Rake's Honour (17 page)

“You attended Lady Brightwell’s wedding?” Fenton swung out of his mother’s orbit and began to pace, shaking his head. How much more could he endure?

Lady Fenton clapped her hands and her eyes glittered with excitement once more. “And now you’re to steal Miss Brightwell away from the Earl of Quamby, which, upon my word, will set up
that
dowager’s bristles nicely. She was ever the schoolmarm. Did I tell you what the old Friday-faced gorgon said to me just after she became Lady Quamby…?”

* * * *

“Lord Fenton, my Lord.” Lord Quamby’s butler raked a disapproving eye over the viscount as he passed into the centre of the company. The young man’s cravat was still askew, and he’d obviously not attended to the cut on his cheek.

Fanny swallowed convulsively while managing to plaster an expression of careless unconcern upon her face as she looked up from her discussion with Lord Quamby.

So he had come back. Obviously her little charade had worked, and now her future happiness rested upon the next few moments. Her hands felt cold and clammy. She gripped Lord Quamby’s arm, her spirits bolstered by his theatrical wink.

“Methinks Miss Brightwell has just snared her viscount,” he murmured, giving her hands a quick squeeze. “Don’t let him off too easily, my poppet. The more you make him suffer now, the more he’ll respect you for it, I promise.”

The Dowager Duchess Quamby, who was chatting comfortably with Lady Brightwell over a dish of tea, offered their guest a seat.

Antoinette, looking up from the game of piquet she was playing at a table in front of the fire with Bramley, giggled. “You look very dark and Byronesque, Lord Fenton,” she said.

Ignoring her and with the most cursory acknowledgement of the rest of the company, Fenton focused his glowering expression upon Lady Brightwell. “I wish to speak to your daughter. Alone.”

Fanny watched her mother exchange disapproving looks with the Earl’s mama. Her heart rate increased.

Lord Quamby knew exactly what this was about, and she already had his approbation. But her mother was not going to be pleased.

Interjecting before Lady Brightwell could reply, Fanny ran a languid hand across her brow, and sighed. “I’m positively fagged to death from all that walking we did only an hour ago, Lord Fenton. Surely you can say all that needs to be said in front of present company?”

“I cannot.”

“Unpardonable,” muttered Lady Brightwell of the man Fanny knew her mother would have embraced with open arms as her daughter’s suitor mere days ago. The reflection galvanised her into rising.

“Just three minutes, my Lord,” she said with a smile, taking Fenton’s arm and strolling with him to the alcove.

Her leisurely progress ended with an unseemly push so that she landed, for the second time that day, with a thud on the window seat obscured by the gold-tasselled curtain. For the second time that day, Fenton’s face loomed over hers as his arms gripped the windowsill on either side of her face.

“Enough of these games—”

Fanny’s laugh was part amusement, part indignation. “What games? Lord Quamby asked me to be his wife and you asked me to be your mistress and I have accepted both offers.”

“I am here to ask you to marry me, Miss Brightwell.” His voice quavered as he thrust at her a much larger, heavier velvet box than the last. “In case you doubt the sincerity of my offer, I hope the Fenton diamonds will convince you.” He cleared his throat and, in that second, Fanny saw his vulnerability so much more clearly than the persona of the practiced rake.

Good Lord, he truly doubted her answer. An enormous wave of tenderness engulfed her.

“They have passed through three generations of my family and are worn by the reigning viscountess and now I offer them to you”—he took a breath, adding in a rush that did nothing to conceal the wavering tone—“if you will have me.”

Tingles of excitement started in her toes and worked their way upwards, and they weren’t on account of the diamonds. Her ploy had worked and, judging by the determined look on Lord Fenton’s face, he was not going to take no for an answer. But if he truly wanted her he would to have to work harder.

She affected a small frown. “You’re asking me to sacrifice what is probably my only chance to become a duchess—?”

“I’m asking you to follow your heart. Dear God, Fanny…” He took her seat, settling her across his lap and forcing her head onto his shoulder so he could caress her cheek. “I know you’re trying to make me suffer for the humiliation I’ve caused you, for which I’m truly sorry. But after what we shared…” He shook his head. “Surely you felt it, too?” Cupping her face in his hands he gazed into her eyes. His own looked tortured. Gently he touched his lips to hers.

She shivered, barely able to restrain her answering impulses as he murmured into the gentlest of kisses, “If I have to spend the rest of my life atoning I will, if only to hear you say yes to becoming my wife. Just name your terms, Fanny.”

It wasn’t the desperation in his voice, reaffirming her power over him, or even his generous offer. It was his kiss that confirmed she could belong to no one else. How could she say no to a man whose touch unleashed feelings of love and tenderness she had never known existed within the heart she had once thought as cold as her mother’s? Gently clasping his face, she kissed his lips, his eyes, his cheeks, revelling in the shudders that ran through him. Behind the tasselled gold curtain, her dreams were finally coming true.

“I want my own cerulean blue carriage with four high steppers,” she murmured. She wasn’t serious and was surprised when he dug his fingers into her shoulders and ground out, “Done.”

He was trembling as if he had the ague, their lips barely touching throughout their exchange. His voice was strained. “You can have it in royal purple or scarlet for all I care.”

With the tip of her tongue, she traced the line of his mouth. His eyes were still closed, but his senses were clearly alert to her slightest touch. She smiled at his shudders, then whispered, “And Antoinette must have a dowry.” Though Lord Quamby had already discussed taking care of Antoinette’s future himself, Fanny knew this was something she had to ensure if she was to placate her mother later that evening.

Still kissing her lightly, though with growing impatience, Fenton agreed to this, also.

