He cleared his throat and spoke the truth. “Believe me, Miss Brightwell, if I had the funds to provide for both of us in the manner you deserve, I’d be on bended knee this moment.” Never had he been more sincere. “The fact is, however, I can only continue my life of relative ease—and indeed, provide a life of comfort to my future wife—if I were to marry someone with...”
“Money,” she supplied, which silenced him a moment as he wished the plain facts of the matter didn’t make him sound so mercurial.
He squeezed her hand. “You deserve a life of greater comfort than I can afford to give you, for without money, our love would struggle and die.”
She drew in her breath on an audible gasp. “Then you do love me?”
She was too close for comfort and her direct question could only be answered with the truth. He’d give it to her, but that would be all. He would not forget himself and make declarations that would give her joyful visions of tripping down the aisle with him having overcome all the arguments he put forward against such a journey.
He wasn’t sure how it came to be but suddenly she was in his arms, her soft cheek pressed against his, her little fingers gripping his as she brought their joined hands up to her breast. “You love me but you do not wish to marry me,” she clarified softly.
“It’s not that I do not wish to marry you, I simply am not in a position to honourably offer marriage to you.” He was very conscious of the swell of her bosom beneath the hand she clasped and had to force himself not to caress it.
One last time, he thought as, despite his very best intentions, he smoothed the silken fabric gently over her bodice, delighted to hear how her breath quickened. He caught himself up and was about to withdraw his hand when she caged it with her own and put her lips to his in the gentlest, briefest of kisses.
The sweetness and tenderness was too much. His body was on fire but her innocence had to be protected. Yet one kiss was surely not too much to ask?
“I’m going to leave you soon, Miss Brightwell,” he murmured, eyes closed but reluctant to move his mouth away from the proximity of her lovely face. Her lips were a hairsbreadth away from his own.
“I know,” she murmured, her soft breath like a caress.
It was almost more than he could bear; as was the fact that her voice was filled with forgiveness rather than the pain and recrimination he deserved as she went on, “But you have been honest with me, and in fact you’ve been duped so I can hold no grudges.” She drew in a laboured breath. “Of course you must ask Miss Huntingdon to marry you. I would just ask that you kiss me one last time.”
It was more than he could have hoped for and he’d meant to do so with chaste gentleness in a farewell tribute. Certainly he had no intention of doing anything that would whip up desires he could not control…but who would have thought that gentle innocence would unleash such a beast within him? She was good to the core of her being and he was a cad who could only cause her hurt and grief.
Yet as their mouths fused, his good intentions fled and indeed he was the beast, uncaged. Only by the greatest exercise of restraint was he able to resist taking full advantage of the invitation she extended towards him as she draped herself over his lap.
Her breasts pressed against his chest, heaved with emotion, while her soft sighs of pleasure only excited him more. Their closeness was infused with raging need yet Sylvester was careful to limit her exposure only to kisses.
They’d done so much more than this, before, but the knowledge this would be their last encounter charged it with an eroticism so staggeringly intense he thought he might lose his senses to the desire to possess her in every sense.
Except he could not; though with her mouth so ripe and yielding and her kisses so inflammatory, it was difficult to remember why he could not.
Money.
A vision flashed before him of his mother; of the estate he would likely inherit. Entailed and needing funds to keep intact the heritage of hundred of years.
If only things had only been different… Lord, how he wished he could make her his while she was so very willing. If not for all the good reasons he’d catalogued preventing such a union, he’d dish out whatever was required for a special licence or whisk her off to Gretna Green. If not for his mother and family expectation, the estate, and the knowledge that he’d soon have to provide for a growing family, he’d do what he wished above all things he was able to do: make her a marriage offer.
It was she who brought their kiss to an end. Drawing back, she looked at him with those unsettling clear eyes of hers that, in the light of the lamp under which they’d drawn to a halt, he saw glistened with unshed tears. Still breathless, she whispered, “I’m not blaming anyone…except myself for being so naïve.”
Though her features were indistinct in the gloom, he could not doubt her sincerity. “My cousins told me your first wife was a…cold woman and that you needed to be persuaded of my genuine affection for you. I never would have behaved so improperly without their pushing me to be alone with you. I know they did it because they thought that what happened to them could happen to me.” She gulped in a breath and straightened. “Mr Grayling, I’m truly sorry I’m not dying for then you’d have pursued your plans of showing me everything a woman in love would want to know before she breathed her last.”
“You are in love with me?” He’d been about to explosively deny the allegation of him having ever been married but now it was more important to seize the moment and hear those sweet words repeated.
“Of course I’m in love with you!” She sounded indignant as she rested her chin in her hand, leaning into the squabs. The carriage had stopped some minutes ago but they’d given no signal to the coachman who remained obediently in his position on the box above. Perhaps he’d tried to get direction. Perhaps he’d been given instructions to wait quietly until told otherwise. Sylvester didn’t care. Miss Brightwell’s declaration meant more to him than anything right now.
