“Oh no, no, Cousin Fanny, that’s not it at all,” Thea hastily assured her. “I just want to be careful. Mr Grayling is the first gentleman—dashing gentleman, that is, because the curate doesn’t really count, if one is only counting handsome gentlemen with the means to keep a wife—who’s shown the slightest bit of interest, and I can’t bear the thought it might only be on account of him thinking he can take advantage.”
“Well, let him!” cried Antoinette. “Let him take at least some advantage so he comes back desperate for more. Make him desire you so much that he can’t live without you!”
“But only as his wife, dearest Thea,” Fanny added with a cautionary look at her sister. “Respectable marriage is all that we’re advocating as the end result. It’ll just require a bit more encouragement from you than a slap across the face if he ever is brave enough to try to kiss you again.”
It was hard to tell what impact her words had on Thea but Fanny was a little more relieved by the flare of bravado reflected in the girl’s eyes by the time they rose to bid each other good night.
Chapter 9
IT was only by the sixth draft that Sylvester felt his letter came close to saying what he truly felt with the right degree of humility and artfulness.
Like a schoolboy squirming with mortification, he’d slunk home after his disastrous encounter with Miss Brightwell, paced the library like a caged tiger, then finally resorted to the inkwell and a sheet of parchment. The written word was not the manner in which he felt most comfortable expressing himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to get a chance to put his feelings into words in a face-to-face encounter.
Dorcas, the housemaid, clanked around the fireplace, building it up and making a dreadful clatter with the fire irons until his concentration was so shot to pieces he had no choice but to cry out, “Will you stop that infernal noise!” Looking up at the pregnant pause that followed, he locked glances with her shocked face, whereupon she brought her apron up to her face and ran, weeping loudly, from the room.
“Gad’s teeth!” he muttered. Had he completely lost his artful touch with the feminine species? Could he do nothing to melt a susceptible heart with finesse, or at least not send them all fleeing from him, and in tears?
Stifling the urge to run after the maidservant and make some attempt to appease her before she informed the entire household of his devil incarnate ways, he sighed instead and read through, for the final time, his agonisingly crafted sentences. Then, sprinkling sand upon the wet ink, he stood up and stretched his arms as high as he could without tearing the seams of his nearly new superfine coat as he contemplated how he might proceed with the task Lady Fenton had set him—purely for the good of her cousin, he hastily reassured himself.
Miss Brightwell was like a nervous thoroughbred. While he’d been assured she was for the moment robust enough in body to accept his overtures, she had still the sensibility of the untutored virgin, which he should have understood. She also clearly had no idea of her cousins’ desires to see her exit into the afterlife a little worldlier and, he hoped, a little happier than the virginal miss she currently was.
If guilt nagged at him for deceiving her, it was only for a moment, as he fully endorsed her generous and well-meaning cousins’ desires for her happiness, which he would discharge with all the care and thoughtfulness of which he was capable.
He’d started off like a bull in a china shop but he was not going to make the same mistake twice. His letter would make it clear that he felt abject and cast down by his impulsiveness and, if she would accept his apologies, he hoped they might start again.
The thought she might dismiss him altogether was difficult for one of his pride to entertain and as he paced before the fire, waiting for the servant he’d summoned to ensure delivery of his letter, he was buoyed up with hope one minute, but filled with doubt the next. What if she rejected his offer of forgiveness? What else could he do?
An image of her sweet, shocked face kept intruding on his consciousness. She was so innocent, so lovely, so…
The memory of her cousin Bertram’s doleful voice chimed in at this point: ‘doomed’.
He would not think of that now. He would think only of her innocent charms and the fact that Lady Fenton had charged him with the task of…well, moulding them into something more sophisticated.
He would be doing her a kindness, and that’s all this was ever about.
The trouble was, the kindness he might render for an elderly aunt, who liked the company when he found time to dash in and see her before the theatre, did not play havoc with his heart in the way that doing Miss Brightwell a kindness did.