“And a house for Mama with her own annuity.”

He drew back, his eyes widening. Perhaps perceiving her determination, he curbed any objection, saying with a defeated air, “As long as it’s not near us.”

“Definitely not!” Fanny agreed, stroking his face. “But with three hundred a year she could afford her own carriage and something commodious in Northumbria so she can lord it over her cheeseparing cousin. That would keep her busy and her nose out of our affairs.”

“Agreed.”

Fanny brought the kiss to a satisfying conclusion. He did not need to know that her shuddering surrender was the culmination of so many fears bound up with the need to please her mother before she could please herself. She wanted to weep her joy, but it was too soon. She remembered Lord Quamby’s words and whispered, smiling, “In that case, all seems in order. Shall we inform the rest of the company?”

Chapter Ten

Fenton groaned at the sound of tapping and hauled himself into a sitting position, shouting to the impatient servant on the other side of the door that he’d present himself in the saloon presently. He gazed at Fanny, curled up like a kitten beside him. She looked innocent and childlike in her slumber, and his heart swelled. If he wasn’t so terrified she would change her mind, he’d have the servant send the parson away until another time.

They’d made love three times since Lord Quamby had granted Fanny an honourable reprieve, but if it had been three hundred it wouldn’t have been enough.

She stirred and, with a lascivious chuckle, he traced a line with his finger from the Fenton diamonds at her throat, over the contour of Fanny’s right breast, before resting his hand on her belly. The mere touch of her smooth, warm skin stoked the fires of his desire.

“I’m sure you could never have predicted your scheme for revenge would have so unexpectedly pleased our collective mamas, my dear,” he murmured as she blinked open sleep-laden eyes. “All I can say is thank you for having saved me the trouble of finding a dull, suitable bride to please mine, so I could rush off to my mistress.” He gave her shoulder a playful squeeze rather than the languorous all-over body massage he’d have preferred as he flung his legs over the side of the bed. Friends and family were waiting for them in the saloon. Now was not the time to slake his lust.

“
When
I could get away,” Fanny replied, stretching luxuriantly. “Quamby and I are fierce combatants at whist.” She yawned, adding in a voice of feigned boredom, “It’s our favourite way to while away the evening together.”

Fenton pulled his shirt over his shoulders while Fanny feasted her eyes on his bunched-up muscles. She adored the vulnerable look of his nipples set into such masculine hardness. He paused in his dressing to grin at her. “You mean I haven’t
yet
convinced you of the advantages of fornication with me above whist with Quamby? You’d better be sure you know what you want, darling, for the parson is waiting.”

Crawling off the bed, Fanny wrapped her arms and one leg around the bedpost. Since she was still naked this provocative move had the desired effect. Fenton stifled a growl and closed his eyes, seemingly in pain as his manhood swelled.

“You’ll not convince me of anything until I’m your viscountess,” Fanny told him pertly, reaching for her chemise.

Suddenly she stopped, frowning as she clasped her hand to her forehead.

“What is it, darling?” Fenton was at her side in an instant, drawing her against him. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, Fenton, when I’m your viscountess we can do this any time we wish.”

The puzzled concern on his face was adorable. He touched her cheek. “That will be wonderful, won’t it?” His tone was uncertain.

Fanny bit her lip. “Oh, Fenton, I’m having second thoughts.” She covered her face with her hands, pretending real distress as he gripped her shoulders and put her away from him.

“Second thoughts?” There was no trace of amusement in his voice. “You certainly
appeared
to enjoy our bedroom sport. Have you any complaints? Why, we are not even married, Fanny, and yet we’ve…we’ve made love like rabbits
five
times. Are you telling me now that you’re dissatisfied with proceedings?”

She dropped her hands. Lord, he appeared so adorably vulnerable with that look of concern that indicated he feared his performance was not up to her exacting standards that she had to suppress a giggle.

“Oh, it was all wonderful, Fenton, truly it was. But I have such a low boredom threshold. I mean, perhaps I’ll be bored by the sixth time. Until a few days ago I knew nothing of all this.” She shrugged as expressively as she could. “Will the sixth be any different or have you demonstrated your entire repertoire?”

“You little wench!” Correctly interpreting the quirk of her lips and arch look he finally realised she was teasing him.

With a squeal she landed on her back upon the bed, looking up to see Fenton’s roiling look as he caged her body with his.

“Three minutes!” he muttered as he lowered his face to plunder her mouth, coming up for air to add, “Enough time to give you an experience you won’t forget
and
deliver you to the parson with sufficient self-respect so we can both hold our heads up in front of the gathered company.”

Before she knew what was happening he’d flipped her onto her belly and his lean, muscled body was contouring her back, his erection jutting into her, his breathing, fast and furious, heating her ear while his artful fondling between her legs heated her blood.

“Lesson number six,” he panted. Grasping her buttocks he parted them gently before plunging into her with a groan.

She gasped as she received him, bunching the counterpane in her fists and squeezing shut her eyes as he worked his magic. Never before had she felt him so deep. Arching her back to meet him at each thrust, she cried out as her beloved husband-to-be pounded into her, burying himself to the hilt.

“Oh, God!” she moaned as the rhythmic motion of his fingers upon the slick, swollen nub between her legs heightened each spiral of sensation and the deep thrust of his enormous shaft seemed to reach the very core of her.

“Harder! Harder!” she shrieked as he pounded into her and she felt her inner being claw its way to the summit. Higher and higher she climbed, despite knowing she was entering dangerous, unknown territory until she was balancing on the precipice, her senses suspended in an agony of thrilling excitement before a final thrust sent her over the edge.