Adrienne Basso (3 page)

Charlotte shrugged. “It seems as fair a method as any other.” She bounded gracefully off the bed and came forward. Amelia followed at a more cautious pace.

The silence was thick with anticipation as each woman made her selection. Amelia’s heart beat in double rhythm as she held her wispy length of red plume aloft. It was clearly the shortest of the three.

“Congratulations,” Charlotte said with an amused half smile.

“You are the winner,” Belinda added.

“Thank you,” Amelia replied. She took a deep breath and attempted to clear her chest of the strange mix of relief and terror that shuttered through her. This idea was desperate, but if executed correctly might very well save her from the unhappy fate Roger seemed so determined to force upon her.

Yet hard as she tried, Amelia could not completely dispel the persistent feeling that she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

 

 

Gareth Travers, Viscount of Longley, was a man on a mission. He had spent the better part of the Season deliberately waging a carefully crafted campaign to seduce the lovely Mrs. Emma Fairweather into his bed and at long last it seemed those efforts would succeed.

Though it was hardly necessary for the young handsome viscount to pursue women, he had enjoyed himself nonetheless. To Gareth’s way of thinking it could hardly be considered sporting to chase a woman if she did not at least make an attempt to run.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Fairweather had done too good a job of eluding his advances and to the amazement of all, including the viscount, he had yet to sample her womanly charms. For the man known to society as the ultimate lover, it was a lowering state of affairs.

“You are certain Mrs. Fairweather will be at the house party?” the viscount asked. He slowed his mount and raised his voice so as to be heard by the elegant nobleman riding beside him.

“The answer to that particular question has not changed since you posed it to me two weeks ago when we visited that London brothel, last week while we gambled at White’s, and last night when we barely slept more than an hour at that appalling provincial inn,” Lucien St. Simon, the Earl of Danbury replied.

“I just wanted to be certain,” Gareth said.

The earl grimaced. “Devil take it, Longley. I believe the ache between your legs has traveled up your body and lodged itself firmly in your brain. You are possessed.”

Though loath to admit it, Gareth was honest enough to concede that his friend had a point. During most of his twenty-eight years his body had indeed ruled his mind, especially in matters of erotic pleasures.

He could not have changed that if he wanted to, for it was as much a part of his heritage as his striking black hair and brilliant blue eyes. Gareth was the second son of a duke, descendant of a noble family known for its service to the Crown and for producing at least one scandalous black sheep in every generation.

Gareth had fulfilled that role with relish, indulging his natural devilish, reckless streak at every turn. He was content to live a life of wealth and privilege, a life devoid of responsibility. ’Twas said among the beau monde that if Viscount Longley applied half the diligence to a worthwhile endeavor that he did to chasing women and indulging in every conceivable form of decadence, he would be the most powerful man in the land.

As with all his women, his current obsession, Mrs. Emma Fairweather, was a beautiful creature who possessed that air of sophisticated mischief and mystery the viscount found so irresistible in a female.

She was not especially clever, nor especially witty in her conversation, and Gareth’s mind often drifted when she spoke with him for any length of time. And still, he could not for the life of him leave her alone.

“What of Mr. Fairweather?” Gareth asked. “Will he be accompanying his wife?”

The earl shrugged. “It seems unlikely, since he has not been in town once the entire Season. Or last Season, either. I know it would make it more difficult for your seduction plans, but I for one hope the old boy does show up.”

Gareth smothered the unaccustomed twinge of hurt that emerged. Though surrounded constantly by men and women who enjoyed his company, there were a select number the viscount considered to be his friends. Lucien was one of those few.

“Mrs. Fairweather has proved to be a challenging enough conquest without her husband in tow,” Gareth said as he adjusted the speed of his horse so he could bring the animal even closer to his friend. “The chance of failure increases tenfold if he joins the party.”

“You are being far too modest,” the earl replied with a sly smile. “If necessary you could have Mrs. Fairweather on her back with you mounted atop and her husband snoring contentedly in the bed beside you both.”

“Hell and damnation, now that’s a pretty picture!”

The men laughed, then urged their mounts around a narrow bend. “If Mr. Fairweather does appear, it will be a boon for me,” Lucien explained. “He has never once been seen in society and since Mrs. Fairweather hails from such a remote section of Cornwall there are none to dispute her claim of a husband. The rumors persist that he is merely a figment of her vivid imagination.”

“I’ve heard that too,” Gareth agreed. “I’ve also heard some lackwits have placed wagers in the betting book at White’s concerning the matter.”

“Precisely.” The earl assumed a haughty stare.

