’ collective virtues—or lack of—and indeed, pleasure was high on the family agenda. He’d heard it from many sources.
The Brightwells, Mr Bramley had told him, were like glorious weeds, climbing inexorably over walls while strangulating the more gently reared blooms that stood in their way, in order to push their beautiful heads ever closer to the sun.
Miss Thea Brightwell might be a shyer version of her bold and beautiful cousins but she was just like they had been barely a season before: penniless and no doubt seeking to reclaim the once exalted position lost by her father through carelessness. By no means was that her fault but Sylvester did wonder whether the knowledge she had only six months to live would make her more amenable to taking risks.
Bowing as he excused himself, he made his way towards the card room as he went over his recent conversation with the doctor. Sylvester would never manage to contrive a meeting with the girl if her aunt was always in attendance, but if he could get poor Miss Brightwell’s personal physician onside to encourage gentle outings that did not include the old gorgon, Sylvester imagined he could anticipate the following few weeks in Bath with a great deal of hope.
Chapter 6
THE following evening, Dr Horne was still shaking his head over his extraordinary exchange with the friend of his patient’s anonymous but nevertheless unlikely admirer as he was ushered into the venerable Miss Brightwell’s drawing room.
One of his regular patients and his wife had uprooted themselves from the country to take the medicinal spa waters, and had paid for Dr Horne’s removal to Bath for the next few weeks. Of course, Miss Brightwell was far too cheese paring to fund her physician’s relocation but she certainly enjoyed his daily attendance.
Less enamored of the prospect of attending his most difficult patient on a daily basis, Dr Horne acknowledged a certain frisson, almost thrilling, at tending to the exacting and impossible Minerva Brightwell while she was resident at Lord Quamby’s rambling estate just outside the town.
As usual, the fire was crackling, heating the room to almost insufferable temperatures, as was Miss Brightwell’s wont, even on such a warm evening. Reclining in an armchair and wearing a round dress of Pomona green with a matching bejewelled toque, she was snoring gently while her young companion stitched quietly in the corner.
He glanced at the niece and felt a pang of sympathy, for the girl was a beauty. He knew she’d been orphaned several years previously and had been left financially vulnerable until the formidable Miss Minerva Brightwell had obviously seen it was to her advantage to offer the girl a roof over her head. From his daily observances, it appeared there was little respite for the poor unpaid companion.
“Dr Horne,” Miss Thea exclaimed softly as he was shown in. “How glad we are that you could come so quickly. Aunt Minerva is asleep now, as you can see, but not twenty minutes ago she quite had it in her head that her dying hour was upon her.”
Dr Horne pulled at his moustache, ridiculously gratified at the pleasure he’d clearly precipitated in the young niece’s breast, his cheeks suddenly burning, though not from the heat of the fire. “It’s always a fortuitous thing to bring good tidings to one’s patient, so perhaps Miss Brightwell’s constitution will be fortified at the knowledge that her untimely demise would cause great sadness to a certain…gentleman,” he murmured with a wink.
“What’s all this whispering behind my back? Why, it’s the height of rudeness! What nonsense is this you’re muttering about, doctor?”
There was nothing to suggest the ailing invalid about Miss Brightwell as she leaned forward and cast her fulminating gaze upon her personal physician. “Playing games, are you? How dare you encourage him, Thea!”
Dr Horne held up his hand to defend himself; or rather to defend the poor young lady, who was no doubt a regular recipient of such accusations.
“Pray calm yourself, Miss Brightwell. I was merely alluding to a conversation with a certain…ah…admirer of yours. Had I known you were awake, I would have approached the matter with more consideration for your delicacy. I certainly would not wish to see you overset…and nor would the gentleman in question, who seeks reassurance of your good health.”