“I love you more than I can tell you, Mr Grayling, and that’s the truth! When you were kissing me, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. And then I remembered what we did before.” She wriggled, as if her body were reliving the experience and he had to exercise every restraint not to move forward and take this as an invitation to slide his hand beneath her skirts in a prelude to the next stage of intimacy. Dear Lord, it was what he wanted more than anything!
Just in time she remembered himself; while she, it seemed was inconveniently remembering just what he was trying to put out of his mind. “Oh, but that was so delicious!” she uttered in tones of rapture, closing her eyes as she moved forward to rest her head on his shoulder. She opened one eye and asked anxiously, “We can have just these few moments together, can’t we? I mean, now that you’re assured I won’t wrongly think it’ll lead to offers you’re not in a position to make.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “Just being with you now is the nicest feeling I can remember.” She snuggled closer and murmured, “Until you showed me in the Oriental Pavilion, I didn’t know such feelings existed. Now I have something truly memorable to think of when I’m someone else’s wife.”
The idea of her becoming someone else’s wife took on suddenly horrific proportions. To think of someone else being in a position to coax such delightful responses from such an adorable, innocent creature was a painful blow to Sylvester’s honour, and a sharp dose of reality.
“Someone else’s wife?” He straightened and looked down at her while she gazed back, smiling.
“Of course. More than anything I want to be a mother. You’ve shown me what it’s possible to feel here.” She touched her heart, adding as she dropped her eyes, which is why I’ve decided not to accept Dr Horne when once I might have done—”
“Good Lord! What are you saying, Miss Brightwell!” he exclaimed. “Dr Horne?”
She looked surprised as she wriggled upright. “Didn’t you know? Yes, he’s made me an offer which Aunt Minerva is strongly encouraging me to accept since she believes some
secret admirer is about to declare for her.”
“Your aunt Minerva is about to be married?”
“She believes she is, and that’s why she says I need to find somewhere else to live. But however much I try to reconcile myself to what I must do to have any kind of marriage, and knowing that at least marriage to Dr Horne will give me babies that will make my life worthwhile, you’ve shown me that a whole other side to…feelings I never knew existed, and after this evening I don’t think I could ever marry Dr Horne since that’ll entail doing with him what I only want to do with you.”
“Good Lord!” There! He’d said it again but the idea was preposterous. First that she could even talk about wedding another when she was in his embrace, not to mention making reference to the marriage act, but that she’d actually been considering Dr Horne.
She looked so dismayed he held her tightly as he reassured her, “My dearest girl, I had the greatest pleasure showing you how a man and a woman who love one another proceed to show it in the most intimate manner.”
“You love me! Oh, I do like to hear it!”
She looked so happy about this Sylvester nearly blurted out the idea that had taken root just a moment before and which refused to be dislodged. Yes, tomorrow he would see his uncle’s Man of Business. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was some way matters and economies could be arranged to accommodate a marriage that brought in nothing from the bride.
Impulsively he held her tightly, his tone more impassioned than before as he spoke the truth. “I perfectly adore you, Miss Brightwell! And, like you, I cannot stop thinking about how well suited we are and wishing we could take this further in the Oriental Pavilion where we had such fun the other day—”
“Before you realized my cousin Bertram’s wicked lie had led you up the garden path.” She drew back, her look crestfallen as she forestalled the words he would say to indicate his altered intentions. “Do you know,” she went on, “I would have taken any risk for you to have shown me all the pleasure to be had between a man and a woman.” With a tentative glance at his bulging breeches she added, “Cousin Antoinette described what happened to a married woman in the most appalling way. I thought I’d never want to marry except that it’s the only way to beget children and I do want a great many children, which is of course another reason why you can’t possibly afford to marry me. One’s offspring are very expensive, so Aunt Minerva says.”
Her sigh was followed by an immediate brightening. “I shall always have wonderful memories of you, though, Mr Grayling. You shall be the benchmark by which I measure all others.”
“Good god, how can you say that when I’m about to pass you over for the most mercurial of reasons.” Except that perhaps this would not have to come to pass. Perhaps, when he had a proper consultation with his man, Hookes, over his financial affairs, he could find a way forward. He shook his head vehemently, realizing their time together was nearly at an end. At least for tonight. Gripping her hands, he said urgently, “I shall send you a note, Miss Brightwell. Give me a couple of days but if I can effect the means of offering you what you deserve, I shall send you a note requesting that you meet me at the Oriental Pavilion. If I do that, you can be assured that not only do you have my heart—which you know already you have—but my assurance that I can follow it up with a marriage that indeed can offer you—and our children—the comfort and security we would want.”
“Really, Mr Grayling?” She gasped, biting her lip while her eyes danced with excitement. Then she sobered, saying in resigned tones, “And if it cannot be, you will not send me a note and will instead offer for Miss Huntingdon.”
But already Sylvester had discounted that option. By the time he’d seen her safely whisked indoors by her Cousin Fanny who was clearly keeping a sharp lookout and was waiting near the front door, he knew that by hook or by crook, he intended to find a means of offering Miss Brightwell not just his love but his hand in marriage.
