Rake's Honour by Beverley Oakley Read Free Book Online Page A

hours, if Lord Slyther had his way, she would be married. There was no time!
    Lord Quamby chuckled and said, oblivious to her distress, “I shall enjoy watching the incomparable Miss Fanny Brightwell charm the deliciously dangerous-to-know Lord Fenton from the boughs.”
    Fanny scanned the room. Lord Slyther intended announcing news of their upcoming nuptials tonight, but still there was no sign of him. If gout had not laid him up in bed perhaps his sedan chair had broken down, she thought wryly. He lived only two streets away, but he was in such ill health he’d need to be conveyed physically from door to door.
    Lord Quamby patted her arm and said, still referring to Lord Fenton, “The dear boy wants a wife with a bit of dash and spirit. Needs one, if you ask me, as a first line of defence against his appalling mama to whom he is devoted but whom I should warn you”—he grimaced—“is reason alone for you to stay well clear of our dashing viscount.”
    This he said with a pointed look at his own mama, who was propped up on pillows on a sofa against the far wall. The trailing feather in her purple toque trembled in time to her gentle snoring.
    “Your reputation is safe, my dear Miss Brightwell, if only on account of Mama’s presence here tonight. Everyone knows that if the venerable dowager duchess is in attendance the company is beyond reproach, though I will admit to enjoying my other entertainments better.” The wistful look returned. “Such handsome young men rushing from the stage to dance upon my table. I see a glint of longing in your eye but you’ll never be invited. I would not dream of injuring your reputation.
    “Ah, here’s my detestable nephew come to pay his respects. Evening Bramley. Trading on your expectations once again, I hear. Your distracted mama called on Monday asking me to bail you out.”
    Fanny watched the fulminating look cross her erstwhile admirer’s face. A thug in gentleman’s attire, with his thick nose and close-set eyes, George Bramley had never forgiven her for spurning his advances the previous summer.
    A supercilious smile replaced the young man’s ill humour. Bowing, he said smoothly, “Evening Uncle; Miss Brightwell. Allow me to introduce my old friend, Lord Fenton.”
    Fanny inclined her head, her smile brittle as the object of her palpitating heart rose from his bow. Adept in the art of using her fan, she was uncomfortably aware it was of little use in concealing the deep blush that spread upwards from her bosom at the memory of their recent intimacy. A discomfort not eased by the intensity of his gaze and the knowing smile that turned up the corners of his handsome, generous mouth. He was making no secret of the fact that he knew exactly who she was.
    Another moment under his searing gaze and she would have a fit of the vapours, run screaming from the room or hurl herself upon his person and scandalise the entire company.
    The strains of the orchestra tuning up for another cotillion drifted from the next room. Lord Fenton held out his hand.
    “Miss Brightwell, would you do me the honour…?”
    Her skin prickled under his assessing look as they arranged themselves in a group of four couples. She felt as exposed as if she were standing, naked, under a blazing sun.
    “With your dark hair and proud blue eyes you’d have made the perfect Anne Boleyn at the Vauxhall masquerade,” he murmured.
    Fanny stared fixedly ahead as she prepared for the dance. It was the only way she could maintain even shaky control of her feelings, especially as Lord Fenton made it clear there was to be no coy tiptoeing around the truth.
    “You certainly risked that beautiful neck of yours,” he went on, as they performed their figures in the centre of the group before returning to the sidelines. With a smile as cloying as a teaspoon full of sugar, he murmured, “I just want to assure you that, as a gentleman, your secret is safe with me.”
    Was this sport at her expense?
    “A great