Miss Brightwell looked suspiciously at him. “A gentleman, you say? Seeking reassurance of my good health?” She stroked her whiskered chin as she looked first at the doctor and then into the merrily crackling fire. “If he’s sincere, it assuredly is not my nephew, who is in daily contact to gauge how soon or likely it is he will be in receipt of my fortune. Greedy, money-grubbing slug,” she muttered. She jerked her head round. “So why would someone wish for my good health if he has nothing to gain by it?”
Dr Horne stepped further from the fire. Sweat prickled the back of his neck and he noticed that the heat was affecting Miss Thea too, judging by her flushed cheeks and décolletage. The sight was curiously affecting and he struggled to return the young woman’s guileless smile with no indication of the sinful thoughts chasing themselves round his head. “At the Assembly Rooms yesterday evening,” he managed, returning his attention to his patient, “I was approached by a gentleman who wished me to pass on the felicitations of an old admirer of yours who—”
“An admirer?” Miss Brightwell’s eyes widened before she assumed a pose of glorious abandon. Her fat ankles resting on the footstool were now crossed and her incredible chest thrown forward, offering him an unimpeded view down the valley between her enormous bosoms; a disturbing sight, which immediately conjured up an image of Miss Brightwell’s unfortunate admirer gasping his last in her smothering embrace.
Adopting a languid air, Miss Minerva Brightwell went on, “And why should I not have an admirer? Beauty is timeless and I was considered a rare beauty in my day.” She raised an eyebrow at a noise from Miss Thea, who appeared to be struggling to keep a steady hand as she worked the needle through the white linen of her embroidery project.
When Dr Horne caught the girl’s eye in a sudden moment of conspiracy, he was unprepared for the charge of sensation that nearly unbalanced him. Why, for months he’d been in almost daily contact with Miss Brightwell’s niece as required by her demanding benefactress but tonight it was as if he noticed her for the first time. He cast another surreptitious glance in her direction. There was a definite bloom to her cheeks he’d not noticed before, and a dewy tenderness in her expression when she looked at him. She’d changed as if overnight, he thought.
Shocked that he, widowed for twenty years, should be visited by such inappropriately lustful fancies, he forced his attention back to his patient.
“Clearly your admirer retains an image of you untarnished by the passage of the years,’ he murmured. He reordered his expression into one of suitable solemnity and tried not to allow Miss Thea’s sweet profile to distract him. “Indeed, I have been charged with the task of acting as his emissary in order to ascertain whether the, er…inimitable Miss Brightwell would receive his attentions.” He cleared his throat again, still reeling from the unlikely possibility that Miss Brightwell’s admirer was not motivated by something other than his patient’s tenuous claims to beauty and grace.
For a long moment Miss Brightwell appeared lost in wistful contemplation of the dancing flames. Suddenly she swung round, her bulbous brown eyes fired with the savagery of a bull dog as she demanded, “Why has he not come himself?” And her tone so bristled with aggression that Dr Horne wondered if he had sufficient reserves of tact to convey Miss Brightwell’s response in the prop
er manner to the interested gentleman. Or should he indeed make it clear that Miss Brightwell’s admirer was in danger of having his throat torn out if he put a foot wrong in the event that he followed through on his dangerous amorous impulses?
Bravely he stood his ground, saying evenly, as he’d promised, “Your admirer is aware of your delicate constitution, Miss Brightwell. Indeed, it is his fear that his attentions might compromise your health that he solicited my advice.” He paused. “I assured him that if he took matters…gently, then your health would only be improved.”
“Good man.” Miss Brightwell leaned back and looked at him approvingly. With a coquettish smile, she twirled around her finger a chestnut curl which Dr Horne, on closer inspection, suspected was the squirrel’s tail hairpiece of which she was so fond. Indeed, she refused to be seen without it, even during examinations, when his entrance was clearly preceded by a hasty donning of the said appendage, and not always quite straight.
