Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2)

by Beverley Oakley

  Her aunt looked thoughtful. In fact, a strange wistfulness crossed her features as she settled herself comfortably in her armchair and fingered the corners of her shawl. “The truth is, the novelty’s worn off, Thea.” Her look became enigmatic as the corners of her mouth turned up. “And now that a certain gentleman has begun to communicate secretly with me, offering me the chance I brushed off years ago, it is my duty to think of you and your future.” She fixed Thea with a level stare. “If you have a better offer than Dr Horne’s, my girl, then by all means I’d encourage you to take it.” She shrugged and raised her palms outwards. Otherwise I really don’t know where you’ll live.”

  “A better offer than Dr Horne’s,” Thea sobbed half an hour later, raising red and swollen eyes from Antoinette’s bed and encountering the concerned looks of both her cousins. “I haven’t heard from Mr Grayling since…since I…” She couldn’t finish, breaking into fresh sobs as Antoinette and Fanny exchanged glances. They knew exactly what Thea was talking about.

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason,” Antoinette offered weakly. “Perhaps he’s just gone away unexpectedly.”

  “He liked you very much, Thea,” Fanny said with a forced smiled. “It was quite plain to see, believe me.”

  “Just not enough to make me an honest offer. Or even to ask me to dance one more time. He saw the beautiful dress you lent me, Cousin Fanny, and he liked my face, but then he learned of my circumstances, my poverty.”

  “Oh Fanny, what should we do?” Antoinette asked in some discomfort after they’d bathed poor Thea’s heated brow and sent her to bed with a sleeping draught. “She’s distraught and believes he’s forsaken her because she’s not good enough. We can’t possibly tell her the truth.”

  “No, we cannot,” Fanny affirmed with some force as she lounged in her sister’s private drawing room. “It was Bertram’s foolish idea to tell him a lie in the first place, and now that Mr Grayling’s not done anything that requires him to do the honourable thing, it really does look like Thea is going to have to marry Dr Horne.”

  “Marry Dr Horne! How can you of all people suggest such a thing?” Antoinette rounded on her, nearly breaking the ostrich feather she’d just attached with a green ribbon to her bonnet. “You did everything you possibly could to avoid marrying Lord Slyther after mama decided that you marrying him was necessary for us all to avoid poverty and disgrace. I do believe you’d have killed him, if you’d had to.”

  “And risk the gallows? No, he’d have brought on his own early demise through the pleasurable pursuits I’d have devised for him.” Fanny winked then added, thoughtfully, “But Thea must play the poor hand she’s been dealt. She must take risks just as I had to take a huge risk to make my cards fall my way.”

  “You know Thea is not a risk-taker, Fanny. Certainly not like you and me.” Antoinette sashayed in front of her looking glass admiring the waving feathers in her bonnet. “Poor Thea. She did like Mr Grayling so much and now he’s—

  “Been wagered to ask a certain fair haired miss to marry him in a hot air balloon,” Bertram drawled, entering the door at that very moment. “At least, that’s what I propose will happen. Gad, but the wagers that some people do come up with. I’ve been racking my brains to match ‘em but I declare that this one will fire ‘em all up, not least Grayling.”

  Fanny groaned. “And what good will that do? It won’t make Mr Grayling any plumper in the pocket if he does propose and as the likelihood is about as good as…you marrying the Princess of Spain… you’ll only be asking Quamby to bail you out again!”

  She squeezed shut her eyes as she sought forebearance. “No, I fear Mr Grayling is about to offer for Miss Huntingdon and besides, five hundred pounds isn’t nearly enough compared with Miss Huntingdon’s fortune.”

  Bertram tapped the side of his nose. “I know that my sisters think I’m not so clever sometimes—”

  “That’s what you said before you devised that ridiculous idea of telling Mr Grayling poor Thea had only six months to live.” Fanny sent him a withering look. “It would have been better never to have raised her hopes, since he clearly isn’t the kind of gentleman to put his heart above his pocketbook. Well, I suppose Dr Horne will be kind to her. A poor, impecunious elderly doctor marrying a lovely, beautiful young woman. Life is cruel!”

