And Thea was quite dying for him to run his hands over her body, which she discovered was a riot of sensation craving attention. She arched against him and although he’d begun in the most gentlemanly manner, holding her waist and her hand, no gentleman could have mistaken her ardour. She didn’t care. The champagne had gone to her head and the night was just perfect for romance. Let her dalliance in Bath be something to remember her whole life. She didn’t want to be like Aunt Minerva, who had only bitter memories of what might have been. Thea doubted Aunt Minerva had ever been kissed in her life.
But this was wonderful. She drew in a shaking breath as his hands strayed to her bodice; and her mind, which she’d imagined would revolt at the prospect, now screamed silently for his touch and the caress of her naked skin.
Sprawled in a chair at one of the card tables, Bertram watched Thea disappear up the stairs with Mr Grayling and gave a great sigh of satisfaction.
Oh, but if there ever was a man to effect a triumphant outcome when all other avenues were set to fail, I am he, he thought as he toyed with the buttons of his checked waistcoat and considered his cards.
His companion, the odious George Bramley, picked up from the pile while Bertram grinned at his own modest hand. No matter, he had a rare ability to turn the tables and Mr Bramley was in his cups—unlike Bertram who was keeping a very cool head, if he said so himself.
“You’re looking mighty smug,” his companion remarked with a sniff.
Bertram glanced at George. “And come to think of it, you’ve been mighty long in the mouth all evening.”
George harrumphed. “Your sister reminded me that my attendance is required at the christening of my so-called nephew.” His lip twitched and he glowered at Bertram as he muttered, “My uncle’s bastard, that is—and as you well know.”
“Come, come, all’s fair in love and war. You were hell-bent on ruining my sister. Ruining all of us Brightwells, if the truth be told,” Bertram said equably. “I don’t know why you’re here playing cards with me, come to think of it.”
“I always win, that’s why,” George muttered, leaning back. “At cards, that is. And you always think this time it’ll be different. But don’t you worry, I’ll not only win this game, I’ll wreak my revenge on you and your upstart clan. Now, match that.”
Bertram groaned as he conceded the point, placing face upwards his inferior five. To make himself feel better he sniffed and added, “My sisters have already run rings around you, and I’m not so silly either.” George Bramley was insufferable with his misplaced sense of superiority. The man had never got over being rejected by Bertram’s sister, Fanny, and then cuckolded—if that was the right term—by Antoinette.
So Bertram puffed up his chest and tried to keep his mouth shut but the desire to beat his own drum was too great. Of course he should keep mum. The less George knew, the better. Bertram was astute enough to know that. But all it needed was George to say, with a singularly interested look, “Well, spit it out Mr Bertram Brightwell, who is apparently so clever. I can’t imagine you’ve ever been clever in your life. In fact, I can’t imagine how your sisters put up with you, to tell the truth.”
No, Bertram just couldn’t resist giving just a hint of his cleverness, even though he knew as he spoke the words he should be biting off his tongue instead. “Oh, I’m devilishly appealing in my own appalling way, is what my sisters tell me when they’re not berating me or beating me over the head with a slipper. That’s exactly what Antoinette did only last night when she learned how clever I’ve been.” He cleared his throat and ordered his features as common sense returned. “Anyway,” he added resolutely, “I can’t say more because to tell you would not be very clever at all.”
“I can’t tell if you’ve been clever unless I know what you’ve done that may or may not warrant the term ‘clever’.”
Bertram considered this with a frown. “True, true.” But of course he couldn’t tell George. Not their arch enemy, though of course George would have no interest in innocent little Thea who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and Bertram knew George reserved his spleen for those who’d directly opposed or bested him.
Inside, Bertram glowed at the way his plan was taking place. The problem with devilishly cunning schemes, though, was that success usually relied on keeping them secret.
