Adrienne Basso (4 page)

“You must offer your parents my best regards the next time you see them,” the woman insisted.

“I will not forget.”

“Good.”

Though she was standing almost rigidly still, her body seemed to dance with impatience. Gareth raised his brow and turned his neck slightly, a sure and subtle hint that their brief, boring conversation was at an end. Yet the damnable woman did not react as she should. Instead of making a graceful departure she lifted her chin and smiled at him.

Gareth was momentarily taken aback. It was not the come-hither broadness of a seductive female he knew so well. He had been weaned on those sultry advances. Yet unless he was very much mistaken there
was
an invitation in her eyes. Of what he could not be certain.

“I do appreciate your politeness, however, I believe it might prove difficult to keep your word,” she commented.

“Pardon?”

“You can hardly give my regards to your parents when you do not know who I am,” she said in a serious tone. “Can you?”

Gareth laughed. It should have been a mortifying, embarrassing moment, yet there was no malice in her tone. “You have caught me out, neat and tight, madame.” He bowed, deep and low. “I stand before you a defeated and humbled man.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that, my lord.” She joined his laughter and he found that he liked the sound of it. “I am Amelia Wheatley, Dowager Countess of Monford. We have met in London on several different occasions, though not for a few years.”

She extended her ungloved hand. He lifted it to his lips and lightly brushed the edge of her knuckles. A pleasant scent of spring roses tickled his nostrils.

“My apologies, fair lady, for committing the unpardonable sin of forgetting your name.” He eyed her curiously as his lips lingered on her petal-soft skin.

“You disappoint me, my lord.” She cocked her head, her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. “A momentary lapse in memory is far from a sinful act. Especially for you.”

Gareth’s distraction began to evaporate. “I see that my inflated reputation has preceded me.”

“Oh, yes. I do believe it arrived a full twenty minutes before you set foot in the dining room.”

He chuckled again and finally, reluctantly let go of her hand. She was still smiling, apparently in a good humor. Yet when he looked closer, the viscount observed that though she tried to hide it there was a slight reserve to her expression. Perhaps she was worried that they were being watched?

“Let me assure you, my exploits are retold and embellished so often they rarely resemble the truth.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Have they no merit at all?”

“I would not go so far as to say that,” he replied.

“It must be tiresome at times to live up to those scandalous acts,” she remarked.

“Fairly exhausting,” he agreed. “Yet somehow I find the strength.”

“How admirable.”

For an instant Gareth’s famous glib tongue failed him. In his experience women fell into two distinct categories. Those who had a poor opinion of him and steered clear at all costs and those who openly tried to entice him.

He was having great difficulty trying to determine where the countess fit, for he was getting a strange mix of signals from her. She appeared to be examining him with the same intensity women used when they were about to purchase something, yet there was a remote detachment to her perusal.

Then she blinked. Or was it a wink?

“Pardon my interruption, Longley, but there is something I believe you need to see.”

Gareth met Lucien’s mocking eyes. No further elaboration was necessary. The viscount swung his head around and all thoughts of the countess fled. Standing on the far side of the room was the delectable Mrs. Emma Fairweather. Her rich hair of spun gold and stunning figure was like a beacon of salvation to a storm-wrecked ship.

Gareth watched her hungrily as she leaned forward to shake hands with a seated matron. Plump swells of tempting flesh fell forward, threatening to spill from the bodice of her low-cut gown. That brief glimpse of bosom ignited the lust that had kept the viscount chasing after her for the entire Season.

He breathed deeply, shackling his desire. “You must excuse me, my lady. I see an old friend.” He smiled at the countess with feigned interest, his thoughts now inflamed with the notion of filling his hands with the delicious breasts he had just glimpsed, of flattening his body against Mrs. Fairweather’s, pressing his hips into hers.

The countess stiffened noticeably. Her mouth compressed into a thin line, yet remarkably she was able to still keep it curved upward in a smile.

“I shall expect you to dance with me later this evening, my lord,” she replied stoically. She eyed him askance and added, “To make amends for forgetting my name.”