Chapter 20
SEVEN hundred pounds simply to persuade Miss Brightwell into a hot air balloon? Another seven hundred to have his proposal accepted? Oh, he could manage that when the girl realised she had little choice in the matter.
And a further seven hundred pounds for the birth of a bonny bairn nine months later.
The more George Bramley pondered such a scenario the more he felt satisfied. Of course, a man like himself ought to be able to snare a debutante with a dowry that was handsomer than this trio of wagers, should he win them, but there was a certain satisfaction to the whole idea of marrying a Brightwell and being paid handsomely to do so. Hadn’t the Misses Fanny and Antoinette led him a merry dance — but their brother was a fool. Which begged the question of why George had not sought earlier to capitalize on what was common knowledge: that Bertram Brightwell could be made to fall for any trick in the book with a little massaging of the ego.
As he walked the path that led into the woods, he touched his left cheek where the enchanting termagant had struck him the other night, and grinned. There was more spirit to Miss Brightwell than he’d expected. The thought gave him a little thrill. He’d enjoy taming her. So many of his daydreams involved taming her eldest cousin, the haughty, alluring, irresistible Lady Fenton, as she now was, but it seemed whatever he did, the common Brightwell sisters had always been just out of reach. Having witnessed their fondness for their quiet, pliable cousin, Bramley could easily imagine their dismay at his snatching Miss Thea Brightwell from under their noses and whisking her down the aisle.
The pine needles crunched softly underfoot as he anticipated what lay ahead. He was under no illusions she’d go willingly, but this afternoon’s visit to a woodsman, the nephew of a man who once owed George a favour and who had since proved his worth, was to shore up what he saw as only a minor difficulty. At least George had the reassurance that someone would be on hand to use a little force if George failed to gently persuade Miss Brightwell into the hot-air balloon that would be waiting to take to the skies as part of the celebrations surrounding the birth of Quamby’s heir. He nearly choked on his bile as he thought of the infant—his own son—who had usurped his position as the next Earl of Quamby. But short of murdering baby George, his hands were tied.
Marrying Miss Thea Brightwell was the next best thing. Aside from the fact that the last few days he’d nearly split his breeches in anticipation of possessing such a delectable personification of beauty and innocence and being paid for an outcome whereby she’d find herself in no position to refuse him, he could not wait to see the expressions on the faces of those wretched Brightwells when they had to acknowledge that George Bramley was not only cleverer than they’d given him credit, but in fact cleverer than all three of them put together.
The hovel where George was headed was located deep in the forest about two miles from the Earl of Quamby’s estate. George knew exactly where he was going, for he’d called upon Splice on several previous occasions when he needed something doing of a dubious nature. He doubted many would trust the barrel-headed rustic who’d finally answered his summons, but George knew Splice was discreet.
As long as he was paid as agreed.
The light was fading when George stepped over the threshold, so the room in which he was invited to put his proposition was dark and gloomy. Hessian bags covered the windows and the dirt floor exuded a pungent odour that suggested Splice shared his abode with his pig and his goat.
It didn’t take long to explain exactly what he needed doing. Nor was there any indication as to how Splice felt about performing what might be deemed an illegal act, were he to have to use brute force rather than enticement.
“One final thing.” George turned back after he’d taken a couple of steps. “Bathe in the stream before you meet Miss Brightwell, otherwise she’ll smell more than a rat. Those clothes you’ll be wearing were borrowed from a gentleman and cost a pretty penny. I’d rather not have to burn them when you’re done.”
A heavy melancholy weighed on Thea’s shoulders as she sat at her aunt’s fe
et, holding a skein of thread, dreaming of her last encounter with Mr Grayling.
Her euphoria had drained away once she contemplated the truth of the situation. A gentleman couldn’t conjure up a fortune out of nowhere. Mr Grayling could not suddenly be in a position to ask her to marry him tomorrow when the previous day he’d declared himself just as in love but lacking sufficient fortune in view of his multiple familial obligations.
Of course, it was more than just having a carriage and the funds to enjoy the season once a year which might be major considerations for minor gentry. It was how to make the funds available do what they had to do—and Mr Bramley had more than just himself to consider. It wasn’t simply an ambitious mama he had to satisfy, but rather an estate he was likely to inherit, which required enormous upkeep. Hundreds of tenant farmers and servants would depend upon Mr Grayling being in a secure financial situation and Thea now realised how important it was to so many for Mr Grayling to make an illustrious marriage.
Yet…and this was where a small ray of hope shone through the rest of the gloom and doom. Mr Grayling had said it had been too long since he’d discussed matters with his man of business. He’d given her distinct reason to hope. And why? He’d discovered himself genuinely in love with her. Yes, he’d been duped and he’d been angry, but that anger was not directed at Thea and it had given way to relief that Thea in fact was not at death’s door; that she was a vibrant, healthy young woman who made him realize life’s possibilities. Those had been his very words, in fact!
Rogue's Kiss (Scandalous Miss Brightwell Book 2) Page 20