“I have accepted each and every one of them. If Mr. Fairweather follows his pretty young wife to Kent there will be no disputing the fact that he does indeed exist. I may then happily claim my substantial winnings.”

Gareth relaxed, then smiled. “You engage in the most foolhardy wagers, my friend. Mrs. Fairweather is an accomplished flirt and her kisses suggest she is far from an innocent. Yet given the circumstances even I would not play those long odds.”

The earl turned about with a flourish. “We cannot all be great lovers. Some of us must exploit our other talents in order to hold our reputations as rogues. You know I’ve always had an affinity for gambling. For me, the more impossible the odds, the more attractive the wager, hence the sweeter the victory.”

Gareth frowned as a sudden thought emerged. “Do not say that you have wagered Mrs. Fairweather will escape me?”

The earl nearly pulled his horse to a dead stop at the notion. “I enjoy taking risks but I’m not a complete idiot. Besides, I was unable to find anyone who would bet against you, Longley.”

This time it was Gareth who was almost unseated, as he threw back his head and burst into laughter. “Such a display of male confidence in my prowess warms my heart. And challenges my blood. Come on, Lucien. If we hurry, we shall arrive at Winchester Manor in time to partake of the evening meal.”

“And enjoy the delectable Mrs. Fairweather for dessert?”

The viscount raised his hand and motioned toward the empty stretch of road that lay ahead. “A sound plan. However, I must refute your claim of being a modest lover. You have all the necessary qualifications to become a top-notch seducer of females.”

“Thank you.” The earl inclined his head. “Your superior skill and reputation makes that high praise indeed.”

“Oh, stuff it!” Gareth exclaimed, breaking into a good-natured smile.

With a final laugh the two men cantered away.

“Have you at last made a decision, Amelia?” a female voice whispered in her ear. “Who will it be? Which of these many handsome, dashing men shall you choose for your lover?”

Amelia sprang away from that voice so fast she almost tumbled to the carpet. By only a small miracle was she able to right herself and prevent plunging headlong into the Dowager Countess of Hamlin and her escort, who were each carrying plates of food piled high with supper offerings. In panting breaths, Amelia turned to face her tormentor.

“Charlotte! You must stop sneaking up on me. These days have been trying to the extreme. My poor heart cannot take so much shock.”

Amelia felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I had not realized you were so engrossed in thought that you had gone deaf.”

Amelia frowned. Charlotte’s voice was sincere, but her friend hardly looked sorry. She actually looked amused.

“My nerves are overset,” Amelia said. She snapped open the fan that dangled from her wrist and waved it vigorously. “Roger has informed me that Mr. Bascomb will be arriving by this evening. Above all else, I must avoid his company.”

“Of course.” This time there was no mistaking the concern shining in Charlotte’s eyes. “Stay close by my side. If necessary, I can distract Mr. Bascomb.”

“Thank you.” The wispy ends of Amelia’s stylishly coiffed hair fluttered wildly in the breeze created by her fan. “It is a great comfort knowing I have you and Belinda close at hand to offer support.”

“We shall do all that we are able.” Suddenly, Charlotte’s hand shot forward and grasped Amelia’s wrist. “You are waving that so fiercely it is making me dizzy. ’Tis so unlike you to be so fidgety. Even the odious Mr. Bascomb cannot account for this attack of nerves.”

“I have been trying to make a decision,” Amelia said slowly.

“Concerning your lover?” Charlotte asked brightly. “Thank heavens. It has been three days since you plotted your course, Amelia. You need to choose your partner and start your seduction. Soon!”

Amelia felt the blush of crimson rise in her cheeks. She angled her head so Charlotte could not see the embarrassment framed in her eyes.

“This is proving far more difficult than I imagined.”

“If you are lacking courage, all you need do is imagine yourself married to Mr. Bascomb,” Charlotte advised grimly.

Amelia shuddered visibly at the thought. Charlotte was right. She must somehow find the courage to act.

“I am starting to feel conspicuous standing here,” Amelia said. “Let’s at least get a plate of food so we may sit at one of the tables.”

She took Charlotte’s arm and they strolled over to the dining room sideboard with the same casual aplomb one would assume when promenading in Hyde Park. Since a late supper was planned after tonight’s dancing, a lavish respite had been laid out for the guests to casually enjoy, so as to ensure that no one went hungry.

Amelia and Charlotte joined the line of guests. They waved off the assistance of the able footmen who stood ready to help. What was needed most was privacy.

“I noticed you danced with Lord Avery the other evening,” Charlotte whispered. “Twice.”

