Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

He raised his eyebrows as a great thundering of footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Antoinette burst into the room.

“Fanny! Fenton!” Panting with excitement, Antoinette held her side as she collapsed against the doorframe. “I’ve just received a note, and you’ll never believe what it says! Old Miss Montrose, Eliza Montrose’s aunt, is dead!”

Fanny exchanged an interested glance with her husband, before seeing how George Bramley was taking the news. His eyes were suddenly alight with expectation.

“And you’ll never guess what else?” Antoinette, who was always one for blurting things out, put her hands to her mouth as she fixed Fanny with a panicked look before glancing at Bramley, who appeared not to be taking in anything more Antoinette had to say. He was hunched over, his hands dangling between his knees, wearing a speculative expression as he gazed into the fireplace.

“I can’t possibly guess,” murmured Fenton wickedly into the silence.

“For goodness sake, darling, you know Antoinette has had second thoughts about revealing her latest indiscretion to all and sundry. Don’t try and embarrass her.”

“Oh, you could never do that!” Antoinette assured him. “And it is something I learned from my lovely indiscretion, who has been most assiduous in discharging my request for you know what.” She sighed happily. “But, you’re right; I think I’ll wait for another time to tell you.”

“Oh Lord,” grumbled Fanny sending an annoyed look in her husband’s direction before pleading, “Tell us, Antoinette. Has the will been read? Has Miss Montrose been favoured?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I mean, nobody will know until tomorrow as that’s when Miss Montrose’s solicitor will play his part following the funeral. I take it you’ll be there, Cousin George? To provide Miss Montrose the love and support she needs?” Dropping the ironic tone, she added, for Fanny’s benefit, and to the accompaniment of dancing eyes, “The other thing which I’ll tell you later is about the most interesting developments turned up by my darling Ambrose, who has been running all over London turning up old stones to shine a light on…” she slanted a meaningful look at George, who was clearly caught up in his own musings as he helped himself to more wine, “…the possible reasons for why a certain ice maiden in whom we are interested might deport herself in a certain fashion.”

Rufus was annoyed to find the cottage of the late Miss Montrose again filled with well-meaning ladies preparing the refreshments that would follow the funeral later that afternoon.

Miss Montrose, he was told, was in the vegetable garden, which he was pleased to discover was a nicely secluded area behind a high brick wall, so when he strode in, and she rose with a look of what he thought was pleasure, he was confident they were far from prying eyes.

“I hadn’t noticed it yesterday, but you’re still limping, Mr Patmore!” she exclaimed, glancing at his ankle.

“There was a great deal of other more important matters to concentrate on yesterday than my ankle,” he said, wishing he could take her hands in his; however, she was gripping, rather firmly, a bunch of carrots.

Dressed in black, he thought she looked curiously affecting. Not because black was a colour that suited her, for it accentuated the pallor of her skin and made her blue eyes look pale and washed out; but because she looked particularly vulnerable, and he wanted to be the man upon whom she would depend forevermore.

Light colours complemented her peaches and cream complexion, he decided. When she was his wife, he’d enjoy seeing her dressed according to the latest fashions, like his sisters took for granted. Whatever gave her pleasure would give him pleasure.

Poor Miss Montrose had never worn anything of the first stare since he’d known her, and he was a man who was aware of these things. It was one of the reasons he’d not considered a penniless wife, knowing that the expense of keeping up the appearances necessary to one’s station was a costly business.

But where matters of the heart were concerned, he now realised one did what one had to, even if it meant he had to stint on his horses. It would be a small price to pay to have this sweet and lovely woman for his wife.

“Mr Patmore…I…”

He was surprised at her clear discomfort, and the fact she stumbled over her words for the first time ever gave him courage. A faint blush stained her cheeks, and she had difficulty meeting his eye.

He knew she’d enjoyed their encounter the previous night. Surely she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

And yet, she seemed strangely diffident.

Or perhaps she was simply exhausted. Her future hinged on what would be revealed in another couple of hours. Had her aunt favoured her or not? Except Rufus intended such an outcome to be irrelevant, and if he insisted on asking her now, before Bramley came charging in upon having perhaps heard the news, she’d know without a doubt that he was asking her because he loved her and not for any other reason.

She put up her hand to stop him from getting any closer. “You do not owe me anything, Mr Patmore,” she murmured. “I will not be cast as the designing female who lured you.”

“Of course not!” He could hear sounds near the back of the house and feared they would be interrupted soon. He had to say what was necessary without preliminaries. It was not a question that could wait until after the funeral.

“No?” Her smile was illuminating, and it filled his heart with overwhelming relief. She did love him. How could she look at him like this and not?

“Never!” He shook his head. “Miss Montrose, last night was a surprise to both of us, and of course, it’s the reason I’m here. I admired you before for all those magnificent qualities you displayed at Quamby House and then after your aunt died—courage and self-control. But last night you showed me another side. A warm—”

“Mr Patmore! Miss Montrose!”

He forced himself to ignore the calls of the servant upon the back step as he took the carrots from her and put them aside, then gripped her hands and brought them up to his lips, forging ahead with his reasons. “I know on what basis you are to marry Mr Bramley. I believe he will renege if it is revealed your aunt has not favoured you. Regardless of the outcome this afternoon, I won’t—”

“Miss Montrose! You have visitors! Fine and rich visitors and I need to give ‘em tea, direct. Are ye there?”

Disconcertingly, she pulled away, sending him a worried look as she progressed towards Dora’s insistent calling.