But just a hint might be enough to win George’s interest and regard; get his brain working and wondering…
“It’s just a little matchmaking matter I’ve orchestrated. Nothing you’d be interested in.” Bertram leaned forward and began to shuffle the pack, hoping on the one hand George would persist with his questioning so he could be elusive and thereby irritate his opponent, while on the other hoping he’d not inspire Bertram to any kind of further discovery.
“Arranging the futures of baby George and Katherine already?” George asked sourly. “Or your own? Lord knows, there’s not a young lady in the whole of England who’d take on a reprobate without a single redeeming feature, I don’t imagine.”
“What, me?” Bertram enquired, offended. “Good Lord that’s rich, coming from the blackguard who seduced my sister as revenge for the other one rejecting him.”
“Is that what they told you!” George straightened in indignation before relaxing again, adding, “I shan’t dignify that with a comment.” He sighed, knocked back the last of his drink then fixed George with a baleful stare. “You know, Brightwell, you and I are both beyond the pale. Untouchable as far as the fairer sex is concerned.”
“Speak for yourself, Bramley.”
“I haven’t seen you sneak up the back stairs with some tidy little piece to make love to behind some Roman plinth like Grayling, the old wolf.” George’s sourness had not abated. “Only if you pulled off such a feat would I hold you in any esteem whatsoever. I can’t imagine how Grayling managed it, unless he’s with one of your sisters. Certainly no one but a Brightwell would be bold enough to risk her reputation like that.”
“Or someone who’s dying.”
George’s bulbous eyes grew larger above his thick nose. “You’ve had too much to drink, old chap. You’re not making sense.”
Bertram tried to hold his tongue but even focusing on a very luscious redhead who was, he was certain, sending him speaking looks from the doorway couldn’t still the words that rose to his lips.
And when the redhead tittered and blew a kiss at a puffed up popinjay who happened to be standing behind Bertram, those words came tumbling out.
“I say that if someone was told a person was dying, or they believed they were dying, who knows what risks they’d be prepared to take?” Bertram tried not to look so self-satisfied, fearing the depth of George’s inevitable interest. He wanted to be questioned only enough to be admired. After that, he’d close his mouth.
“Grayling is dying? Where have you heard this?”
“No, the young lady Grayling is with is dying.”
“Good God, are you plotting murder now, Brightwell? How will that aid your cause? Why, you’re stupider than I’d thought.”
“I am not stupid!” Bertram jerked forward angrily, scattering his hand and causing he redhead to jerk her head up in alarm before she took the arm of her padded dandelion and swept from the room. Bertram felt doubly riled. “I told Grayling the young lady in question was dying. I said it would be a kindness to show her what pleasure she’d be missing out on if she was destined for her deathbed in the next six months.”
George looked as if he failed to understand Bertram’s reasoning. “Good Lord! But if she’s a young lady worth her salt, she won’t let him near her with a barge pole.”
Now it was time for Bertram to appear enigmatic. “She will if she believes he’s looking for a wife with a bit more fire than his first and she has not a penny to fly with.”
“Grayling’s been married before?”
“Lord, now look who’s being stupid. I don’t know if Grayling’s been married before. What’s important is that he thinks she’s dying and she t
hinks he’s after a wife—one who’s prepared to go the distance.” Bertram pointed up at the long gallery above them where a distinct gasp was borne to their listening ears in a sudden moment of quiet from the orchestra.
He looked challengingly at George. “Why don’t you go up and disturb them? Take an audience with you and then he’ll be obliged to marry her.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Lord, I’m not telling you that.” George leant back, his hands laced over his stomach as he grinned at George, watching the fellow’s mobile ugly face and feeling as if he’d scored a great victory. It was good to know that once again that odious villain George Bramley had been bested.
With growing satisfaction Bertram watched the surprise on George’s face turn to prurient understanding before George chuckled.
Ha! Bertram felt very clever indeed as he faced his arch enemy over the ruins of the card table but it was he who was going to have the last laugh as another Brightwell scored a magnificent marital coup.
And to think that George Bramley believed he was so much cleverer than all of them put together.
