Page 25 of Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

Nevertheless, he knew he was reacting too hastily; that he was being dictated to by his base need for instant gratification as he reached down to retrieve the cigar-shaped velvet box from the wicker basket at his feet. But he couldn’t help himself. He handed his gift to her, nearly deafened by the pounding of his heart as he waited for her response.

“Sapphires,” he murmured as she fingered the stones. “Because I can’t stop thinking of them, I bought you something to match your eyes.”

Relieved at her obvious delight as she held the delicate sapphire necklace up to the light, he imagined her wearing it—naked. He’d kiss her from the toes upwards, while his gift encircled her graceful neck and the gems in her ears glinted in the candlelight. The manifestations of his desire were so acute, he had to clamp his teeth against the pain, cursing the fact that the public location of their assignation meant he must keep up appearances—and keep his hands to himself.

“And this?” she asked, her look enquiring as she held up the little key on a black velvet ribbon that had also been contained in the box.

His excited determination to savour her charms before the afternoon was over was tempered by the possibility that he might have been too peremptory. Yet what of Lord Slyther’s ring about her neck? What had she done in return for that?

He clasped her hand in both of his. “A place where we may meet, my love.” Doubt vanished as visions of their future trysts made his vision blur. He was so hungry for her it took every ounce of willpower not to whip up the horses and drive her to some place they could be alone. The way she had looked at him just now indicated she wanted him just as much.

Yes—for the moment he would have her as his mistress. But, perhaps, if they were discreet and her liaison with Lord Slyther did not make it into the public domain, who knew but he might even succeed in persuading his mother to overlook her ineligibility enough to sanction marriage?

He didn’t like to think these were the thoughts and actions of a cad. He was simply covering all contingencies. And yes, it was an unconventional approach, but perhaps the only way forward.

Seeing the troubled look in her eyes as she continued to look from the key to his face, and wanting to reassure her—and himself—he touched her cheek once more.

She did not look happy. She bit her lip and the doubt and concern that it had taken days to exorcise scorched him like a furious furnace.

In the face of her hardening silence, he hurried on. “I understand that your need for discretion, Fanny—if I may call you that—is greater than mine. Certainly, until your younger sister is fired off.”

Her limpid love-hungry look, which had fuelled his actions earlier, had evaporated. Dismayed, he leaned towards her but she shrank back. Her next words were like a blow to the solar plexus, knocking all the expectation from him.

“It appears, sir, I acted more rashly than I believed at the time.” Her tone was crisp. Replacing the jewels and the little key in their box, she carefully handed back his gift. “My apologies for leading you astray.”

Her expression was distant, imperious, as she bade him help her down.

; “Please, Fanny, I’m sorry if I—”

The look she sent him made it clear he had no choice but to acquiesce, surrounded as they were by the crowds promenading in Rotten Row.

Unsure of what to say, he watched her leave, realising only now wanting her at any price had not factored in insulting her into a rapid exit from his life. But her expression had been stony with hurt pride, her beautiful blue eyes as cold as flint as she gazed up at him after he’d set her down.

How could he have misread the situation so badly? This was not a woman who had been expecting a carte blanche.

Nor, he acknowledged painfully, was she a woman who deserved one.

Blinking furiously to hold back her tears, Fanny stepped into the mêlée, searching for some other party she might join so as not to bring attention to her unchaperoned state.

The sun was blinding, her head pounding, every whit of self-confidence and esteem reduced to nothing. She’d made the greatest miscalculation of her life—now she would pay with it. It was not an overstatement. Everything she held dear—position, prestige, respectability, not to mention Lord Fenton’s respect—had been reduced to cinders by her one foolish moment of unbridled passion.

“Miss Brightwell! Alone, for goodness sake? Where is your sister?”

The reedy voice that floated down from a dashing purple curricle emblazoned with the arms of the Earl of Quamby belonged to the Earl himself. Startlingly attired in a suit of red and gold, his strawberry blonde curls topped by a matching low-crowned beaver, which he doffed in greeting, the Earl sounded as censorious as her mother.

“Separated in the crowd,” Fanny mumbled, shading the face she raised to him so he wouldn’t see her tears. She was glad of the fashionable floral profusion beneath the brim of her bonnet that helped to hide her distress.

Trembling, she felt as if she were in the grip of a palsy that threatened the integrity of her seams—as if she might burst apart, spilling her insubstantial stuffing like a roughly used rag doll. Yes, she had been roughly used—but she had no one but herself to blame. She wanted to block her ears to the sound of society’s heedless gaiety, which competed with the rumble of carriages and the chirping of birds. It seemed they were all mocking her.

“My dear Miss Brightwell, something has happened to upset you.” With a complicated manoeuvring of sticks and props, Lord Quamby inched his way to the edge of his vehicle and held out his hand. “Come up beside me and tell me your troubles as we drive. I assure you, it is better to be seen alone with me than to be remarked upon, on the promenade, unaccompanied and in tears.”

“It no longer matters what I do, since I’ve no reputation left to speak of,” Fanny whispered brokenly as she settled beside him, wishing she could bury her face in her hands but knowing she was currently being observed by everyone within sight. “I soon won’t, at any rate.”

“Good Lord, has my lovely, canny Fanny followed trouble where she ought not?” Lord Quamby chuckled as he gave her knee a squeeze. Not at all a respectable gesture in public but one that made Fanny feel better, nevertheless. It bridged the great divide in sensation between her mother’s cold, brief embraces when Fanny had looked like snaring a title, and the molten reaction of her body to Lord Fenton’s hot, fiery kisses and bold sensual exploration.

Blushing at the memory of those passionate interludes, Fanny glanced up to find the Earl’s sharp, blue eyes upon her. The expectation that she explain herself was clear.