“He is very kind,” Amelia answered. She speared a thick slice of cured ham she had no intention of eating and placed it on her plate. “We discussed his children, who are nearly grown and the gardens at his country home. It was a very pleasant conversation.”

“Well, he has certainly mellowed with age. I thought he might have already made some overtures towards you. The tales of his exploits with women are legendary.” Charlotte paused, her hands clenched tightly around a dripping spoon of pickled beets. “Perhaps it might be easier for you to select an older, more experienced gentleman like Lord Avery. Why do you not pursue him?”

“He reminds me of my father.”

“Oh dear, that won’t do.” Charlotte put down the spoon without taking any beets and held out her plate. Amelia dropped a healthy serving of roasted potatoes onto it. “What about Mr. Matthews? I noticed he partnered you for supper after the dancing last night.”

Amelia sighed. “His conversation was so dull it nearly put me to sleep.”

“His wit is not of primary importance in this instance,” Charlotte rebuked.

“I know that,” Amelia exclaimed. Her rigid expression softened. “But will it not be easier to accept him into my bed if I like him just a little?”

Charlotte’s warm eyes filled with understanding. “Shall we alter the plan? This is obviously a torture for you. I cannot speak for Belinda, but I for one am willing to step in for you.”

Amelia shook her head adamantly. “No, I won the bet. I shall take the lover.” She pressed her palm against her hot cheek and tried to calm her nerves.

Just saying the words aloud had brought on a flush of emotion. How was she ever going to complete the deed if she could barely even speak of it?

The conversation halted as the women found an unoccupied table. Amelia struggled to swallow a slight portion of green beans while Charlotte silently observed her for a long moment. After a second bite Amelia placed her silver fork on the table and abandoned all pretense of eating.

“Spreading your attention amongst too many men is confusing and daunting and distracting you from moving ahead,” Charlotte said earnestly. “If you are going to succeed in finding a lover, you need to concentrate your efforts on one gentleman.”

“How can I select one?”

“The same way we chose which one of us would take a lover. It must be a completely random selection.”

Amelia let out a nervous giggle. “Won’t all the gentlemen be curious when I walk about the room handing out red feathers?”

“You are not taking this seriously,” Charlotte lectured.

Amelia curled her lip. Charlotte was right again. Thus far she had given the plan only a halfhearted effort. Yet it was difficult to embrace the notion full-out when a part of Amelia’s conscience nagged that this was an impulsive, idiotic idea.

“What do you suggest?” Amelia asked cautiously

“You must make it a random twist of fate.” Charlotte’s eyes darted sharply about the room. “There are only a few unattached males in the dining room at present. I am certain more will be joining us shortly. The next one who walks into the room is the man you shall seduce into your bed. Agreed?”

Amelia nodded her head, surprised she could do it so calmly. As unobtrusively as possible she adjusted the angle of her chair so that she had an unobstructed view of the doorway.

Nervously she picked up her wineglass, took a healthy swig, and with her heart lodged firmly in her throat, waited.

There was a brief commotion at the entrance as two gentlemen approached. They stood side by side underneath the double archway, observing the gathering with practiced, cynical eyes.

Garbed in elegantly tailored coats, sporting complex white cravats and tight-fitting breeches, they were a sight to behold. Though dressed similarly to many other gentlemen in the room, this pair seemed more exciting, more dangerous than the usual
ton
rakes. They stood proud, arrogant, and so assured, their very presence was a blatant masculine challenge to all the other males in attendance.

Though it had been four years since she had been in London, Amelia recognized both men immediately. The Earl of Danbury and Viscount of Longley, two men who inspired mysterious, forbidden feelings in nearly every female they encountered, no matter her age or marital status.

Feeling like a character in an overly dramatic play, Amelia stared openly at the two men. Her concentration was so intense that she was unable to contain her gasp of shock when the earl bowed elegantly to the viscount and motioned that he precede him into the dining room.

It could not possibly be happening!
Amelia’s heart skipped a beat and she shut her eyes tight, yet she could not bear to keep them closed. She opened them wide, then wider still as Gareth Travers, Viscount of Longley, sauntered into the room.

“There, ’tis settled,” Charlotte said with an authoritative nod of her head. “Before the house party ends, the viscount will become your lover and aid you in creating the scandal of the year.”

Viscount Longley as her lover!
The dreamlike quality of the moment persisted. Feeling her fragile self-control beginning to tumble, Amelia pinched her thigh to gather her wits.

“I cannot be his lover,” Amelia squeaked.

“Do you find him unappealing?” Charlotte questioned. “Personally I prefer the earl’s blond countenance, but you must admit the viscount’s combination of blue eyes and dark hair is strikingly handsome.”