Chapter 14
PERHAPS I’ll wear the pink and grey waistcoat after all, Nesbitt.” Sylvester stared critically in the looking glass before turning to gaze out of the window while his valet fetched the garment. The grey cobbled street below was wet with rain while a tenacious sun tried to penetrate the thick cloud.
Like Sylvester’s mood, the day had switched between dismal and full of expectation. The sweet kisses the adorable Miss Brightwell had showered upon him during their several stolen moments in the Long Gallery had been deeply addictive; their time together too short.
“And, I think, my diamond cufflinks. Ah, thank you.” He took the neck cloth held out to him then deftly executed a Mathematical Tie which he’d recently adopted in preference to the more severe Oriental.
The last thing Miss Brightwell needed was severity. He wanted her to regard him in a gentle, welcoming light.
He also wished to be immaculately turned out today, and not just for the benefit of the ladies Quamby and Fenton, the christening of whose delightful little cherubs he was attending.
He paused a moment as he contemplated the past couple of days. It was rare he’d kissed a woman and come back wanting more to such a degree. The contact had been brief, chaste even, but the memory of the smooth, soft cheek he’d cupped and the brush of her chestnut curls across his own jawline was incendiary.
He wanted her with an intensity he found hard to fathom. She was enchanting.
But she was also dying.
The thought gave him a jolt of real dismay.
Dying. He shuddered. He didn’t want her to die. Nor did he want to feel pity for her. No, he wanted her like a real woman, to share his life and his bed.
As he fastened on his cufflinks he paused. Had he really thought that? He wanted her as his wife?
Why, that was impossible. Miss Brightwell was dying and Sylvester was required to focus his attention on the living; on choosing a suitable bride of impeccable lineage with at least an adequate dowry.
Unlike the very suitable and clearly enthusiastic Miss Huntingdon, Miss Brightwell had neither.
“Thank you, Nesbitt. How do I look?”
“Like a man on outfitted for success.”
Sylvester grinned at the ironic smile his loyal retainer had flashed at him as he rose from his bow, then turned towards the door with a final glance outside.
The sun had succeeded in burning a hole through the cloud and he was struck by the parallel with Miss Brightwell’s bold attempts to seize life and love. To be so full of both at this moment but to know death was imminent. Lord but she was brave. And he deserved to make her final months or weeks of good health ones she’d remember until the very end.
The chapel on the Earl of Quamby’s estate was full when he arrived, and he took a seat in a pew near the back, his attention fully on alert when he saw Miss Brightwell enter in the wake of her cousins and take up position as godmother to the baby George. Lord Quamby looked smug and patted his wife’s arm a number of times as he appeared to congratulate her, though he noticed the earl’s cousin, Mr George Bramley, who was godfather, seemed particularly out of sorts today as he glowered in the background.
A surprising choice of godmother, he reflected, considering Lady Quamby must know of the girl’s imminent demise. Though perhaps it was her final kindness.
Across the sea of heads he caught Miss Brightwell’s eye and smiled. Yes, the kisses that had fired him up in the long gallery had made him desperate to take matters to the next level.
The problem of course was the lack of freedom Miss Brightwell was granted by her aunt. If he could only find some means of dealing with the old termagant.
After the service, parents and godparents moved outside with their offspring while members of the congregation milled around, offering their congratulations.
Sylvester seized his chance when Miss Brightwell was beside Lady Quamby whose placid baby was garnering such attention. He was about to address the countess when Lady Quamby handed over her child, and now the recipient of everyone’s good wishes was in the arms of the very woman he wished to speak to. He’d be able to get close without causing undue interest, for he certainly had no wish to be seen dangling after the girl he knew desired—so sweetly and innocently—to know the pleasures of seduction before her world ended.
And with mixed feelings, he was ready to cater to her desires. Her family sanctioned such intimacies; indeed, Bertram Brightwell had made this very clear in a brief and subtle conversation they’d shared not two minutes’ before, out on the path by the rose garden.
