“There’s nothing pleasant or easy about babies.” Aunt Minerva, who’d caught the last part of this, sniffed as she leaned back on Thea’s other side. “Keep them in the nursery until they’re at least of schooling age and can obey orders, I say.”
“Yes, Aunt,” said Thea, well and truly weary of having to agree with her aunt to avoid an argument. What risks would she take to be free of the yoke of servitude? An image of herself running barefoot through a field, hair streaming behind her, was suddenly appropriated by Mr Grayling chasing her and wearing a look of passionate desire. Feeling hot and bothered, she immediately tried to close down such a thought by telling herself that she’d never indulge in such freedom if it meant countenancing any of the risks Fanny and Antoinette urged her to take.
Indeed, Mr Grayling’s kiss the other day had reaffirmed that.
And yet…
She touched her fingers to her lips and stared out of the window as she steeled herself to feel what she knew she ought.
No! From now on she must ever be on her guard for the tricks any of her cousins might play in order to facilitate a closer union with Mr Grayling.
The carriage drew up at the chapel on Lady Umbrage’s estate where the naming ceremony was to be conducted but to Thea’s dismay it appeared they were late, for the churchyard was deserted.
Hastily Thea took Bertram’s extended hand and descended gracefully to the ground in the wake of her two cousins. Impatiently she waited for Aunt Minerva, who’d shuffled her bulk to the open door where Bertram was waiting to help her down, but when her aunt lost her footing on the top step, Bertram was nearly crushed as a result. Thea was fearful and horrified, expecting severe injuries, though Fanny and Antoinette looked as if they were about to explode with hilarity, even before they could be reassured that no one had come to any harm.
With Aunt Minerva declared unharmed with only her good humour dented, they all hurried into the chapel, whispering their apologies as they bustled up the aisle. Or rather, Antoinette, Fanny and Bertram trooped up through the assembled congregation while Thea slunk behind, ready to sink into the ground in the wake of her Aunt, who simply looked down her long nose at everyone else as if they were the interlopers.
Before Thea knew what was happening, she was wedged between Aunt Minerva and, oh dear God, Mr Grayling. Then the vicar was intoning something and out of nowhere, five babies, two of them squalling, wriggling bundles, were placed into the arms of Aunt Minerva, Lady Umbrage, Antoinette and another fierce-looking noblewoman whose allotted infant immediately began to wail.
It was soon joined by the infant Mr Grayling was holding with, it had to be said, commendable calm. Of all of them, Aunt Minerva seemed the most ill at ease. Thea saw the child had white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes. It was a beautiful baby, but it clearly wasn’t a happy one.
A few gulps of air did nothing to calm the child and after the third gasp, it promptly regurgitated the watery contents of its stomach all down Aunt Minerva’s puce velvet spencer.
With a cry of horror, her aunt nearly dropped the little creature who would have landed on the cold stone floor had Thea not leapt forward and arrested its fall. The feeling of the baby against her chest was nearly too much. She’d have liked to have held the little darling forever but dutifully she tucked its loosened swaddling cloths about its rigid little body and held it out to her aunt.
The reaction was not what Thea was expecting for Aunt Minerva stepped back, palms outwards as she hissed, “I don’t want it! You hold it!”
Thea was only too glad to oblige; and indeed, the moment the child was cradled against her chest it calmed instantly. It even began to coo. Thea grinned, turning her face to find herself looking directly into—her heart hitched—Mr Grayling’s beautiful eyes. His interested gaze completely robbed her of breath away and a strange curdling sensation in her lower belly was followed by an unnerving clutch between her legs—a feeling so alien to Thea, she feared that she herself might drop the poor little mite she now held. It smiled a toothless grin and gripped Thea’s finger with its tiny fist, and instantly Thea felt her whole being relax as she gazed down at the little foundling who soon would have her aunt’s name bestowed upon her.
Now that the infant had quietened, Aunt Minerva jabbed Thea’s shoulder and reached out for it. Reluctantly Thea relinquished the child.