Not that he was in danger of harbouring any inconvenient feelings for the girl. She was sweet and lovely, granted. But she was also dying, and he was if not actually a rake, he was, when it came to practical matters, a gentleman who required a wife with something of a dowry.
Nevertheless, it was a matter of honour that he render Miss Brightwell the kind of service that would see her go to her grave having experienced something wonderful of life.
***
Thea closed her eyes to summon the fortitude she needed to get through this evening. What a torment it was having to untangle Aunt Minerva’s skeins of wool and listen to her homilies on good behaviour and everything wicked she’d observed in her nieces. Aunt Minerva had, however, reserved most criticism for Thea, chastising her for everything from her ‘roving eye’ to her all but throwing herself at ‘that unconscionable rake, Mr Grayling’.
Thea accepted all this in silence while inside her rage and injured dignity grew. Not for one moment was she tempted to defend herself much less mention that she’d displayed every feminine outrage that her aunt would have expected had she had an inkling of what had occurred.
“Thea, what’s the matter with you? There’s no time to waste in foolish daydreaming when you have work to do! I think the sooner we remove from Bath, the better. In fact, I’ve decided we shall return to Heskett tomorrow.” With a click of her tongue, her aunt communicated her displeasure, tugging at the skein of wool that Thea had in her lap so it jerked up and rolled across the floor.
Thea crawled across the carpet to retrieve it, careful to keep her sour expression averted. It was true she’d been daydreaming, though her thoughts were more akin to nightmares as she relived the ghastly, humiliating images her two cousins had gleefully recounted to her only this morning on what husbands and wives were forced to do when the marriage contract was signed and in order to procreate. Little wonder that a woman would only submit when she was under such an obligation. The idea of flesh touching flesh, much less a man’s…oh dear God, the idea that a man had a sword-like appendage that he pushed inside his wife in order to sow the seed of future life was utterly abhorrent. Yet apparently a man gained far more pleasure from his thrusting for the entertainment of it than the serious business of making a child.
And what of the woman who must bear such indignity? Little wonder Mr Grayling’s poor French wife had not been up to the task. There must be so very many women in this world who gritted their teeth and lay back staring at the ceiling while they hoped this would be the last time they’d have to suffer such humiliation, hoping that a child had indeed been created within them. She shuddered once more. Were they teasing her? Was this really what marriage was all about, for what Antoinette and Fanny had explained mentioned nothing about love. Only this terrible brutality.
“Thea, what’s this sniffling about? You’ve been like Polly when she has the earache, and you know how I can’t abide invalids.” Such admonishments were usually like water off a duck’s back, but when her aunt unwisely added, “I hope you’re not mooning over your Mr Grayling, for you know nothing will come of that!” Thea couldn’t help wailing.
Of course Thea had no intention of telling her anything but somehow Aunt Minerva must have suspected that her niece had had an encounter of some sort with the gentleman in question for soon she was barking questions like a Spanish Inquisitor
and Thea, never a good liar to begin with, went to pieces. “Please, Aunt Minerva, you really have no need to be concerned for I kicked Mr Grayling in the shins and ran away. I can assure you that I don’t ever want to see him again. Ever!”
Aunt Minerva raised an eyebrow and her look of horror turned to satisfaction. “No doubt he thought he could take any liberty he liked, considering you’d be in the workhouse if it weren’t for me, eh, girl?” Her unsympathetic relative returned to her stitching, rocking gently. “We’ll be two old maids together, and happy to keep one another company as the years go by. Perhaps it’s not a bad thing you’ve discovered for yourself how quick handsome men are to take advantage of innocence.”
The horror of such an endless future with her aunt was at that moment on par with Thea’s horror at the specific nature of conjugal rights.
“Dr Horne’s here to see you, ma’am.” Polly put her head round the door.
Thea, having regained her composure with difficulty, glanced at her aunt with a sympathetic look she hoped would help banish her dissatisfaction with her. “Are you feeling poorly again, Aunt Minerva?”