Daringly, he darted another glance at the lovely Miss Thea, whose plight he found curiously affecting. Poor child. To be subject to the shifting vagaries of such an old tartar would try the patience of a saint. Yet throughout all, Miss Thea had maintained a calm and dignified demeanour, punctuated by a charmingly girlish response to the most extreme of her aunt’s retorts. The young woman must have patience in abundance. As she quietly stitched away at her tambour he contemplated her plight. This was no life for a pure and beautiful young woman, though of course with little or no dowry it might well be her lot for many years to come with the older Miss Brightwell’s supposedly palpitating heart looking likely to carry her into her ninth decade.
So captivated was he by the graceful movement of Miss Thea’s slender fingers as they plied her needle and thread that he lost all sense of where he was, imagining those same fingers massaging his brow at the end of a long day, tracing the line of his jaw, trailing the length of his chest.
He swallowed, suddenly breathless. The importance of a handsome marriage portion paled in significance compared with the pleasures a lonely widower might enjoy at the hands of such a paragon of beauty and virtue.
Miss Minerva Brightwell broke the silence with a rasping sigh. Her features had relaxed as she continued to stare into the fire, her drooping jowls echoing the pouches beneath her eyes, which were softened by nostalgia. “So my darling has finally realised the error of his ways,” she murmured. “Well, Dr Horne!” She levelled a decisive look upon him. “You may tell my…admirer…that I eagerly await more concrete signs of his regard.”
A gentle walk at noon, and only if the weather was exceptional, was Aunt Minerva’s only concession to improving her health through the exercise Dr Horne continually suggested. However, her struggle to put one leg past the other as she leaned heavily on Thea had filled her niece with a morbid aversion to doing anything outdoorsy with her aunt, despite her natural love of nature and fresh air.
Two mornings after the dance at the Assembly Rooms, Thea was again struggling under the weight of her demanding benefactress, dreaming of handsome Mr Grayling, whom she’d have little occasion to see and none to entertain, when she spied Dr Horne advancing purposely along the path toward them.
With relief she greeted him, for now her aunt would be required to halt a few moments and so reduce the painful pressure on Thea’s shoulder.
“Good morning, Dr Horne,” she said with more pleasure than she usually reserved for the pale, ginger-haired and awkward gentleman, whose hands always felt so clammy, though there was nothing she could particularly object to about him. “What a beautiful day it is, isn’t it?” She smiled warmly, wishing to prolong the break from her duties, for she was exhausted by her exertions on behalf of her aunt.
Dr Horne returned her greeting with a look of concern. “My dear Miss Thea, are you quite all right? You appear excessively fatigued and your colour is high.” Frowning at Aunt Minerva as he took Thea’s hand, he muttered with professional solicitude, “Let me feel your pulse, my dear. I fear you may be unwell.”
“Yes, I am a little…fatigued,” Thea said faintly, swaying against Dr Horne as she played upon the possibility of a reprieve.
“You were perfectly well when you set out this morning,” her aunt responded acidly.
Thea fluttered her lids and exhaled upon a sigh. “Fatigue seems to have got the better of me… Oh, Cousin Antoinette!” She suddenly noticed the barouche that had drawn level with them on the gravel path. “No, I am not feeling quite the thing. A lovely morning, Cousin. I was just asking Dr Horne if he wouldn’t mind accompanying Aunt Minerva the last few hundred yards home and I can travel in the carriage with you.”
Hiding her huge relief at her unexpected escape, she climbed into the dim interior and it was only then she realised her cousin was not alone. Opposite, sat Antoinette and, beside her, Bertram. And with a final start of excited astonishment, she saw that on the seat upon which she’d settled herself, Mr Grayling was reclining languidly.
He straightened when she entered the confined space, brushing his hair back from his high forehead, his beautiful grey eyes assessing her with surprise, as if he’d not been aware they’d stopped beside her and her aunt.
“What a delightful pleasure,” he said, kissing the back of her hand, which sent tingles of pleasure fizzing throughout her entire being. His tone and the gesture were so familiar it was all she could do to stammer something equating a reasonable response, for in truth her heart was thundering and heat burned her cheeks. A brief glance at her aunt and Dr Horne whom she’d abandoned on the gravel path made it very clear that she would pay dearly for her truancy, but any price was worth paying right now if she could enjoy such proximity to the handsome gentleman she’d believed she’d never set eyes on again.