  “But she’ll get her offer from Mr Grayling, I told you.” Bertram looked offended. “My wager is only the start of something much bigger. Trust me on this, my dear sisters. Everything will go according to plan. In fact, so confident am I that have staked the reputation of the entire Brightwell clan upon the outcome.”

  And with these encouraging words he gave a flourishing bow before returning up the hill with a decided swagger in his step.

  Chapter 18

  DAMN, but Sylvester could not banish from his mind the images of hope that radiated from Miss Brightwell’s shining smile followed by the confusion of her clouded gaze once Bramley had laid it all out on the table, so to speak.

  Indeed, such thoughts made him feel like a butterfly pinned to a cork board as he glanced from the looking glass which reflected his clumsy attempts to tie his cravat to the side table upon which lay his mother’s no-nonsense missive which made clear that such a union was completely unacceptable.

  With a grunt of irritation he tossed the starched neck linen onto the pile of other failed attempts and picked up a fresh length. It was no surprise that in less than twenty four hours his venerable mater was apprised of how matters stood with her only son. She’d have made a formidable commander in the recent wars with France if she’d been a different gender but as she was the female head of an old and powerful family, she’d made matchmaking her special interest. Her stamp of approval or otherwise carried enormous weight.

  Sylvester resumed his task with grim determination though he was not generally so exacting in the matter of his dress. Briefly he closed his eyes. Anything to hold at bay the myriad of uncomfortable, gut-churning thoughts that filled him with desire and remorse—even though he knew he’d been set up and was justified in the self righteous fury he felt.

  Of course, a handsome dowry would put things right though of course if a handsome dowry were in the offing there’d have been none of the subterfuge Miss Brightwell’s family had gone to such pains to orchestrate and thereby trap him.

  And if Miss Brightwell came with a handsome dowry he’d have no compunction in offering for her. She’d have the credentials that would satisfy his exacting family, namely his mama. This knowledge was as uncomfortable as thoughts of Miss Brightwell’s distress—and his raging physical desire for her—and he despised himself for it.

  So as he finally declared himself satisfied with his fifth attempt at an Oriental tie and prepared to meet headlong the challenges that awaited him at Lady Camperdown’s ball, he knew his biggest challenge would be his own conflicted desire.

  He simply hadn’t the words to tell her that he was no longer a prospective suitor, when of course his ardour in the Oriental Pavilion Room would have told a completely different story.

  When he reached his destination and the doors were opened wide to issue him inside he raised his eyes to the shimmering chandelier and prayed silently for fortitude as the warmth of heated bodies hit him.

  Of course, the moment he dropped his gaze, fate would have it that the first person he locked eyes with was the charming, damnably irresistible Miss Brightwell.

  The intense rush of lust took his breath away but he was ready. All such inconvenient emotions must be tempered by the dampening thought that she—or at least her conniving cousins—had planned to see him in parson’s mousetrap; that their machinations were motivated by greed and familial self interest rather than a simple desire to secure the happiness of a beloved cousin.

  With a curt nod he turned to survey the rest of the room and found himself being regarded with distinct interest by Miss Huntingdon. She was standing beside her mother and another elderly matron, obviously bored while they nodded their
heads together in deep discussion. Three or four days ago, when the situation was very different, Sylvester would have made a beeline for Miss Brightwell, avoiding Miss Huntingdon whom he’d have made a point of acknowledging in a manner that gave her no ideas of anything serious for the meantime, at any rate.

  Now Sylvester, racked with guilt, forced himself to adopt a nonchalant attitude as he wandered over towards Miss Huntingdon who, he tried to persuade himself, had eyes every bit as alluring as Miss Brightwell’s.

  Instantly her mouth curved into a delighted smile, which only reminded him of how damnably kissable Miss Brightwell’s mouth was. Clearly Miss Huntingdon was easy prey and quite amenable to a match with him; yet with her handsome dowry she could have snared a man with a title or a far greater fortune than he possessed. Sylvester merely had grand expectations and the weight of five hundred years of family dynastic considerations upon his shoulders.