“An unexpected pleasure, Dr Horne,” her aunt said, waving aside Thea’s concern as she invited her visitor to sit. “You’ve come with my liver pills, I take it.”
“That…amongst other things.”
Thea was conscious of the doctor’s particularly intense glance across at her and wondered if she should leave. On the one hand, Aunt Minerva loved an audience when her ailments were discussed, but judging by the doctor’s apparent discomfort in Thea’s company—for he really had gone a peculiar colour, which to her surprise suggested acute embarrassment—the nature of his visit might be more personal.
“Where are you going, Thea?” her Aunt barked as Thea rose to her feet and began to discreetly quit the room. “I may have to rely on you to ensure my medicinals are properly administered.”
Thea’s cheeks began to burn. “Of course. Aunt. I merely thought Dr Horne might wish me to leave.”
“Good Lord, no, child!”
A surprised glance at the doctor told her he was as taken aback by the vehemence of his denial as she was. Clearly the matter that had brought him here was one of truly great potential embarrassment. Thea narrowed her eyes. The doctor’s nose and cheeks were a matching puce rather than crimson. Realisation dawned and Thea, never able to keep her emotions in check, had to pretend her gasp was a cough.
Why, the doctor had designs on Aunt Minerva, she thought. Earlier, when he’d informed Aunt Minerva that an old “friend” wished to pay court to her, Thea could not reconcile the idea of the handsome, urbane, silver-haired gentleman her aunt had pointed out at the Assembly Rooms possibly having any interest in her. Suddenly, realization dawned. Dr Horne, with his red button nose like a cherry atop a Christmas pudding, and his wispy ginger hair and beard, was a far more likely candidate.
Clearly, though, he was feeling his way.
Catching his eye, Thea grinned in collusion, which caused him to drop what he had in his hands and, with much wheezing and puffing, reach down to pick it up.
“Ah yes, the liver pills,” he said, though that’s not what he’d picked up. Thea took a seat opposite her aunt as she noticed the doctor lean across to hand her aunt an elegant piece of parchment addressed to Miss Brightwell.
“Oh, Dr Horne,” she whispered before she could stop the words, and he jerked his head round to stare at her, reminding her of a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of a coach on a dark night. She gave him an understanding nod and then another smile. If she could encourage him sufficiently to make Aunt Minerva an offer she couldn’t refuse, Thea would be free. She’d still be poor, but someone else would have to take her in.
And anything else was better than having to live with Aunt Minerva.
Provided she still had her reputation intact, she amended, though that wouldn’t be difficult. Not after the horrors Antoinette and Fanny had described in ruining one.
With raised eyebrows, her aunt sliced off the seal with her fingernail. It sailed through the air and landed with a hiss in the fire as the old woman impatiently unfolded the paper and scanned it.
She gasped and scanned it again, this time with her hand resting upon her palpitating bosom.
Intrigued, Thea craned her neck to see if she could catch a glimpse of what was written. She caught the words crave your forgiveness before Dr Horne rose, blocking her view and asking, clearly agitated, “A simple yes or a no is all that’s required, ma’am.”
Thea couldn’t stop the secretive smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth as she watched the doctor battle his emotions. Goodness! He wanted to establish if Aunt Minerva was open to the idea of having an amour. Perhaps he’d heard of her aunt’s distress over the erstwhile object of her affections who’d not even acknowledged her at the Assembly Rooms the other night and the incident had emboldened him.
Unbidden, an image thrust itself into her mind of the disgusting acts she now knew men and women indulged in under cover of darkness. Dr Horne and Aunt Minerva? She shuddered before remembering that this act was primarily to make babies, or if the man were of a particularly violent and selfish nature. Dr Horne would of course get none of that kind of business where her Aunt was concerned. Which must mean that after treating her as his patient all these years, he’d formed a genuine and inexplicable tendre for her.
And now he was asking for her forgiveness? She shook her head. Life was full of surprises. Perhaps he’d been indiscreet about his feelings. Perhaps Aunt Minerva had slapped his face. Surely not, though, for if Aunt Minerva had been outraged she’d have dismissed Dr Horne as her physician.
