Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

He shivered though his blood was boiling by the time the two cloaked figures reappeared nearly an hour later. He saw the older woman hurry into the carriage while the other paused for a moment upon the top step. Straining, Lord Fenton tried to identify the lonely, straight-backed figure as Miss Brightwell. He wanted desperately to be proved wrong but when she raised her lovely, familiar face to the light spilling from the lamps he nearly wept aloud with disappointment.

Miss Brightwell’s perfect, high cheekbones cast shadows over her rosebud of a mouth and her dimpled chin as she gazed into the darkness.

Thinking of what? Fenton, or the man who kept her? A gamut of unpleasant emotions roiled in his gut. He’d been in the market for a wife and Miss Brightwell had seemed a gift from heaven—a creature who combined everything he desired. He’d had enough of transient pleasures. Spending so much time in the country, as he would from now on, he wanted a wife to please him in bed as much as she did over breakfast and…well, during every other part of the day.

He was about to turn away when he saw her put her hand to her neck; to the chain upon which she kept Lord Slyther’s ring. She had secreted it away for the brief duration of their own clandestine tryst, but now she had returned it to its original position. With a sharp tug, she tore the chain from her neck. The ring skittered to the flagstones at her feet.

Lord Fenton watched her stare at it, as if undecided.

Then, slowly, like an old woman, she bent to retrieve it before putting it in her reticule.

In his mama’s Mayfair drawing room the following morning, Lord Fenton paced between fireplace and window, his thoughts in turmoil. His mindless activity clearly infuriated the dowager who eventually snapped, “What is wrong with you, Fenton! Spit it out, for I cannot keep my mind on my stitching while you’re behaving like some lovelorn schoolboy…unless you’re dunned and too afraid to tell me.”

Fenton stopped by the stuffed mongoose in its glass box atop a round table and managed a wry smile. “I’m not the gambler I used to be, Mama.” He let out a deep sigh as he looked out of the window, his gaze taking in a couple in the park across the street. Newlyweds, by the look of them, their fair heads bent towards one another as they discussed something in animated fashion, their bodies suggesting a companionable union.

“So, no, I’m not dunned.” Though, to tell the truth, he might be accused of lacking the courage to tell his mother the exact nature of his distraction. Anyone would consider it a gamble to stake his happiness on a bold young woman whom he’d met for the first time when she’d encouraged his all but complete seduction of her. The truth was, despite everything he’d heard and the scene he’d witnessed in the dead of night at Lord Slyther’s residence, he still held out hope that Miss Brightwell remained a contender for the position of his viscountess.

He ran his hand around his shirt collar and sighed again. What was the truth behind what he’d seen last night?

Until he’d witnessed Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther, he’d convinced himself that Bramley’s spurious words were borne of spite and a need to avenge himself on a woman who more than likely had spurned him.

He’d taken Bramley to task for his heedless behaviour towards Miss Antoinette, but perhaps it had not been so heedless. Perhaps Bramley had every indication that Miss Antoinette was in the market for nefarious activities if so inclined—that, like her elder sister, she was indeed willing to barter her body if the price was right. He had a sudden vision of Miss Fanny Brightwell allowing Lords Bickling and Slyther the same liberties she’d allowed him the previous night and pain tore through him like a sabre.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched the young couple reach the gates of the park, where the woman stopped and laughed, as though her companion had made a joke. She raised her head, touching the young man’s cheek, revealing her age to be at least two decades older than her companion—perhaps mother or aun

t.

Fenton nearly laughed out loud. Appearances were not always what they seemed. The observation ignited a spark of hope that made him raise his shoulders and turn towards his mother. No doubt there was some perfectly acceptable reason for Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther. The young woman had been chaperoned and there was every possibility of some family connection that Bramley, with his vulgar talk, had discounted. His imagination had conjured up all manner of lurid possibilities the night before because he’d been tired and had had too much to drink.

Fired up with fresh hope, he said, “Old age must be catching up with me, Mama, for I’ll admit to being tempted by the idea of marriage for the very first time in my life.”

Hah! What did he care for the opinion of others? It was a gamble he was prepared to take.

He wanted Miss Brightwell and he wanted her for his wife. His mouthed stretched in a grin. Lord, the sight of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece was like gazing into the past—to the eager schoolboy he must once have been, contemplating some great adventure or intrigue.

Marrying Miss Brightwell would be both.

“Why, Fenton! This is news to me. Who is the young lady?” The severe lines around Lady Fenton’s mouth softened when she smiled.

“Miss Brightwell.”

It was the brittle silence more than the gasp—which could have been occasioned by the accidental stabbing of her needle into her thumb—that said more than words. Words, however, were quickly forthcoming.

“Miss Brightwell?” His mother looked stricken, disbelieving and furious at the same time before she rose from her chair, her needlework falling at her feet. “Miss Brightwell! Oh, dear boy, pray don’t break your mama’s heart. No, no, it cannot be she who has stolen your heart—”

Fenton made no move towards his mother’s open arms. His tone was cool, though his feelings were the very opposite. “Pray tell what might discount her candidacy, Mama? I am aware that her father disgraced himself and that she comes with no dowry, but I love her.”

Lady Fenton’s ashen face took on the heat of indignation. She clenched her fingers and drew in her breath. For a moment words failed her, before she croaked through bloodless lips, “The girl’s mother was a toad-eating upstart who sold herself for a title. A cooper’s daughter!”

“She married Lord Brightwell in a union that, while not spectacular, was not ignominious.” Fenton’s voice rose. “Is there a slur upon the reputations of either Miss Brightwell or her newly fired-off sister?”

“If you were a woman you’d blush at the tactics that Friday-faced miss used to entice Baron Brightwell. Now I hear she’s prepared to go to any lengths to snare good matches for her daughters. No doubt she’s parading her girls like—like enticing sweetmeats before any old duke or viscount in an attempt to ease the family’s financial woes. No, I wouldn’t put a little procurement past Lady Brightwell.” She all but spat the name.

“Mother!”

“You have no idea, Fenton.” His mother’s lips were a compressed line. “I went to school with the designing creature. Her father made his fortune through trade. He thought his money could put her on a par with the daughters of baronets, if not earls.” Lady Fenton’s lip curled. “No, nothing was too good for little Miss Lottie Lucas as she was then and, believe me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t put past her.”

“You went to school with her? I know, too, your father was a friend of the fourth Baron Brightwell. Nothing wrong with the lineage, Mama…”