Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

“Would you care for this next dance?” he asked, hardening his heart to the pain he glimpsed in Miss Brightwell’s lustrous eyes.

Thea’s eyes widened with hurt and horror at her aunt’s acerbic tones.

“Surely you knew from the outset Mr Grayling was after a fortune, my girl. Stop wearing your heart on your sleeve. You’ll only shame yourself further.”

Shame herself? Hadn’t she done that already? Stifling a sob, Thea swung round, unable to tolerate her aunt’s taunts any further, and promptly ran into a gentleman who’d stepped that moment into her path.

“How clumsy of me. I do beg your pardon, Miss Brightwell,” came the distinctly recognisable and unpleasantly familiar tones of Mr George Bramley. “Why, I have dislodged the pearl comb in your hair. I shall wait while you adjust it and then let me atone by leading you into this dance. Would you oblige me?”

Others nearby were filing onto the dance floor and Thea, who was quite incapable of the rudeness required to decline, found herself similarly herded into the centre of the room, while the back of her neck prickled and her hands became moist in her neat kid gloves.

“What has occurred to wipe from your pretty face the charming smile I remember from last time we met?” he asked.

Horrified and embarrassed, Thea realised he was alluding to baby George’s christening.

“You look shocked, Miss Brightwell. I’m sorry if I’ve said something to compound my having already found myself in your bad books.”

“No, not at all, Mr Bramley.” Thea heard her voice as a faint, pathetic thread of sound but it was all she could manage as she recalled just how radiant she must have appeared when he last saw her, having so recently stepped out from the delights she’d revelled in with Mr Grayling in the Oriental Pavilion.

And there, over Mr Bramley’s right shoulder, she could see Mr Grayling himself, now conversing with Miss Huntingdon in remarkably animated tones as they awaited their turn to perform their figures down the room.

Could she feign illness and make a hurried departure? The idea was appealing, but at the same time she couldn’t rid herself of the thought that possibly, just possibly, Mr Grayling was simply attending dutifully to Miss Huntingdon before he turned the full force of his attention back to herself.

“I’m sorry, Mr Bramley. I’m not feeling myself tonight. I’m sure it’ll pass, though.”

“I do hope so.” He touched her elbow, almost in a caress, and Thea jerked her arm back as she brought her chin up.

His smile was knowing, and with a surge or horror, Thea realised, as the innocent she no longer was, that Mr Bramley was speculating on something. Something unpleasant and pertaining to her.

Staring resolutely over his shoulder, she tried to blank her mind to all but her dance moves, which she realised she now had to perform. Linking elbows with the hateful Mr Bramley, she performed a couple of doh-si-dos, never more relieved than when she could step back and face him with a good couple of feet separating them.

He’d been looking at her with that sly, speculative expression peculiar to him as if he wanted to do with her exactly what Mr Grayling had already done. Well, something improper. She swallowed down her anguish. Could he know?

No, she couldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t!

“Miss Brightwell, something really is troubling you. A megrim? Perhaps some fresh air is what’s needed.”

“I’m quite all right, thank you, Mr Bramley. And I believe this dance is nearly at an end. Please, will you escort me back to my aunt?”

“I’m offended you wish to leave my company so quickly. Let us linger a little, Miss Brightwell. Has anyone told you how delightful your dimples are when you smile? Regrettably they have been absent all evening. I should wish very much to be in a position to restore them.”

“You are not able to do that, Mr Bramley.” She tried to step past him, for he was forcing her to linger in an area near the French doors where suddenly she felt very alone and vulnerable, his bulk impeding her progress, his unpleasant, sneering face peering with far too much familiarity into her own.

“Unable to? Why so, Miss Brightwell? Because something has made you sad this evening? Surely I should at least be allowed to try to rectify that.”

“You could never manage that, Mr Bramley. Now please, let me pass. My aunt is only a few feet away. You can leave me now.” She knew she was too sharp with him the moment the words were out but she didn’t care. She couldn’t bear being in his company a moment longer. He was odious. Her cousins were right and she should have heeded them from the beginning and found any excuse not to be in his company. He was playing with her because he could. Because she was fair game and the cousin of the women who’d belittled him in the past.

“Of course, Miss Brightwell. I trust you’ll feel better soon.” His voice was cold, his eyes full of malice as he bowed in farewell.

“I’m sorry if I offended you, Mr Bramley,” she whispered, running a hand across her brow. “You’re right; something has upset me this evening.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

He was gone when she looked up once more but Thea was more relieved that she didn’t have to pander to his peevishness than concerned at having put his nose out of joint.

“Ah, Thea.” Aunt Minerva gave her a distracted pat on the shoulder as she re-joined her. “I’m glad you’re back. Mr Granville has been looking in this direction but my eyes aren’t good enough to discern the quality of his look, if you will. Of course, his letters suggest he’s leading up to something but he’s not yet had the courage to act. The fact he hasn’t written in a couple of days suggests he is fearful of his reception. Tell me, girl, what exactly is he looking at and how is he looking at it?” She patted one of her chins and gave a little self-conscious toss of her head.

Thea peered in the direction her aunt had indicated and indeed, there was Mr Granville, staring right in their direction. She squinted, widening her eyes with surprise when he smiled broadly at her, nodding in apparent appreciation before offering a well-executed bow.