Adrienne Basso (5 page)

Amelia dug her heels firmly into the carpet. “Does he find it difficult to move in such exalted noble company?”

“Hardly.” Roger snorted. “These people are not strangers to him. Nearly half the men in this room are indebted to Mr. Bascomb in one way or another.”

“Including you?”

Roger smiled slyly. “My position is unique. Mr. Bascomb is soon to become a member of our family.”

Not if I can prevent it,
Amelia told herself silently. She refused to rise to the taunt, but steadfastly kept her eyes ahead of her as she was marched across the room to greet Mr. Bascomb.

He was a slight man, of average height, with thinning dark hair, a sallow complexion, and an appalling affinity for bright, lavish clothing that suited neither his plain looks nor garish personality. This evening’s ensemble was no exception. He sported a scarlet coat embroidered with threads of gold, a patterned yellow waistcoat, and tight-fitting black trousers. None of the garments was in any way flattering to his person.

“Where have you been hiding? I have been waiting most of the evening to see you,” Mr. Bascomb said, as he grasped her hand with a proprietary air.

Hard, dark eyes bored into her and Amelia struggled to remain unflinching. “Good evening, Mr. Bascomb. I trust you are enjoying the lovely hospitality of the duke and duchess.”

“Hummph.” A mottled flush spread across Mr. Bascomb’s sunken cheeks. His clumsy fingers had managed to move the edge of her glove away from her wrist and he fastened his limp, wet lips greedily against her bare flesh.

Revulsion washed over her. Amelia dared not insult him outright, but she sniffled deliberately, as if the air surrounding him were mortally offensive. Unfortunately he was too thick-skinned to notice.

Amelia freed her hand and turned her head. Roger had already abandoned her and it was shocking to realize that even the company of her odious brother-in-law was preferable to being alone with Mr. Bascomb.

Desperately hoping to find someone she knew, Amelia’s eyes searched the dance floor. She quickly spotted Emma Fairweather. Not surprisingly the viscount was by her side, his attention keenly fixed on the golden-haired beauty. With effort, Amelia suppressed a sigh.

“He’s nosing around the wrong bitch this time,” Mr. Bascomb said in a lewd voice. “Some might call Longley the ultimate lover, but he won’t get to test his prowess in bed with Mrs. Fairweather, that’s for certain.”

“Whatever do you mean?” The words were so shocking, Amelia did not even pause to consider the inappropriateness of the subject matter.

“Just what I said. All he wants is to get her on her back, but he’ll not be able to poke her, no matter how pretty his face or deep his pockets.” Mr. Bascomb snorted most unpleasantly. “Poor bastard. I almost pity him.”

“You
pity the viscount?” Amelia asked.

“A bit. It can be lowering to a man to be rejected by a lady he fancies.” Mr. Bascomb cleared his throat. “Mind you, not that I have had any personal experience with that sort of thing. Still, it must sting, even for a man as jaded as the viscount. They say he’s utterly ruthless with women, but mark my words, Mrs. Fairweather will put him in his place.”

Amelia shook her head in puzzlement, not believing she was hearing Mr. Bascomb correctly. “Mrs. Fairweather seems very taken with the viscount.”

“It’s all an act,” Mr. Bascomb declared.

“An act? How could you possibly know such a thing?”

“I know Mr. Fairweather,” Mr. Bascomb replied smugly. “He’s a smart businessman who works hard for his coin. He doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to squire his wife all over London. Besides, he can’t stand these aristocrats. She’s only carrying on with the viscount, hoping word of this flirtation reaches her husband’s ears.”

“Why would a married woman wish her husband to learn of her relationship with another man?” Amelia asked.

“She wants to make him jealous and hopes if he knows there are others sniffing after her he’ll come to London. ’Tis a stupid idea. The kind of logic that only a woman would devise.” Mr. Bascomb’s dark eyes hardened. “Make no mistake, if that were my wife carrying on so I’d come and haul her back home so fast her head would spin. ’Course what a woman like that really needs is a few stiff strokes of the birch to keep her under control.”