Words failed him for a few moments. He watched the countess pivot on her heel and turn, leaving behind only a faint scent of fresh roses that he was honest enough to admit intrigued him.

More shocking still was the realization that she had succeeded in making him entirely forget Mrs. Fairweather for several minutes. Remarkable.

The evening of dancing was not unlike countless others that Amelia had attended. A small, local quartet of string musicians who played a variety of tunes with competence, if not great skill.

Along with the music, echoes of laughter and conversation could be heard, and even the occasional staccato rhythm of clapping hands as the dancers swirled and pranced to a lively country tune. Standing in the shadows made it easier to observe the gathering, and Amelia was surprised by what she saw.

Perhaps she had always been too busy or too involved before to notice all the flirtations, the lascivious looks, the assessing glances shared between many of the male and female guests. Yet instead of encouraging her with her own plan, this looser, more open attitude only made her feel more inadequate.

With a sigh, she shrank back against the silk patterned paper that covered the walls of the ballroom and searched the room for any sign of the viscount.

She quickly found him on the opposite side of the room, leaning negligently against a wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. There was a very pointed look of concentration on his handsome face. For an instant she thought he might be daydreaming, then she realized he had something within his sights that seemed to fascinate him.

Curious, Amelia followed the line of his intense gaze. Mrs. Emma Fairweather. Amelia’s heart sank. It was difficult enough trying to convince herself that she had the daring, wit, and feminine allure to catch the viscount’s eye. If she had to compete with the likes of Emma Fairweather to do so, Amelia feared she did not stand a chance.

“Have you seen him?” Belinda asked as she came to stand beside her friend.

“Yes.” Amelia glanced around to be certain no one was near. “He is on the far side of the room. Blatantly ogling Mrs. Fairweather’s charms.”

Belinda’s lips pulled down in confusion. “I just saw him at the card table in the gaming room. How did he get here so quickly?”

Amelia shook her head. “That is not possible. I have been watching him closely for the past twenty minutes. He has not been near the gaming tables.”

“You are mistaken,” Belinda insisted in a quiet, yet firm voice. “True, I have met Mr. Bascomb on only two occasions, but I very distinctly—”

“Mr. Bascomb!”

“Yes.” Belinda’s finely edged brow arched up. “Who did you think I was talking about?”

“Viscount Longley.” Amelia felt her cheeks flush with color.

Belinda stared at her with huge eyes. “Charlotte told me you had decided on a . . . uhm . . . companion. So it is to be Viscount Longley?”

“Yes.” Amelia glanced away. “However I shall be unsuccessful in my quest for scandal if I cannot manage to separate him from Mrs. Fairweather.”

“We shall devise a way to deal with Mrs. Fairweather,” Belinda declared. “If you are certain he is the one?”

Amelia let out a nervous flutter of laughter. “I am certain of nothing, except my extreme distaste for Mr. Bascomb.”

“Viscount Longley is a rather ambitious choice,” Belinda said in a reflective tone. “His skill with women is legendary and he is wickedly handsome. Goodness, my insides flutter and my heart trips a little too fast just looking at him. His mouth is sensuous, yet also ruthless. Can you imagine what it would feel like to be kissed by such a rogue?”

Amelia was about to reply, but Belinda was claimed for the next dance before she had a chance to answer. Yes, Amelia could very well imagine a kiss from the viscount. It would start as just the slightest pressure, the softest caress. But soon he would deepen the kiss, as he parted his lips over hers and pushed his tongue inside to ravish her mouth.

And how would she react? With fluttering sighs and coy protests? Or with honest emotion? Would she allow herself to float on the currents of romantic pleasure or would she feel too inhibited to let her passions run free?

With a start of surprise, Amelia realized she could not remember the last time she had shared a kiss of passion with a man. George had stolen a few kisses during their courtship, but had rarely pressed his lips to hers once they had married. According to Charlotte, a well-executed kiss was among the finer rewards in a woman’s life.

Gazing at the lazy smile that played along the viscount’s full lips made Amelia want to know more about what she had been missing.