  “Would you care for this next dance?” he asked, hardening his heart to the pain he glimpsed in Miss Brightwell’s lustrous eyes.

  Thea’s eyes widened with hurt and horror at her aunt’s acerbic tones.

  “Surely you knew from the outset Mr Grayling was after a fortune, my girl. Stop wearing your heart on your sleeve. You’ll only shame yourself further.”

  Shame herself? Hadn’t she done that already? Stifling a sob, Thea swung round, unable to tolerate her aunt’s taunts any further, and promptly ran into a gentleman who’d stepped that moment into her path.

  “How clumsy of me. I do beg your pardon, Miss Brightwell,” came the distinctly recognisable and unpleasantly familiar tones of Mr George Bramley. “Why, I have dislodged the pearl comb in your hair. I shall wait while you adjust it and then let me atone by leading you into this dance. Would you oblige me?”

  Others nearby were filing onto the dance floor and Thea, who was quite incapable of the rudeness required to decline, found herself similarly herded into the centre of the room, while the back of her neck prickled and her hands became moist in her neat kid gloves.

  “What has occurred to wipe from your pretty face the charming smile I remember from last time we met?” he asked.

  Horrified and embarrassed, Thea realised he was alluding to baby George’s christening.

  “You look shocked, Miss Brightwell. I’m sorry if I’ve said something to compound my having already found myself in your bad books.”

  “No, not at all, Mr Bramley.” Thea heard her voice as a faint, pathetic thread of sound but it was all she could manage as she recalled just how radiant she must have appeared when he last saw her, having so recently stepped out from the delights she’d revelled in with Mr Grayling in the Oriental Pavilion.

  And there, over Mr Bramley’s right shoulder, she could see Mr Grayling himself, now conversing with Miss Huntingdon in remarkably animated tones as they awaited their turn to perform their figures down the room.

  Could she feign illness and make a hurried departure? The idea was appealing, but at the same time she couldn’t rid herself of the thought that possibly, just possibly, Mr Grayling was simply attending dutifully to Miss Huntingdon before he turned the full force of his attention back to herself.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Bramley. I’m not feeling myself tonight. I’m sure it’ll pass, though.”

  “I do hope so.” He touched her elbow, almost in a caress, and Thea jerked her arm back as she brought her chin up.

  His smile was knowing, and with a surge or horror, Thea realised, as the innocent she no longer was, that Mr Bramley was speculating on something. Something unpleasant and pertaining to her.

  Staring resolutely over his shoulder, she tried to blank her mind to all but her dance moves, which she realised she now had to perform. Linking elbows with the hateful Mr Bramley, she performed a couple of doh-si-dos, never more relieved than when she could step back and face him with a good couple of feet separating them.

  He’d been looking at her with that sly, speculative expression peculiar to him as if he wanted to do with her exactly what Mr Grayling had already done. Well, something improper. She swallowed down her anguish. Could he know?

  No, she couldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t!

  “Miss Brightwell, something really is troubling you. A megrim? Perhaps some fresh air is what’s needed.”

  “I’m quite all right, thank you, Mr Bramley. And I believe this dance is nearly at an end. Please, will you escort me back to my aunt?”

  “I’m offended you wish to leave my company so quickly. Let us linger a little, Miss Brightwell. Has anyone told you how delightful your dimples are when you smile? Regrettably they have been absent all evening. I should wish very much to be in a position to restore them.”

  “You are not able to do that, Mr Bramley.” She tried to step past him, for he was forcing her to linger in an area near the French doors where suddenly she felt very alone and vulnerable, his bulk impeding her progress, his unpleasant, sneering face peering with far too much familiarity into her own.

  “Unable to? Why so, Miss Brightwell? Because something has made you sad this evening? Surely I should at least be allowed to try to rectify that.”

  “You could never manage that, Mr Bramley. Now please, let me pass. My aunt is only a few feet away. You can leave me now.” She knew she was too sharp with him the moment the words were out but she didn’t care. She couldn’t bear being in his company a moment longer. He was odious. Her cousins were right and she should have heeded them from the beginning and found any excuse not to be in his company. He was playing with her because he could. Because she was fair game and the cousin of the women who’d belittled him in the past.