Amelia ripped her gaze away from the viscount. “He is handsome as an Adonis with the physical attributes of a Greek god and the charm of the devil.”

Charlotte smiled deliciously. “What is the problem?”

“Are you joking?” Amelia picked up her fan and waved it vigorously in front of her face. Perhaps a cool breeze would help moderate this light-headed feeling. “For one thing, the viscount is younger than I am.”

“Oh, posh.” Charlotte clucked her tongue. “What possible difference does a few years make?”

“A few years! ’Tis more like seven!”

“Ah, so that makes you old enough to be what . . . his mother?”

“Charlotte!” Amelia cried desperately.

“I apologize for teasing,” Charlotte said in a conciliatory tone. “However, if the viscount will not do, then take the earl. They nearly entered the room at the same time. It hardly matters if you prefer one over the other.”

“God save us all, Charlotte,” Amelia hissed. “You speak of it as though we are discussing which cakes to eat with our tea.”

“We have been friends forever,” Charlotte chided. “I would think by this time you had become accustomed to my frank, no-nonsense approach to life.”

“It still has the power to shock me on occasion,” Amelia admitted. “Especially when we are speaking of such delicate, intimate matters.”

It was equally difficult to admit that as much as the notion nearly terrified Amelia out of her shoes and stockings there was also a small, rebellious part of her spirit that embraced the idea of the viscount as her scandalous lover. The erotic notion that she, Amelia Wheatley, could somehow be this handsome, wicked man’s woman brought Amelia’s sensual imagination to life.

She lifted her head and watched the viscount closely.

He was bowing and smiling as he strolled into the room. Amelia noticed he smiled often, but gave only a select few a greeting of unaffected enthusiasm. Within minutes he was surrounded by guests of both genders who appeared eager to converse with him.

The laughter from this ever-widening circle grew steadily and though he was no longer visible Amelia had little doubt the viscount remained at the center of everyone’s attention. Including her own.

Amelia sat up a little straighter. “There is no need for me to search any further. The viscount will serve my purpose most adequately.” She turned her head and looked right into Charlotte’s eyes. “What do I do next?”

 

 

Feeling decidedly peeved, Gareth nonetheless managed to respond to the many greetings with a civil tongue and a smile pasted on his face. He noticed that Lucien was grinning like a fool. Not because he wasn’t receiving his equal share of fawning attention, but rather because Mrs. Fairweather was nowhere to be found.

When they arrived, Gareth had refrained from asking outright if she was among the guests, hoping instead to surprise her. For the last few miles of the journey his mind had been consumed by thoughts of her—the sensual mouth made for teasing kisses, high delicate breasts that ached to be suckled, the long, shapely legs that would wind tightly about his waist as he joined his body with hers.

Gareth had strolled through a good portion of the large house on the pretext of admiring the estate, half expecting her to appear around the next corner, with her shy smiles and coy glances. Yet room after room had revealed only opulent riches and other guests the viscount had no interest in meeting. It was a rare form of torture that brought on maudlin thoughts.

“Glad you could make it, Longley. These parties can be a deadly bore without some young blood around to liven things up.”

Gareth pulled himself together and shook hands with his host, the Duke of Hartwell. He declined an offer of food, but managed to feign polite interest in meeting several of the duke’s cronies, men of an older generation who delighted in telling raucous and clearly exaggerated tales of the viscount’s ancestors.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Gareth saw a flash of lavender coming toward him. At last! A Season of stalking his prey had taught the viscount that delicate hue was a favored shade, for it matched the ring of color around Mrs. Fairweather’s extraordinary eyes.

With effort, Gareth resisted the urge to rake his fingers through his hair, knowing it would muss it completely. He almost laughed aloud at his vanity.

“Please excuse my intrusion, my lord,” a lilting female voice said. “I did not at first recognize you, but now that I have, I wanted to say hello and extend my regards to your family. Are they here also?”

The woman before him dropped an elegant curtsy and he bowed automatically in response. There was a second of disorientation as the viscount realized it was not Mrs. Fairweather who had spoken those charming words, but rather a stranger.

She was an attractive woman with pleasant features, glossy dark hair and a lush figure. Gareth had no idea who she was, yet by her greeting it was obvious she knew him. Then again, didn’t everyone?

Gareth barely restrained his disappointment. “My parents have not made the journey north. They prefer to summer with the Regent in Brighton.”

“How delightful for them.”

“Yes.” He drew out the single-syllable word for as long as he dared, then retreated behind a formal perfunctory smile and a slightly cool manner.