A sudden, unexpected glimpse of Roger’s stony countenance among the faces in the crowd effectively squelched that desire. Where Roger stood, Mr. Bascomb was certain to be near. Amelia took a step forward, then looked wildly from side to side, searching for a safe escape. She circled the room cautiously, with a twofold purpose. To avoid Mr. Bascomb and Roger and to somehow attract the notice of the viscount.

The former task required only sharp eyes and swift feet, the latter was a more daunting challenge. Given the viscount’s current preoccupation with Mrs. Fairweather, Amelia decided she could strip herself naked and still remain unseen by him.

Yet she was not ready to concede defeat. Amelia approached the viscount, moving with a slow, stealthy steadiness that sparked her nerves with a strange feeling of restless agitation. Oddly it was an almost pleasant sensation.

Perhaps because she felt as if she were finally trying to do something. She was no longer waiting placidly for fate to come along and shape her life. She was trying to take control.

Amelia had nearly gained the viscount’s side when she noticed a sudden change overtake him.
Drat, she had waited too long.
With a stark look of purpose on his handsome face, he pushed away from the wall, crossed the room, and joined the circle around Mrs. Fairweather. Within minutes they were paired together on the dance floor, the delicate blond feminine beauty a perfect compliment to his dark, handsome countenance.

There seemed to be little conversation between the couple, but the looks he cast her way spoke volumes. He bent forward to whisper something to Mrs. Fairweather that caused her to toss back her golden head and laugh. Amelia suppressed a sudden feeling of envy.

Then Mrs. Fairweather leaned deliberately forward and brushed herself against his chest. The viscount’s eyes burned down at her.

Amelia turned away from the sight, berating herself for feeling such jealousy. She had no right to such feelings, no prior claim to the viscount’s affections or interest. She winced, remembering how quickly he had abandoned her in the dining room when the lovely Mrs. Fairweather appeared. No sane person would have reason to believe that would change for the entire two weeks of the house party.

Amelia thought seriously of taking Charlotte’s advice and selecting another gentleman. Yet she found she could barely consider the notion. For some odd reason fate had placed the viscount squarely in her path and she was resolved to somehow see this through.

The dance ended. Amelia was trying to decide her next move when she noticed Belinda sailing forward. Amelia watched with delight and admiration as her friend neatly cornered the pair, and with seeming ease and a friendly smile whisked Mrs. Fairweather away.

This time Amelia dared not hesitate. With a smile on her lips and a flirtatious mask firmly in place she glided toward the viscount.

“I shall allow you to claim this dance, my lord, but only if you remember who I am.”

He laughed. “My fair countess, I vow I shall never again forget your name. In fact, I feel we are now on such intimate terms that I should call you Amelia.”

“I would be honored, Gareth.”

Given the tightness in her chest, she was pleased to have delivered the retort so naturally. Amelia moved closer to him. His subtle, masculine scent drifted toward her, causing the back of her neck to tingle excitingly.
Saints preserve us, the man even smelled irresistible.

He drew her toward him and their bodies collided. Panicked, Amelia wondered if he felt the tremor that shook her as her thigh brushed his. She would have approached him regardless of the next dance, but her heart swelled with delight when she recognized the opening strains of a waltz.

The strong grip he had on her hand sent a hot shiver up her spine. Thankfully her gloves hid her wet palms. With a slight apprehension Amelia went into his arms and felt a mix of emotions rush through her. Suddenly she was once again young and unencumbered, free of worries and cares.

They completed one revolution around the small ballroom before he spoke.

“You waltz beautifully.”

The compliment startled her and she nearly lost her footing. Embarrassed by her clumsy move, Amelia searched his face for signs of mockery, but found none.

“Thank you. I would return the compliment, but I imagine you get tired of hearing them.”

“Compliments?” He gave her a boyish frown that went straight to her heart. “I believe the last woman to compliment my dancing was my grandmother. Actually you remind me a great deal of her.”

His grandmother! What a crushing comparison. Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “ ’Tis kind of you to partner a woman such as myself, obviously teetering on the edge of the grave. Why I can scarcely believe my good fortune to be dancing with someone who is practically a boy.”