Amelia struggled not to shudder. His implication was clear and she had no doubt in her mind he would carry out such a punishment on his own wife. It hardened her resolve never to be that poor creature.

It also gave her hope that he would cry off from a union between them if he thought she was involved with another man. Especially if that man were Viscount Longley.

Amelia’s searching eyes soon found Belinda and Charlotte. The silent plea for rescuing she flashed was hardly necessary. The two women swooped down upon her like a pair of avenging angels. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged. Amelia marveled at how they managed to be civil to Mr. Bascomb, who was just short of being openly rude.

“The music is so lovely.” Belinda sighed softly. “How very disappointing that I have yet to engage in a single country dance this evening.”

All three women turned toward the only male in their midst. Even Mr. Bascomb was not lack-witted enough to miss the obvious.

“I would be honored to partner you, Lady Gooding.”

“You are too gallant, sir.”

He bowed awkwardly, then offered his arm to Belinda. Amelia caught Belinda’s eye just before the unlikely couple strolled onto the dance floor. She mouthed a silent, grateful thank you to her friend.

Amelia and Charlotte withdrew to an unoccupied corner of the room where they would not be overheard. “Was it yet another random selection to decide which one of you would be stuck luring Mr. Bascomb away?” Amelia asked.

“Naturally.” Charlotte smiled. “This time we drew cards. Belinda lost.”

Amelia grimaced. “She is a loyal friend.”

“She cares about you, as do I.” Charlotte spoke in a guarded tone. “I saw you dancing with Longley. What happened?”

“He was charming and flattering, but that hardly makes me unique among the women that crossed his path. I am very uncertain if I can steal his interest away from Mrs. Fairweather.”

“You are being too honest,” Charlotte said in a scolding tone.

“Honest?” Amelia rolled her eyes expressively. “I am trying to lure a man I barely know into an intimate encounter so that I may cause a monumental scandal. There is nothing honorable or honest in that action.”

“There is nothing dishonorable or shameful either,” Charlotte said. “You are both unattached—”

“You are conveniently forgetting about Mrs. Fairweather,” Amelia corrected instantly.

“You are foolishly forgetting about
Mr.
Fairweather,” Charlotte said pointedly. “Emma Fairweather is the only adulteress in this equation. However, if you find the task of seducing the viscount too daunting, then you must look beyond it. It is not necessary to actually have relations with the man. ’Tis not as if you were planning on having Mr. Bascomb sit on the edge of the bed and watch you fornicate.”

“He would probably enjoy it,” Amelia said grimly.

Charlotte’s eyes widened. She began to speak, sputtered, then stopped. Amelia smiled. There was a smug sense of satisfaction in finally being able to shock the free-speaking Charlotte.

“Amelia,” she said in a crisp voice, “the point I have been trying to make is that even the appearance of an affair with the viscount will suffice. If he is spending his nights in Mrs. Fairweather’s chamber, then you should spend part of yours in his vacant bed.

“If you are seen leaving the viscount’s bedchamber in the early morning hours the scandal will be born. A servant will do, but if we could arrange for you to be seen by another guest that would be even better.”

“What if he were confronted? By Roger or Mr. Bascomb? Would the viscount not deny that we had been together?”

“He is a peer and a gentleman. He will deny the relationship publicly even if you are intimate. But privately?” Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. “ ’Tis said that men are even bigger gossips than women. And few men would willingly contradict their virility when bragging with their peers. His reputation as the ultimate lover would only rise by adding you to the total number of his conquests.”

Charlotte’s argument made sense. Though Mr. Bascomb had claimed otherwise, Amelia doubted the viscount would settle for anything less than Mrs. Fairweather in his bed. Which left Amelia with far fewer options.

“I shall consider your suggestion carefully,” Amelia said finally.

She watched intently the remainder of the evening, but there were no further opportunities to be alone, or even dance with the viscount. Feeling weary, Amelia went in search of her bedchamber. Yet as she took to her bed in the early morning hours, Charlotte’s suggestion of settling on appearing to be the viscount’s lover held firm in the back of her mind.

