Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

Within a few minutes Fanny found herself alone in the drawing room with her erstwhile suitor, abandoned by her mother and siblings at the request of the ageing viscount who had ‘something of importance’ he wished to say to Miss Brightwell.

Fanny knew what this meant as she put her fingertips briefly to her eyes which suddenly stung with tears. But Fanny never cried. Her mother had taught her how to hide emotion. If only she’d taught her how to stop feeling.

And now her whole body seemed suddenly under attack from a plethora of feeling.

There’d been a time when she’d have done anything to evoke the gleam of approval in her mother’s eye that had been in evidence before Lady Brightwell had unctuously acceded to Lord Slyther’s request for privacy. Now Fanny experienced again that strange feeling in her chest cavity where her heart felt it was beating too rapidly to be healthy only this time it wasn’t excitement that was the cause, such as last night’s extraordinary interlude, it was panic.

Lord Slyther was about to make her an offer and she should be overjoyed. At the very least, she should take consolation from Antoinette’s remark regarding his imminent demise. Until last night she would have—but until then she’d not known the liberties, the intimacies that would become the preserve of her new husband. Last night, she’d responded to a stranger in the most extraordinary and illogical way. She’d not even seen his face properly, yet her body and her mind had been drawn to him, purely through the timbre of his voice, his manly, musky smell, the strength of him and— undoing her completely—the intimacy of his touch when he’d taken her properly in his arms in the barge and kissed her with both passion and sweetness.

Unconsciously, she touched her finger to her lips, her mind transporting her back to that wondrous moment. Then she clasped her hands together. It was too much to think of that, now. Too much to think of what it might be to feel something other than disgust and aversion to the man who would enjoy husbandly intimacies, conjugal rights. No—in return for the Brightwells retaining their position amongst the ton, Fanny must give herself to this disgusting, odious man mind before her, body and soul.

As she straightened in her spindly, uncomfortable little chair opposite Lord Slyther, striving for the demure pose required, unable to rid her mind of the thrilling events of last night, she nearly wept.

“Come here.”

Fanny blinked with surprise. The viscount was leaning forward, indicating with an imperious wave of one bejewelled hand that she should seat herself on the footstool on which he rested his bandaged foot.

From their first meeting at a dinner three months ago, he’d made no secret of his interest in her, and within the week had spoken to Lady Brightwell. In a gesture of unprecedented kindness her mother had not accepted Lord Slyther’s proposal upon the instant. This, though, could have been on account of the fact that as the prospective mother-in-law her mother would have known she too, would have to suffer his putrid breath whenever visits were exchanged.

Of course, bargains had of necessity been made, Lord Alverley being the prize Fanny had failed to obtain. Now Fanny was simply paying her dues.

“You wish me to sit by you, my lord? On the footstool?”

He grunted his agreement.

It was irregular and not very courteous, Fanny thought, as she transferred herself and awkwardly lifted his leg so she could sit down. When he made it clear he wanted her to rub his leg, she gingerly replaced his heavy, swollen limb across her lap. With an effort she managed not to wrinkle her nose at the unpleasant odour of ulcerating flesh, which all the bandaging could not disguise.

Lord Slyther grunted again as he shifted himself more comfortably in his chair. “So, you know why I’m here, and you’re prepared, are ye, Miss Brightwell?”

Fanny blushed. She was here, of course, because she was the spoils of a bargain Lady Brightwell had made with Lord Slyther; and she ought not feel so ashamed. She was no different from any other penniless young woman seeking security in a perilous world that offered little to those whom fortune failed to smile upon. Yet most gentlemen making an offer in such circumstances would maintain the charade required by good manners.

She hesitated before saying demurely, just as her mother would have her say, “I do not know what you mean, my Lord.” If she’d been able to follow her own inclinations she’d have leapt to her feet, told him there’d been a terrible misunderstanding and she’d decided to join a nunnery.

Becoming a nun would be preferable to marrying Lord Slyther, except that then Antoinette would have to become a governess and there’d be no one to bail out Bertram next time he suffered a gaming loss.

Fanny had always found that if she breathed very slowly and carefully and replayed in her mind exactly the tone in which her mother would have her respond to a would-be suitor, she could survive the ordeal. There’d been several pleasant enough gentlemen in the past whom she’d have married with little angst—young, immature boys who’d clearly been taken with her at a ball or assembly—but ultimately the marriage proposal for which her mother was angling never quite came.

“I think you know exactly what I mean.” He chuckled. “Well, keep up the play acting, my lovely Miss Brightwell. The prospect of tutoring an innocent pleases me…for all you were not so innocent last night.”

She gasped and her fingers tingled. The shock blanching her skin white and bloodless would be a testament to her guilt but she said nothing. Then a wonderful thought intruded. Perhaps he no longer wished to marry Fanny after all. Fanny didn’t care how he might have known what she’d been up to last night, but if he simply withdrew his offer and Lady Brightwell was none the wiser as to the reasons Fanny would be the happiest young lady in the world.

“It’s pleasing to observe genuine contrition for such unladylike behaviour, but you failed, did you not, Miss Brightwell?” He leant forward, bringing his face close to hers, and she smelt the stink of his breath, like there was something rotting within him. Forcing herself not to recoil, she braced herself for his next words.

“You accompanied young Alverley to Vauxhall, alone and unchaperoned, but he did not make you the offer you took such risks for, did he?”

Fanny hung her head, the weight of Lord Slyther’s bandaged leg making her thigh hurt—like her heart, her dignity… “Who told you this, my lord?” There was no point denying it and now her brief euphoria was replaced by the knowledge of her stupidity. She had compromised her reputation.

Survival now depended upon knowing what else and how much else he knew.

“Never you mind, my dear. Suffice it to say it was a friend. A friend I did not know I had until he came to me shortly after your mother’s surprise and welcome visit to see me yesterday.”

She felt rather than heard him chuckle, his body creating ripples of m

ovement that increased her fear like a rising tide.

“Your friend must dislike me very much.” What else could Fanny say? So she had an enemy. Someone who was clearly hoping to ruin her. But why? Surely not a jealous fellow debutante for Fanny had never succeeded where another had failed when it came to the ultimate prize: marriage.

“On the contrary, your friend likes you only too well. Like me, he was vastly put out when the engaging Miss Brightwell felt her beauty and her wit could override her lack of dowry and the scandal of her father, putting her above the likes of…”