Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

Surely the scorching looks Miss Brightwell had sent him could not have been misconstrued? Yet no sooner had he contrived to present himself once more to her when she was no longer in company with the oyster-velvet-clad gorgon, than she’d run off like a frightened rabbit…or a coquette. Which was it? Could she really have been playing games?

“Charming chit, ain’t she?” Bertram Brightwell’s bluff laugh cut into Sylvester’s musings and he turned to raise an eyebrow at the young man accompanied by his beautiful sister, the youngest, blonde—not to mention, scandalous—Miss Antoinette, who’d snared an earl and whose supposed antics behind closed doors titillated society.

He’d met Lady Quamby—though he could only think of her as Miss Antoinette—at the earl’s birthday celebration earlier that year, just weeks after she’d given birth, in fact. Not that one could tell. The girl was exquisite in pale pink silk with silver trimmings, and her bearing was confident, almost conspiratorial, yet when he glanced over her creamy bared shoulder towards the far corner of the room, where her lovely, chestnut-haired but less flamboyant cousin had just jilted him by the food table, she paled into insignificance.

“More of a charming enigma,” Sylvester responded.

“Pray enlarge?” Miss Antoinette’s blue eyes danced with mischief. There was nothing maternal about her, he thought. She was as flirtatious as he imagined she must have been before she’d become Lord Quamby’s countess. Forcing his gaze away from the more sober but more enticing—to his eyes, at least—Miss Brightwell he tried not to stare, but the stories he’d heard about Quamby’s wife were incredible; that the earl gave her complete licence to seek out pleasure discreetly as her reward for silence regarding his own peccadilloes. Dangerous ones, he understood, that courted the death penalty.

Before he had a chance to respond, Bertram said, with an intense frown, “No telling what a gel will do if she’s only got six months to live.”

“What?”

It tumbled from Miss Antoinette’s lips with an expletive and Sylvester’s own as a gasp of dismay. “Six months?”

Miss Antoinette looked shocked. “What are you saying, Bertram?” she demanded.

Bertram sighed heavily. “I overheard Dr Horne telling Cousin Thea the terrible news. Don’t you wonder why she looks so sad and won’t dance? Her heart cannot be exposed to sudden shocks…although,” he looked contemplative, “I did also hear the doctor say that gentle pleasures and mild, controlled excitement might well prolong her life.” He cleared his throat, adding, “That is, by a couple of months or so only.”

Sylvester shook his head, his horror echoing Miss Antoinette’s, who clearly had not been privy to the news of her lovely cousin’s imminent demise. “Poor young woman,” he murmured. “So lovely and so…”

“Doomed,” Bertram supplied with a sigh. “Still,” he brightened, “she is to be commended on her stoic acceptance of her miserable lot. Her aunt has brought her to Bath to take the waters but sadly is so concerned for her niece’s health, she will allow Miss Brightwell no pleasure whatsoever.”

“She would not allow me to even dance with her,” Sylvester recalled, the rejection taking on a different hue. “Is she…so reduced in health?”

“Oh, Miss Brightwell would dance a jig if she were allowed. She simply craves

something that will draw her out of the unhappy final few months she’s been allotted.” He shrugged before fixing Sylvester with a long and meaningful stare. “But what chance is there of that?”

Chapter 5

ANTOINETTE swung round the moment a contemplative Mr Grayling had made his excuses and departed.

“What on earth—”

“Clever, eh?” Bertram asked, clearly pleased with himself as he leaned against the door lintel that separated the supper room from the ballroom. “Thea needs a husband and Mr Grayling is clearly entranced. Haven’t I just aided her prospects if he thinks he won’t be saddled with a wife with no financial prospects? Well, not beyond four months at most, if they elope soon enough.”

Antoinette looked admiring. “Goodness, that is inspired, Bertram.”

Her brother grinned. “And soon our dear sister, Fanny, will be saying it, too.” He tossed back his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aunt Minerva thinks I’m not too bright, sis, but let me tell you, the whole Brightwell clan will soon be thanking me for providing Cousin Thea with more than just the husband of her dreams. Mr Grayling is worth a pretty penny, I’ve heard.”

Deep in thought, Sylvester wove his way across the crowded Assembly Room, all the while keeping the lovely…dying…Miss Brightwell in his sights. He observed how well she attended her aunt and her air of quiet acceptance touched his heart and stirred his admiration. What would he feel if he had been given only six months to live?

A great melancholy descended upon him as he contemplated the question. Why, he’d want to live life to the fullest, he decided, locking eyes at that moment with the chestnut haired beauty. Her dazzling smile sent a surge of excitement to his loins, arresting his progress. Lord, she was breathtaking. Her sheath of a gown followed the lush curves of her willowy body like a wicked enticement. Yet there she was, a prisoner at her aunt’s side, her smooth, lovely face a beautiful mask hiding her hopes and desires; a prisoner of her death sentence and the strictures of her relative.

Sylvester continued to observe her covertly. He’d not missed the disappointment in her expression when she thought he’d passed out of her orbit. Ah, but she’d have no chance of learning of the passions she inspired; a beautiful young woman like herself, so coy and modest. To think that she’d die a virgin, denied the pleasure of a man’s kiss…a man’s possession. He closed his eyes against images of Miss Brightwell pressed against his chest, the pair of them standing alone in a dense forest as they gazed into one another’s eyes.

But at the memory of her longing looks, her very clear interest, the forest was suddenly replaced by a large four poster bed, Miss Brightwell beneath him and, what’s more, responding with all the passion and ardour he’d hopefully imagined would be displayed by the young lady he’d choose as his bride upon their nuptials.

An unexpected vision indeed and not at all the kind of thoughts he should be entertaining if he were to maintain a bearing of respectability wearing such tight trousers in a public place.

Turning, he nearly collided with a footman holding aloft a tray.

What a fool he was! Miss Thea was an invalid and she would die a virgin, for if he followed through on his desires, he’d not only ruin her, he’d quite possibly reduce even further her remaining few months.

But then, he thought, sipping his champagne, if he played the caring suitor, he could contrive to give them both pleasure without damaging her health or limited prospects.

He brought himself up short. No, he was self aware enough to know that he was a bull in a china shop with no sense of delicacy once his passions were aroused. Indeed, he was the last man who could be trusted to safeguard Miss Brightwell’s delicate constitution the moment she allowed him past a certain threshold.