Gareth awoke as the first streaks of morning light began to creep into his room, an unusually early time for him. Sprawled out on his stomach, he opened his eyes and stared absently at the smooth sheet and empty space beside him. Another unusual occurrence. More often than not he woke to the sight of a female companion, warm, soft, and naked, eagerly awaiting his pleasure.

Closing his eyes, Gareth slumped deeper into the mattress, trying to ignore his arousal. What was going wrong? Why was he alone and in such a state of unfulfillment?

The viscount sighed and rolled on his back as confusion consumed him. Though his legendary success with women was somewhat inflated, there was also great truth in the gossip. There had never before been a woman he set in his sights that he did not ultimately win.

Emma Fairweather was the single exception to that fact. Throughout the Season he had misjudged the best way to handle her, had failed to unlock the secret that would bring her into his bed. Was this extended house party going to yield more of the same negative results?

Gareth groaned out loud at the very idea. He had never chased a woman this hard and this long without success. Yet his failure was feeding the drive to continue and win. It was almost as if his need for victory was now almost greater than his specific desire for Mrs. Fairweather. Emma.

She had given him leave to call her by her first name a few weeks ago. A petty, hollow advance. Why, it had only taken a few hours for the Dowager Countess of Monford to afford him that same intimacy.

Amelia. Gareth rolled the name around on his tongue, his thoughts focusing on the woman. He decided he liked her. It was something he rarely even considered feeling for a woman. Initially she seemed rather meek and mild-mannered, but he sensed there must be an inner core of strength inside her. Clearly her marriage had been an unhappy one, yet she had survived and moved beyond it.

If he were not so overpowered by his need for Emma he might even consider a flirtation with the countess. At first he thought her rather plain, but after their dance last evening he realized she had several exceptional features, particularly her expressive hazel eyes and flawless ivory skin.

Realizing that the direction of his thoughts was not aiding his present state of arousal, Gareth threw back the covers and left his empty bed. The viscount rang the servant cord in his room, instructing the footman who answered to rouse his valet.

Forty-five minutes later, freshly shaved and elegantly dressed, Gareth left his bedchamber. Last night the lovely Emma had hinted that she often breakfasted at an unfashionably early hour. Perhaps that was her way of letting him know this was the perfect opportunity for them to be alone?

The viscount met many servants, but no other guests as he navigated the many twists and turns of the large house. He stepped eagerly into the dining room and noted the sideboard had already been laid with silver chaffing dishes. Even covered, the tantalizing aroma of the various foods escaped and drifted about the room.

As he expected, Gareth encountered more servants in the room, eager to assist the duke’s guests. He waved them away, for his attention had already been captured by something far more delectable than the food. On the far side of the room, seated at the impossibly long mahogany dining table was another guest. A lady.

There was a familiarity about her that set his blood to pumping. Thanks to the distance and angle of her head, he could not discern the exact set of her features. He started toward her, but as he drew closer the light of expectation in his eyes died.

“Good morning, Gareth. I am surprised to see you up and about. I thought I was the only one who enjoyed the quiet and stillness of the morning.”

“Hello, Amelia.” Tempering the edge of his disappointment, Gareth seated himself beside the dowager countess. He noticed she was dressed for riding, in a golden hued ensemble that flattered her complexion. “Have you brought along one of your mounts?”

“To breakfast?” She blushed, almost as though she were astonished by her bold quip. “Forgive my jest. The answer to your question, is no, I did not bring along one of my horses. It was a three-day journey here from my home. Only eager young gentlemen ride such great distances on horseback. Creaky dowagers like myself must ride in large, comfortable coaches when traveling.”

Amusement lifted the corner of his mouth. “I see you still have not forgotten that passing remark concerning my grandmother.”

“Not a single word of it. I might be advanced in years, but I do have an excellent memory.” She laughed. “The duke has been kind enough to put his stables at the disposal of all his guests. If you were properly attired I would invite you to join me after you have eaten your breakfast.”

The viscount raised his china cup to his lips and sipped his hot coffee. She was allowing him the perfect opportunity to take his leave politely, but for some strange reason Gareth did not seize upon it.