And, on the subject of eyes, his never left hers as the carriage jolted gently over the rutted path. With each jolt Mr Grayling somehow seemed to inch a little nearer until, by the time they reached the house, his thigh was touching hers, resulting in the most exciting, intimate sensation she’d ever experienced. That is, until he surreptitiously reached for her hand. While the siblings opposite studiously trained their interest out of the window, Thea could only stare between her hand caged in his, and his kindling gaze still trained upon her face.
Mr Grayling liked her.
Of all the vast array of lovely ladies in Bath, he’d clearly singled her out for his attentions. That is, if you didn’t count Miss Huntingdon with whom he’d danced twice at the Assembly ball.
And as he handed her down from the carriage minutes later there was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone when he said, “I wonder to what lengths you’d go to dance the waltz with me, Miss Brightwell, for I declare my visit to Bath will be a wasted one if your aunt’s strictures triumph over my desire to—” He dropped his voice, adding meaningfully, “take you in my arms.”
Thea thought she would swoon upon the spot.
A little later, over tea in the conservatory of Lord Quamby’s handsome townhouse and with Mr Grayling no longer a part of the company, Antoinette and Fanny immediately launched in upon the topic of this gentleman.
“I believe Mr Grayling has a difficult choice to make,” Fanny remarked with a sly look from beneath her thick fringe of lashes.
Thea squirmed for Mr Grayling’s words still echoed with thrilling intensity in her head making it difficult to attend to her cousin who went on, “Of course, there are other gentlemen far richer than he to interest Miss Huntingdon, but he is handsome and he is second in line to inherit rather a fine estate.” She stirred her tea thoughtfully. “If I were a gambling girl, I’d consider it quite worth the risk.”
“Well, I am hardly in a position to make either wagers or take risks.” Thea forced a smile as the crushing reality was brought home to her. Mr Grayling would no more choose her for a wife than he would an actress from Drury Lane. Her shoulders slumped. “Miss Huntingdon is pretty and she comes with a fortune. What do I have to offer?”
Fanny nodded thoughtful
ly. “Miss Huntingdon might be comely and rich but she is also insipid. Extremely insipid. Would she be someone with whom Mr Grayling wishes to spend his future? Sometimes a little fire to stir a man’s senses can encourage him to take actions that are quite…unexpected.”
Thea jerked her head around at Antoinette’s giggle, unsure if her cousins were making fun of her. She certainly didn’t know what the cause of their amusement could be.
“Oh really, Thea, you can’t be quite so obtuse,” Fanny said, her tone now changed to a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
Thea frowned, for if she wasn’t being obtuse, all she could imagine they were suggesting was the antithesis of how a young lady concerned for her future would behave.
“Aunt Minerva would cast me out if a hint of scandal attached to my name,” she said stiffly. “I cannot see Mr Grayling again. I certainly cannot see him alone.”
Fanny put her head to one side and appeared to contemplate the matter. “Certainly not if anyone knew about it. Ah, Fenton…” With a beatific smile she greeted her devilishly handsome husband who’d entered the room. “We were just discussing Thea’s future.”
He looked surprised. “So your Aunt Minerva is willing to give you up and allow you one? A future, that is?” Lord Fenton strode across the Aubusson carpet and lowered his impressive frame onto the settee by his wife, immediately taking her hand and caressing it with such blatant wanting in his eyes, Thea felt the jolt all the way to her lower belly. She’d never seen raw desire like that in all her life.
Though when she came to think about it, the look in Lord Fenton’s eye could be said to equate to the unmasked desire she’d read in Mr Grayling’s face as she’d sat beside him in the carriage. She swallowed. Her throat felt thick, her skim clammy and at the same time a feeling of such longing seemed to invade her whole being she had to look away.
Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2) Page 6
