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fall from grace has nothing to do with society’s low opinion of his daughters.” His tone was suggestive.
    Ignoring him, Fenton resumed the pleasant occupation of gazing upon Miss Brightwell, and felt again the swell of his manhood. Unconsciously he licked his lips, unable to rid himself of memories of her mouth, captive beneath his, responding with delightful passion. The softness of her curves, the lushness of her body, were branded on his thoughts and it took all his willpower not to groan aloud. What had he done? He’d compromised an innocent! He’d whisked her away from Alverley, thinking it no more than a game that would teach the silly boy a lesson, and before he knew it he’d been bewitched by his captive.
    At first he’d not believed her insinuations about her inexperience, for what kind of young woman would allow herself such liberties with a strange man in a boat? Then he’d realised that even that kind of young woman had to start somewhere. He shuddered at the delicious, almost painful, recollection of her willingness to succumb to his ministrations—her body soft and pliant, her mouth yielding with growing eagerness. And…the wetness of her desire. Good God! She’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her, though she’d known nothing about the mechanics of desire. Now that she was presented to him in an entirely altered light, he was sure of it.
    Fenton tried to breathe evenly. He’d abducted the girl and, despite their respective disguises and lack of knowledge of one another, they’d discovered some powerful, unexpected chemistry between them. Until Fenton had muscled in on her quiet dinner with Alverley—and who knew but that there had been some discreet chaperone hiding in the wings—Miss Brightwell had had no experience of relations between men and women.
    Now she was here, a respectable debutante, and if word got out as to what he’d done he’d be pilloried. It would be no more than he deserved. The thought that he’d compromised an innocent was not something that sat well with him. However, the more he thought about it, the more appealing was the idea of atonement.
    He felt the irregular beat of his heart, the suspended pause as, glancing up, she locked eyes with him. Holding her gaze, he watched the play of emotions flit across her lovely, mobile face. God, she was a beauty. He longed to cross the floor and offer the most abject of apologies.
    Except he could not do that. He could say nothing in company that would suggest she was guilty of any impropriety, yet he was screaming inside to whisk her away to some secluded arbour so he could determine her feelings for him after two days of sober reflection.
    On the short ferry crossing, he’d been taken aback by the unexpected sizzle of excitement that had been lacking during his numerous encounters with other women. Miss Brightwell was as charmingly refreshing a contradiction as had ever crossed his path.
    Just then, her attention was claimed by her companion and Fenton returned reluctantly to Bramley’s unflattering monologue.
    “…likes to think she’s a cut above the rest, though she’ll be lucky to snare a rich merchant prepared to overlook her reputation. She’s more than willing to make discreet compromises when a fellow makes her a good offer.”
        Fenton unleashed a cold, level stare upon Bramley, then allowed him to drone on while his thoughts ran their own course. Oh, but he had so much more to teach Miss Brightwell and he would do so…without compromising her reputation. For the novel notion had popped into his head that he’d far prefer to take the enigmatic beauty for his wife than his mistress. He’d had plenty of mistresses, whose transitory excitement had quickly given way to an air of jaded experience he found quite unpalatable.
    Yet wasn’t there was something about the Brightwell name to which his mother had also taken exception?
    Brightwell… Fenton racked his brains to capture the elusive drift of memory.