Silence descended upon the congregation and the vicar had just begun to speak when his words were drowned out by a tremendous squalling from Aunt Minerva’s temporary charge. Clearly the cherubic creature had enormous objections to its chosen benefactress and a pair of lungs that would rival those of a bellowing bull—or Aunt Minerva when she had a bone to pick with Thea.
Thea sent a panicked look at her aunt who now jabbed Cousin Antoinette in the ribs in order to effect a hasty swap of her unsavoury charge with Antoinette’s placid, dark-haired child.
“Looks like a gypsy but at least it’s quiet,” she muttered as she carried out the trade.
Antoinette shrugged, smiling at Thea, who transferred her glance to Mr Grayling. His close proximity continued to send powerful tingles of awareness through her. Very strange, she thought, confused, when she’d convinced herself she never wanted to see him again.
The white-haired child in his arms was sleeping peacefully, and when Thea saw its tiny sixth finger, she nearly gasped out loud. It was the child of the woman they’d nearly run over on their way into Bath.
Shocked, she transferred her attention to the child held by the gentleman beside him, struck by its head covering of fiery copper down. Indeed, that was the child of the willowy, black-clad mother standing on top of the hill who’d apparently been determined that her child should occupy the foundling basket at the expense of the well-dressed child with the sixth finger.
Tears pricked at her eyelids. She’d seen these two children with their mothers at the moment of separation. She’d watched as the one broken-hearted mother, clearly from a good family, had been forced to part with her baby while the other mother had been prepared to use whatever aggression necessary to foster out her own.
No, Thea could never do that. Give up her infant. Oh, she understood a single mother had no chance of supporting a baby, though the shame of such a thing happening to her would be enough to kill her she was sure.
It went without saying that the procedure necessary to create a babe was bad enough but as a single young woman she was confident there was not the remotest possibility of anything like a child out of wedlock happening to her.
The naming ceremony was a hasty affair. Clearly the noble patrons were not expected to suffer the contaminated children for long, and after the event had been recorded in the ministerial book, the assembled party proceeded to the lawns outside Lady Umbrage’s Queen Anne style manor where several tables beneath the trees were laden with a selection of pies and tarts and fruit.
Aunt Minerva was overjoyed to be invited to converse with her ladyship while Fanny and Antoinette made themselves scarce, leaving Thea standing awkwardly beside a plate of strawberries.
Usually Aunt Minerva had her niece at her beck and call, so it was rare for Thea to enjoy a moment’s freedom. Bertram and Mr Grayling were deep in conversation and when she caught the latter gentleman’s eye, he looked away, as if he were remembering their last embarrassing encounter.
Prickles of self-consciousness stole up her bare arms and she rubbed her gloved hands together and turned to walk sedately along the gravel path towards a copse of trees nearby. She’d made a proper mull of things and she regretted everything that had happened—including her response—but, she told herself, it was best that he be under no illusions as to her character.
No, Thea was in fact glad that Mr Grayling knew she was not a young woman to trifle with. It was all very well for Antoinette and Fanny to say he was looking for a wife of passion after his first disappointing experience with matrimony, but Thea clearly wasn’t going to answer to his needs. She was simply not the passionate type.
And she was as poor as a church mouse. Mr Grayling had no reason to be interested in her at all.
She soon lost herself amongst the trees, the voices from the invited guests carried on the breeze. It was so pleasant to be alone like this. No Aunt Minerva with her demands. No Fanny or Antoinette or Bertram with their expectations.
As the sun warmed her cheeks she took a seat on a large, dry flat rock and leaned over to stare at her reflection in the still waters of a pond surrounded by an ornamental rock garden. Fanny had gifted her one of her old gowns and Thea had recently trimmed her poke bonnet with a floral profusion of which she was rather proud. She looked well enough and supposed it was as Bertram had said; that some respectable clerk might be in a position to one day offer for her and so release her from her dreary existence with Aunt Minerva.
