Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

Fanny nudged her. “Smile,” she admonished in a whisper. “Always remember to smile, no matter how afraid or how excited or otherwise you are. Ah, Mr Ponsonby, of course I remember you. How delightful.”

Despite the fact Fanny was clinging to her handsome husband’s arm, Thea was astonished by the attention she and Antoinette received from gentlemen from all walks of life. Lord Fenton didn’t seem to mind. Thea gazed dreamily at him. He was the epitome of any girl’s wistful fancies, she decided, with his devilish good looks, his nonchalance and, above all, his obvious devotion to his wife.

Lord Quamby was not here this evening but Antoinette did not seem to miss her husband and Thea was quick to notice the disapproval in her aunt’s eye as she watched her niece flirt with a great many clearly entranced young men.

Forming a rather regal group, the Brightwells and Lord Fenton progressed through the room, greeting friends and causing more than a ripple of interest from those on the sidelines, Thea noticed self-consciously. She was of course aware of the whispers of scandal—thanks to Aunt Minerva’s information—that surrounded her cousins, but she could also see it had not been to their detriment and that indeed a well connected husband made up for any amount of prior scandal.

Still, Thea acknowledged she wasn’t a risk-taker like Fanny and Antoinette even if she wouldn’t have minded an opportunity to at least be temped to do something scandalous.

Antoinette, who’d linked arms with her as they made their progress, suddenly gripped her wrist and Thea heard her slight intake of breath. Surprised, she raised her head as her cousin stopped to address a dark-haired man with the most arresting eyes Thea had ever seen; though not in a handsome way, she quickly noted, for they rather resembled coals glowing in his pale face. Meanwhile his lips were curved in a thin line and his expression as he gazed at Antoinette was decidedly dangerous.

Of middle height and neither slender nor portly, he was exquisitely turned out and yet Thea had the impression his coat of superfine would have looked better on a lowly footman or coal lugger. She shuddered inwardly. There was something decidedly off about this young man who, though he smiled and enquired after her health in an apparently congenial manner, continued to look at Antoinette as if he’d like to do her a great deal of damage.

“Dear Mr Bramley, it is always delightful to see you but I really must not keep you from your friends…though perhaps you’d like me to tell you about young George.”

Once Antoinette had dispensed with the introductions, Thea had imagined she’d move on in the face of such blatant hostility dressed up as social nicety, but her cousin remained, telling Mr Bramley, almost coquettishly, “The lad is so strong and lusty these days. You’d be very welcome to pay us a visit before the christening next week. Lord Quamby thinks baby George has his nose, but indeed it is just like yours, my darling boy’s own beloved Uncle George.” She turned to Thea. “Do you not think baby George has a nose just like Mr Bramley’s? Or perhaps, Mr Bramley, I can call you ‘nephew’ and we can be on more familiar terms, now that we are related. Well, by marriage at any rate.”

Thea didn’t know what to say. There seemed some odd, almost dangerous subtext behind her cousin’s words.

George Bramley glowered but Fanny arrived at that moment, draped over her husband’s arm. Taking her sister’s wrist, she gave it a little tug, saying with a smile and a nod at Mr Bramley, “There are so many charming people to greet tonight, I’m afraid we really must proceed. Come, Antoinette. So delightful to see you again after so long, Mr Bramley.”

Carried along in their wake, Thea stretched around to look over her shoulder and was surprised—and a little daunted—to observe the fulminating look in Mr Bramley’s eye as he stared after them.

“Have I missed something?” she asked, once they were gathered around the refreshments table. Antoinette was helping herself to ham and chattering to a fair-haired gentlemen—though flirting was perhaps a more apt description.

In a discreet undertone, Fanny whispered, “Mr George Bramley is the nephew of Lord Quamby.”

“I know,” said Thea.

“He’s also the father of little George.”

Thea nearly dropped her plate. “No!” Wide-eyed, she stared at Fanny. “But…how?”

Fanny sent her a considering look. “One day I shall tell you exactly how but perhaps here is not the place or time. Just one word of warning…” Her look became serious. “I can’t say this too many times, Thea. You must beware of Mr Bramley. He has no love of the Brightwells. Fortunately Antoinette and I survived the scandalous things he put about regarding us last season that would have ruined our entire family’s prospects. I just don’t want him doing the same to you.”

Nodding, Thea was about to spear a thin piece of buttered bread when now it was her turn to gasp.

“What is it?”

Thea knew she was beginning to resemble the strawberries garnishing the syllabub. She was ever one to show her heart on her sleeve, and even though she shook her head to deny anything was the matter, she could not fool Fanny, who immediately deduced the truth.

“He must be quite the Corinthian to have elicited such a reaction.” Grinning, she rescued Thea’s teetering plate and put it on the table. “I first thought you’d seen a gown you covet but indeed that gasp was uttered in such tones it soon became clear a young man was more likely. Well, do point him out.” There was laughter in Fanny’s voice before she sobered, not yet looking in the direction in which Thea was staring, wide-eyed. “First, though, a word of advice. Take a deep breath, pull back your shoulders and look away. That’s right. You must learn to temper your emotions a little better, Thea, if you are at least to fool Aunt Minerva.” Now Fanny squinted in the direction where, a second before, Thea’s attention had been riveted. “Ah…I think I know who he is, or at least Bertram does, so I can orchestrate an introduction but if you show how much you’re dying to dance with him in front of Aunt Gorgonia, you know you’ve damned your chances.”

Thea nodded miserably. “I know, and I also know it’s perfectly pointless. Please don’t say anything to Bertram. Just let me look at Mr Grayling from afar. I can at least pretend there is some prospect of hope.” She put her hand on Fanny’s sleeve and added urgently, “Promise you won’t say anything to anyone?”

Fanny shrugged lightly as she loaded her plate. “If that’s how you want it, Cousin Thea. But remember, you’ll never get anywhere in life if you don’t put the wheels in motion, so to speak.”

Thea stared at the array of ham and thinly sliced bread and butter spread out upon the table. She had been ravenous when she’d arrived but suddenly she had no appetite. Mr Grayling might have made an unexpected appearance and given her heart a tremendous jolt of pleasure but, in truth, there was no possibility of Aunt Minerva countenancing anything between them. Not even a dance.

Despite Fanny’s bolstering, Thea’s own gloomy predictions seemed destined to win the day. Seated on her aunt’s left side a little later, she responded as required—in the affirmative—each time Aunt Minerva made a comment, such as, “What a charming toque Lady Milton is wearing.”

“Indeed it is.” Obediently, Thea picked up the refrain.

“Her daughter certainly has a face that would push up mushrooms.”

“Hmmm.” This, she uttered in vague tones.

“Well, doesn’t she?”