And subtlety was what was required. For the sake of Miss Brightwell’s reputation, Sylvester would let the world think his sights were set on Miss Huntingdon.
Sadly, he felt it inevitable that he was set on a path to marrying Miss Huntingdon. The fact was, however, that his heart was wholly engaged by Miss Brightwell.
Sylvester gazed at the dark-haired little mite who was squirming in Miss Brightwell’s arms. Its cross little mouth was pursed until it seemed almost to split open, suddenly ejecting a spatter of regurgitated milk upon Miss Brightwell’s shoulder. To his surprise, the girl laughed while her cousin, the child’s mother, simply screwed her face up in disgust and turned to speak to a red-haired young man.
Sylvester was about to make some trite remark about infants and to sympathise, but Miss Brightwell’s expression stayed him. Miss Brightwell had put her cheek to that of the cherubic child, closing her eyes and smiling to soothe it, and in that instant a strange thing happened to Sylvester’s heart. He could almost picture himself in a situation of domestic bliss with the mother of his child gazing upon their joint creation with similar adoration.
Sylvester had had little to do with children but his own upbringing had been devoid of parental affection. The pater and mater were both fond enough of him in their own way, but a succession of nurses and nannies had supplied all his needs and his parents were somewhat superfluous and distant personages who made polite enquiries over matters that were of mutual interest, like horse racing and hounds in his father’s case, and town gossip in his mother’s.
To see Miss Brightwell so obviously enamoured with another woman’s child was extraordinary; to witness such genuine maternal sentiment, yet to know, also, she would never experience the joy of her own children was suddenly extraordinarily poignant.
“What a picture of bliss, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured. “I suspect this won’t be the last time you’ll be offering your services to hold Lady Quamby’s beautiful baby.”
Miss Brightwell blushed delightfully and his gaze was drawn to her pretty pink lips, whose softness he remembered so well. In contrast came the memory of the thrilling tautness of her nipples when his hands strayed beneath her bodice. Perhaps she remembered it too, for she reddened even further as a look of acute shyness crossed her face.
“I do adore babies,” she confe
ssed.
“Of course I know it. I remember well your distress when you observed the unfortunate incident of the child near the foundling hospital.”
“And then the poor gypsy child who had my Aunt Minerva’s name bestowed upon her. Oh, but I hope it’s not a curse.” She put her hand to her mouth and glanced around, clearly fearful her aunt may have overheard. “You won’t tell anyone I said that, will you?” She looked guilty but also conspiratorial, and Mr Grayling surreptitiously put his hand on her wrist. “Only if you don’t tell anyone about the long gallery.”
Even her ears went pink at this. She cleared her throat and checked to see if anyone was in earshot but it seemed baby George’s puking had put everyone off for they were now alone. “Mr Grayling, I was deeply wrong to…to…”
He raised one eyebrow and looked enquiring. “To what, Miss Brightwell?”
She shook her head. “You know very well what I mean.”
“I think perhaps you’d better meet me at the Oriental Pavilion, where you can be more explicit, Miss Brightwell.” He raised his head, contemplating the sky before adding, “Let’s say in ten minutes? There’s not much we can do when you are so closely chaperoned but if you can somehow be granted twenty minutes’ freedom, then we can arrange somewhere later on that’s a little more…private?”
He laughed as her mouth dropped open, though he pretended he was about to address Lady Fenton on Miss Brightwell’s other side when he added, furtively, “Lord, but you are adorable when you look so shocked. I do love an innocent. One who has fire inside—and who can set me on fire.”
“Mr Grayling!” Her bosom heaved and her expression was a mixture of outrage mixed with reluctant collusion and, yes, very obvious intrigue and desire. She drew in a shaky breath. “The Oriental Pavilion in ten minutes? Alone? What can you be thinking?”
He slid his gaze from her moist, parted lips to ensure there were no sudden interruptions from the guests gathered about Lord and Lady Quamby, for Lady Fenton had moved away now.
Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2) Page 14