She shifted a little and the gold locket her aunt had lent her swung forward over the water. Fearful it might snap, Thea snatched at it, but her sudden movement was obviously too much for a weak link.
With a gasp, Thea watched helplessly as it plopped into the water.
Chapter 12
ALTHOUGH Sylvester nodded sagely as Bertram Brightwell waxed lyrical on a sure way to roll the dice in one’s favour, he was having a hard time attending. Out of the corner of his eye he was acutely aware of Miss Brightwell’s languid form by the refreshments table. She was alone. And as her ghastly aunt was fawning over Lady Umbrage, this was surely his moment to apologise and, he hoped, orchestrate some future tryst.
When he next craned his head around Lady Quamby’s elaborate bonnet, Miss Brightwell had gone but a glimpse of white showed her on the path towards the water garden he knew was encapsulated within the copse of trees some distance away.
“Nature calls,” he murmured, turning in her direction.
Bertram followed his gaze, gave a knowing look when he too saw Thea, and sighed gustily. “Only four months left to live.” He put his finger to his nose and jerked his head in the aunt’s direction. “I’ll make sure the old termagant is occupied for the next fifteen minutes.”
With a grateful nod, Sylvester set off, circumnavigating the gardens to reach the rock-strewn pond by the east side.
As he’d expected, she was waiting for him, sitting on a rock and dipping her now ungloved hand through the water. A frisson of excitement mingled with pride speared him, for after their last less-than-stellar encounter, he’d anticipated far greater resistance.
His letter must have struck just the right note with its suggestion that if she felt she could bring herself to forgive him, she only had to give him some sign. Yes, indeed a secret message or artfully constructed letter was obviously the way to communicate with greater success than trying to speak to Miss Brightwell.
The look they’d exchanged, and the fiery blush that rose to her cheeks just before she’d started across the lawn, could not have been interpreted any other way than as an oblique indication that she’d be just beyond earshot and out of sight. If the next few minutes went well he’d have to send Miss Brightwell another secret letter with regard to the masquerade ball he would be attending the following night.
Sylvester halted a few yards away to savour the vision. There she was, illuminated in a shaft of sunlight, the sweet profile of her rosy cheek angled so that if he looked a little closer he could see the slight swell above her bodice and the point at which her breasts separated. Intriguing and most lust-inducing. Especially when he considered her dampening response to his initial overtures.
Had that been a test? he wondered. Without a doubt Miss Brightwell was a shy innocent. Perhaps something had changed since he’d tried to kiss her. Was she now more cognizant of the fact she must make the most of the few short months she had left? Surely that must be it, otherwise she’d never have ventured across the gardens, alone, having just signalled to him to follow her.
The knowledge that she’d decided, after all, that she liked him enough to allow him the honour to coax her into a greater appreciates of life’s pleasures nearly overwhelmed him.
But he’d be discreet. He’d pretend he’d simply come upon her by accident. That would be far kinder and more likely to elicit the outcome he desired. Of course, if the young lady knew she were dying and looking for some small measure of brightness in a dull and dreary world that otherwise revolved around that gorgon of an aunt, she’d also not want him making any sign that he knew of her impending mortality.
As he was on the point of declaring himself, a bird’s call coincided with a splash and the young woman’s dismayed cry.
He saw her lean over the water, put out her hand to reach for something, and in a few strides he was behind her, gripping her shoulders and pulling her back. Good Lord, what was she doing? She was about to surely tumble into the murky depths if he didn’t stop her.
But he over-anticipated her stretch and, to his acute embarrassment, he actually caused her to sprawl backwards onto the gravelled path.
Stunned, she looked up at him, shading her eyes and obviously taking a moment to gather her surprise in registering that he’d made it so quickly to her side after leaving the others.
“Miss Brightwell, a thousand apologies for my clumsiness!” He knelt at her side, then finding her somehow across his lap and registering her shock, he realised he was again taking matters too far.
