But this was wonderful. She drew in a shaking breath as his hands strayed to her bodice; and her mind, which she’d imagined would revolt at the prospect, now screamed silently for his touch and the caress of her naked skin.
Sprawled in a chair at one of the card tables, Bertram watched Thea disappear up the stairs with Mr Grayling and gave a great sigh of satisfaction.
Oh, but if there ever was a man to effect a triumphant outcome when all other avenues were set to fail, I am he, he thought as he toyed with the buttons of his checked waistcoat and considered his cards.
His companion, the odious George Bramley, picked up from the pile while Bertram grinned at his own modest hand. No matter, he had a rare ability to turn the tables and Mr Bramley was in his cups—unlike Bertram who was keeping a very cool head, if he said so himself.
“You’re looking mighty smug,” his companion remarked with a sniff.
Bertram glanced at George. “And come to think of it, you’ve been mighty long in the mouth all evening.”
George harrumphed. “Your sister reminded me that my attendance is required at the christening of my so-called nephew.” His lip twitched and he glowered at Bertram as he muttered, “My uncle’s bastard, that is—and as you well know.”
“Come, come, all’s fair in love and war. You were hell-bent on ruining my sister. Ruining all of us Brightwells, if the truth be told,” Bertram said equably. “I don’t know why you’re here playing cards with me, come to think of it.”
“I always win, that’s why,” George muttered, leaning back. “At cards, that is. And you always think this time it’ll be different. But don’t you worry, I’ll not only win this game, I’ll wreak my revenge on you and your upstart clan. Now, match that.”
Bertram groaned as he conceded the point, placing face upwards his inferior five. To make himself feel better he sniffed and added, “My sisters have already run rings around you, and I’m not so silly either.” George Bramley was insufferable with his misplaced sense of superiority. The man had never got over being rejected by Bertram’s sister, Fanny, and then cuckolded—if that was the right term—by Antoinette.
So Bertram puffed up his chest and tried to keep his mouth shut but the desire to beat his own drum was too great. Of course he should keep mum. The less George knew, the better. Bertram was astute enough to know that. But all it needed was George to say, with a singularly interested look, “Well, spit it out Mr Bertram Brightwell, who is apparently so clever. I can’t imagine you’ve ever been clever in your life. In fact, I can’t imagine how your sisters put up with you, to tell the truth.”
No, Bertram just couldn’t resist giving just a hint of his cleverness, even though he knew as he spoke the words he should be biting off his tongue instead. “Oh, I’m devilishly appealing in my own appalling way, is what my sisters tell me when they’re not berating me or beating me over the head with a slipper. That’s exactly what Antoinette did only last night when she learned how clever I’ve been.” He cleared his throat and ordered his features as common sense returned. “Anyway,” he added resolutely, “I can’t say more because to tell you would not be very clever at all.”
“I can’t tell if you’ve been clever unless I know what you’ve done that may or may not warrant the term ‘clever’.”
Bertram considered this with a frown. “True, true.” But of course he couldn’t tell George. Not their arch enemy, though of course George would have no interest in innocent little Thea who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and Bertram knew George reserved his spleen for those who’d directly opposed or bested him.
Inside, Bertram glowed at the way his plan was taking place. The problem with devilishly cunning schemes, though, was that success usually relied on keeping them secret.
But just a hint might be enough to win George’s interest and regard; get his brain working and wondering…
“It’s just a little matchmaking matter I’ve orchestrated. Nothing you’d be interested in.” Bertram leaned forward and began to shuffle the pack, hoping on the one hand George would persist with his questioning so he could be elusive and thereby irritate his opponent, while on the other hoping he’d not inspire Bertram to any kind of further discovery.
“Arranging the futures of baby George and Katherine already?” George asked sourly. “Or your own? Lord knows, there’s not a young lady in the whole of England who’d take on a reprobate without a single redeeming feature, I don’t imagine.”
“What, me?” Bertram enquired, offended. “Good Lord that’s rich, coming from the blackguard who seduced my sister as revenge for the other one rejecting him.”
“Is that what they told you!” George straightened in indignation before relaxing again, adding, “I shan’t dignify that with a comment.” He sighed, knocked back the last of his drink then fixed George with a baleful stare. “You know, Brightwell, you and I are both beyond the pale. Untouchable as far as the fairer sex is concerned.”
“Speak for yourself, Bramley.”
“I haven’t seen you sneak up the back stairs with some tidy little piece to make love to behind some Roman plinth like Grayling, the old wolf.” George’s sourness had not abated. “Only if you pulled off such a feat would I hold you in any esteem whatsoever. I can’t imagine how Grayling managed it, unless he’s with one of your sisters. Certainly no one but a Brightwell would be bold enough to risk her reputation like that.”
“Or someone who’s dying.”
George’s bulbous eyes grew larger above his thick nose. “You’ve had too much to drink, old chap. You’re not making sense.”
Bertram tried to hold his tongue but even focusing on a very luscious redhead who was, he was certain, sending him speaking looks from the doorway couldn’t still the words that rose to his lips.
And when the redhead tittered and blew a kiss at a puffed up popinjay who happened to be standing behind Bertram, those words came tumbling out.
“I say that if someone was told a person was dying, or they believed they were dying, who knows what risks they’d be prepared to take?” Bertram tried not to look so self-satisfied, fearing the depth of George’s inevitable interest. He wanted to be questioned only enough to be admired. After that, he’d close his mouth.
“Grayling is dying? Where have you heard this?”
“No, the young lady Grayling is with is dying.”
“Good God, are you plotting murder now, Brightwell? How will that aid your cause? Why, you’re stupider than I’d thought.”