  “Of course, Miss Brightwell. I trust you’ll feel better soon.” His voice was cold, his eyes full of malice as he bowed in farewell.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, Mr Bramley,” she whispered, running a hand across her brow. “You’re right; something has upset me this evening.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  He was gone when she looked up once more but Thea was more relieved that she didn’t have to pander to his peevishness than concerned at having put his nose out of joint.

  “Ah, Thea.” Aunt Minerva gave her a distracted pat on the shoulder as she re-joined her. “I’m glad you’re back. Mr Granville has been looking in this direction but my eyes aren’t good enough to discern the quality of his look, if you will. Of course, his letters suggest he’s leading up to something but he’s not yet had the courage to act. The fact he hasn’t written in a couple of days suggests he is fearful of his reception. Tell me, girl, what exactly is he looking at and how is he looking at it?” She patted one of her chins and gave a little self-conscious toss of her head.

  Thea peered in the direction her aunt had indicated and indeed, there was Mr Granville, staring right in their direction. She squinted, widening her eyes with surprise when he smiled broadly at her, nodding in apparent appreciation before offering a well-executed bow.

  “Well, what is it, Thea? You look shocked.”

  “He’s just executed a very elegant bow. Surely you saw that, Aunt Minerva?”

  “Mr Granville bowing at me?” Her voice was a little breathless. She drew herself up. “Why, when will that man find the courage to do what’s been in his heart these long weeks?”

  “Not quite two, Aunt Minerva,” Thea reminded her, though her mind was on quite another matter. For there was Mr Grayling, staring at her from across the room. And if she weren’t mistaken, there was a look of both longing and something else. Anger? No, how could she interpret it as that when, if anyone had a right to be angry, it was she?

  Only devastation would be a more apt description. What had Thea done to warrant such a change in attitude? Her body felt both hot and then immediately chilled. Was there something wrong with her that she didn’t know about?

  But then he nodded. Yes, she was sure that he nodded and indicated the door to outside.

  It was an invitation, surely, and Thea’s heart was pounding as s
he hastily made her excuses to her aunt that she’d be back shortly.

  Inveigling her way into a large party just leaving, she was soon through the French doors and in the moonlit darkness, hurrying quickly around the side of the building and into the shadows. Never in her life could she have imagined risking her reputation like this, but the alternative—marriage to Dr Horne—meant she’d do whatever she had to in order to find out from the man she truly loved exactly how matters stood.

  “Miss Brightwell.”

  She swung round at the voice that issued behind her from near a large, thick-trunked tree but instead of being filled with joyful excitement, she shrank back. Oh dear Lord, no. How had she stepped into such a trap?

  “How delightful to find you here. And all alone? Waiting for me, I suspect. After that convincing little show of coyness, you almost led me to believe you found my company repugnant. Yet here you are, waiting for me.”

  Thea put her hands up to his chest to push Mr Bramley away, for he’d stepped forward, his arms outstretched as if he truly meant to embrace her. The effrontery was shocking. And yet, she realised she’d put herself in this situation. She had no one but herself to blame and she must call on all her resources to extricate herself.

  “I do find your company repugnant, Mr Bramley!” she hissed. “Unhand me this instant!”

  “You are very fierce in your desire to be rid of me, Miss Brightwell.” Thanks to the slash of light from the brightly illuminated windows above, Thea could see his displeasure was more genuine than merely for show. His eyes were dark with more than just brooding displeasure, his mouth a taut, hard line. In fact his whole attitude was combative; as if he were ready to pummel Thea for every slight he’d sustained, perceived or otherwise. However, he merely gripped her wrists. “Your cousin didn’t find me repugnant. In fact, that flirtatious little trollop, Lady Quamby, happened to find my attentions distinctly more appealing than those of her husband, my uncle. She led me a pretty dance and then betrayed me, you know. That’s why I’d hoped another Brightwell might show remorse.” His voice hardened. “And if not remorse, then atonement.”