He quickly set her neatly and safely back on the flat rock where she’d been before and took a seat beside her. They’d get back to a position of intimacy in good time though with only fifteen minutes he needed to act fast.
“Oh, Mr Grayling, my aunt’s locket has fallen into the pond.” That seemed to be her primary concern and he was glad to be given the excuse to lean forward so he could put his hand on her shoulder in order to follow the direction in which she was pointing.
He could just see the shiny object lying on the dark, slimy bottom.
“Aunt Minerva will never forgive me if I go back without it.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “It’s too deep for me to reach it.” Giving him a look as if to size him up, she added, ingenuously, “In fact, I think it’s decidedly too deep for your arm to reach it, too.”
She began to cry. Sylvester stared at her. Were those tears genuine tears of fear for that awful aunt’s rage, or cleverly orchestrated so that Sylvester would be induced to play the gentleman?
Which of course would require him to remove his boots and breeches, even if he might possibly reach it without resorting to such drastic measures.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked when he had one boot off and the other about to follow.
Surprised, he halted. But of course, she knew nothing of men. She wasn’t a schemer and her words weren’t calculated to make him do what a more experienced woman might see as a shortcut to pleasure.
“Er, Miss Brightwell, I cannot bear to see you so distressed.” He sounded clumsy to his own ears as he rose and tried to ameliorate the situation with a courtly bow. She was clearly not used to demonstrations of a man’s willingness to please. But of course, she wasn’t used to men at all. He needed to go very slowly with this one. Barefoot, he stood upon the rock a little above her. “Please allow me to render assistance in the only way I know, though it will require me to undress in order to swim down and reach it. I think I caught a flash of it in the light but I’m willing to plunge into the depths if it will save you from your aunt’s wrath.”
“But the others—”
“Bertram knows I’m here. He’s keeping your aunt occupied for the time I need to…apologise to you for my deplorable behaviour the last time we met, and now you’ve provided me with the perfect opportunity.” He lent across and reached for her hand and suddenly he really did feel the need to atone. Let him play the gentleman and let her peek as much as she wished.
He had to swallow to get the next words out for the effects of the curdling warmth he felt at the simple touch of her soft palm against his big, strong, calloused one took him completely by surprise. A great wave of tenderness enveloped him an
d suddenly he wanted only to hunker down, envelop her in his arms and…just hold her for now, she was so very sweet and appealing.
Instead he said, all manliness, “If you would avert your eyes, I’ll do what I need to in order to retrieve your aunt’s locket. We can emerge at different times to preserve modesty, naturally.” Unable to stop himself, he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
He was not prepared for the effect this simple act had on him.
Like a charge of lightning, the softness of her skin communicated itself to his core in a great surge of feeling, and as her large, innocent eyes looked fearfully up at him, Sylvester was swept by the overwhelming desire to be her champion. A champion in far more than simply retrieving a lost locket, or indeed showing her what delights life had to offer. That seemed suddenly venal and self serving. No, he wanted to be her real knight in shining armour. “I pledge that I shan’t do anything that might embarrass you, Miss Brightwell.” He inched his head a little closer and could hear her short, sharp breaths. Either she was distraught about the locket or his closeness was having as intense an effect on her as it was on him.
“Would you? Fetch the locket I mean? I dare not face Aunt Minerva without it.” She turned, covering her face with her hands. “Don’t worry, Mr Grayling, I won’t look.”
Sylvester rolled his eyes as he unbuttoned his breeches, staring pointedly at her back and willing her to venture a quick glance over her shoulder as he divested himself of all his clothes. Let her look now and see what she thought so he could gauge how he might proceed.
But she stood up and walked a little distance away, staring doggedly at the shrubbery, tense as if she were terrified they’d be surprised.
“Do hurry, Mr Grayling, though I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. I’d go amongst those trees if it wouldn’t expose me to the others,” she added, as if she truly were concerned for his modesty. “Just tell me when you’re…when it’s all right to turn around.”
Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2) Page 11