“I can assure you, madame, I am very much of a man.”

Prove it to me.
Oh, how desperately she wished she had the courage to utter that flippant remark.

Instead she followed Mrs. Fairweather’s example and let herself stumble against him. Her breasts crushed against his chest and she felt his breathing catch. In the guise of righting herself, she disengaged her hand and splayed her palm across those wide muscles, then artfully trailed her fingertips over the solid contours as she reached out to clasp his outstretched hand.

It happened in an instant, so smoothly that they never missed a step in the dance. The puzzled frown he sent her way let her know he was unsure if it was a deliberate or accidental move.

“My grandmother is my favorite female relative,” he said.

Amelia arched a brow, but made no comment.

“I never meant to imply that you were like her, except perhaps for a similar disposition. Beyond that, I doubt you have much in common.” An irresistible grin tugged at his mouth. “Unless of course you have seven children, as she did.”

“I have no children.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Children are a blessing for many families. In my situation the opposite was true. Considering the temperament and character of my late husband it was a blessing not to have any offspring.”
Had she actually blurted that statement out loud?
Amelia had never in her life felt free enough to say such a thing to anyone. Even her closest female friends. “Do you have any children, my lord?”

“I am unmarried, Amelia.”

“I am well aware of your marital status. Marriage is hardly a requirement for having children. Do you have any?”

“You have posed a most impertinent question, madame,” he said sternly, but she detected the rascally twinkle in his eye. “And asked it not once, but twice.”

“One of the privileges of reaching such an advanced age is being able to ask these inappropriate questions.” She lifted her chin to a provocative angle. “Besides, you have not answered my question.”

“Nor will I.” His gaze locked with hers, the scrutiny in those devilish blue eyes causing gooseflesh to rise all over her body. “A man must be very careful where he sows his seed. ’Tis easy to beget children, but far harder to parent them.”

It was hardly the statement one would expect from a jaded rogue. Amelia was unsure if this attitude was the result of a pleasant or difficult childhood. “I can well imagine what a handful you were as a boy. It must have taken an army to keep you under control.”

“I chased away my fair share of nannies and governesses.” Gareth smiled. “My parents are very calm, placid people, especially my father. He was and still is the most affable and patient of men. You know, I shot him once.”

“You shot him? With a gun?”

“A dueling pistol.” He gave her a stare that was a shade too innocent. “However, that delightful story must wait to be told at another time, for our dance is ending.”

As if on cue the music came to an end with a resounding flourish. Amelia swept him a graceful curtsy. Gareth bowed, then held out his hand to help her rise. Once she stood straight, he pulled her hand and placed his lips on the top of her gloved wrist.

The kiss was gentle and fleeting, but Amelia felt it through her entire body. Despite the pounding of her heart, she managed to smile, hoping to encourage the sense of intimacy that blossomed in the air.

He returned her to a secluded corner of the room. She allowed him to seat her on a soft cushioned settee. For a wild moment she thought he might join her on the couch and try to steal a kiss. This time from her lips.

Instead he bowed, bestowed a slow smile upon her that never failed to dazzle the weaker sex, and left. Amelia wisely waited until the quivering in her knees passed before standing.

“What game are you playing at now?”

Roger!
She had been too engrossed in her escapade with Gareth to keep tabs on her interfering brother-in-law and now she was caught neatly in his snare.

“Good evening, sir,” Amelia said, turning away. Her brother-in-law grasped her wrist tightly, preventing her flight.

“I saw you flirting and carrying on with Longley. You shouldn’t waste your time,” Roger said, his lips pursed in self-righteous reproach. “He is hardly the type to marry.”

“A woman like myself,” Amelia added. “Is that not what you really meant to say?”

“I thought to spare your feelings, but yes, that is precisely what I meant.” Roger tugged on the black ribbon around his neck and lifted a quizzing glass to his eye.

“Ah, there is Mr. Bascomb. He has been asking about you most of the evening. You should have made a greater effort to be available when he arrived. Well, no matter. He looks rather forlorn standing alone amongst the potted palms. We must go and make him feel at ease.”