She gazed at the pair, each as unprepossessing as the other: Dr Horne with his bulbous red nose and wispy ginger moustache and Aunt Minerva with her squirrel’s tail forever threatening to dislodge itself. Surely they were far too advanced in age for courting?
Thea brought herself up short. She should be more charitable. Age was no barrier to love. Of course it wasn’t. The old dears were quite right to want a little romance and excitement.
A tremor of self-pity ran through her before reasserting itself as something nobler. Since she was not going to experience either romance or excitement herself, why not help facilitate a union between the pair? A little matchmaking could be quite a tonic to enliven her dull, dull days.
Before her aunt could respond, Thea reminded her, “Did you not say we were returning to Heskett tomorrow, Aunt Minerva?”
She was secretly delighted when her aunt turned on her indignantly. “I said no such thing, Thea. Why, trust you to mix up dates and turn my intentions on their head.” Aunt Minerva fanned her heated face with the parchment and seemed to be silently doing some sort of experiment with her lips.
Thea would have been perfectly happy to return to Heskett. In fact she’d have preferred it. The fear she might see Mr Grayling again was positively mortifying. To think she’d once been entranced by his mop of light brown curls and intrigued by the elegant line of his side whiskers. She was no better than an easily beguiled schoolroom miss.
She watched the elderly lovebirds out of the corner of her eye as she picked up some abandoned work and began to stitch away at the little garment she was embroidering for baby George, and which she’d present to him before his christening. Dr Horne was examining Aunt Minerva’s fat ankles, which her aunt said were too swollen for her to take her morning walk in comfort. The doctor was being extremely charitable as to his reasons why this could be when Thea was fairly sure if her aunt reduced her consumption of chocolate eclairs and sugar biscuits before luncheon, she might well find her ankles strong enough to carry her reduced weight.
“The pain’s a little higher, Dr Horne.”
Thea jerked her head around to see the doctor massaging Aunt Minerva’s calf and her stomach turned over in revulsion. Regardless of what her cousins said, she most definitely did not intend ever to let a gentleman do more than hold her to dance.
/> But watching her Aunt and the doctor conduct their odd little courtship could be quite entertaining.
“See what Dr Horne is doing, Thea?” Aunt Minerva’s called across the room. “You must learn to do the massage just like that. It’s a good thing you’re here.”
“A very good thing, Miss Thea,” said Dr Horne. “And so delightful you are staying in town longer. Why, things are just starting to get lively in Bath. We would miss your company.” He stared meaningfully at her and Thea almost winked; and although she didn’t, her mouth twitched once more as she smiled at him and murmured, “And the company of my aunt, of course, Dr Horne.”
“Most assuredly, Miss Thea. Most assuredly.”
“Well, Thea, what did I tell you?” her aunt demanded, tapping the letter she’d received once the doctor had been farewelled. “After all these years Mr Granville has seen the error of his ways. He begs my forgiveness and evinces the strong hope that I will receive him with at least a touch of kindness after our last disastrous parting.”
Thea frowned. Surely her aunt was mistaken. “Mr Granville?” Puzzled, she clarified, “So he signed his name?”
“His initials, SG, in case the letter fell into the wrong hands, no doubt.” Aunt Minerva sighed and several of her chins wobbled. Thea meanwhile felt merely foolish for having jumped to the wrong conclusion. So Dr Horne really had been delivering a letter on behalf of Aunt Minerva’s former swain, though really, the idea of the urbane Mr Granville having designs on her aunt stretched the bounds of credulity.
Unless of course there was some other motivation behind Mr Granville’s request. Perhaps he was a confidence trickster who wanted to ultimately lay his hands on her aunt’s fortune, just as he’d wanted to do all those years before.
She checked herself. Only a foolish girl would jump to two wrong conclusions in the space of five minutes. Thea must do what she did best: simply observe quietly what was going on around her…and try to come up with better-informed conclusions.
Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2) Page 9