“Unlike a woman, a man can quickly change his garments.” He chewed and swallowed a second slice of toasted bread. “I shall meet you at the stables in twenty minutes.”

“I will only wait for twenty minutes.” Amelia’s smile deepened. “In order to force you to live up to your boastful promises.”

Gareth leaned over confidently and whispered in her ear. “Be forewarned, I never boast what I cannot deliver.”

He expected her eyes to widen with surprise or perhaps even expectation, but her gaze remained steady and focused. “I sincerely believe you.”

He watched her graceful strides carry her from the room. Deciding he might need the sustenance, Gareth quickly ate some cheese and downed a second cup of coffee. The change of garments into suitable riding attire was accomplished in record time. He fortunately located a secondary stair down to the ground floor, so he arrived at the stables with a few minutes to spare. The stable boys were as accommodating as all the other servants of the house and rushed forward to assist him in selecting a horse.

Amelia was a fetching sight, mounted atop a chestnut mare. She waited with a patient expression, though Gareth knew that would have changed had he not arrived on time. He soon joined her, riding a sturdy gray hunter. After confirming the direction with one of the grooms, the viscount led the way out.

In his explorations of the estate yesterday he had learned of a folly. Well hidden and private, it was a solid structure that was not open but had a proper door and windows. He had not yet examined the interior. The views of the ornamental lake and formal gardens were reputed to be glorious from inside, but Gareth was more interested in the seclusion and privacy this spot offered.

It could be the perfect location for a rendezvous with Emma. The quiet of the morning was an excellent time to investigate, and Amelia would provide pleasant, amusing company.

They followed the bridle path at a comfortable pace. As soon as the path widened, Gareth drew alongside the countess. When so moved, Gareth made a comment to which Amelia readily responded. Though limited, the conversation between them flowed easily and naturally.

He was pleased the matching bonnet set at a jaunty angle upon her head did not disrupt his view of her features. Gareth enjoyed watching her face glisten in the sunshine, her expressions varying from thoughtful, to amused, to delighted.

Eventually the path ended, the trees giving way to a narrow field.

“Are you game?” she asked with a questioning smile.

“I make no allowances for the weaker sex,” he answered. “And I always race to win.”

“I would expect no less.” She shot him a challenging glance, then took off.

The unexpected start gave her the initial advantage, but Gareth was soon in hot pursuit. They thundered through the meadow, separated by only a few furlongs, with Amelia in the lead. He admired her skill with the reins, her instinct to win. She kept her head low, her knees tightly hugging the mare’s sides as she pushed the horse faster and faster.

The relentless pounding of the horses’ hooves set Gareth’s blood rushing. He surrendered gleefully to the sensation, completely enjoying the thrill of speed, the excitement of the chase, the challenge of competition.

A forest of mature trees loomed ahead. Gareth knew he only had a few minutes to catch her. He urged his horse on, but the countess still had the advantage. She pulled up at the edge of the trees, and turned her head in his direction. The victorious smile upon her face was unmistakable.

“I would have won if you had not cheated,” he declared breathlessly.

“What rot.” Her smile widened. The sound of her labored breathing mingled with his and echoed through the air. “You are angered because you lost to a woman and your male sense of self-worth has been compromised. Admit it.”

“I admit nothing. Males are larger and stronger and fitter than females. We succeed in
fair
physical challenges because we are better equipped to do so and because we are born with the need to compete at everything. Why else would we relieve ourselves in the snow to see who can shoot the stream the farthest?”

Amelia’s eyes widened. For an instant Gareth was not sure which of them was more shocked by his vulgar language. But before he could gather his thoughts to apologize, Amelia spoke.

“Your point is well-made, Gareth. Females are not properly equipped to compete in snow . . . coloring.” She steered her mare closer, leaned over, and whispered, “Nor would we ever care to try it.”

The trill of a bird broke the moment of silence. Gareth felt the edge of his lips begin to curve upward. This was without question the most bizarre conversation he had ever had with a female, yet there was something so ridiculously appealing about the moment he almost didn’t want it to end.

“Have you visited the duke’s folly yet?” he inquired.

“No.” Something flickered in her eyes. He had a fleeting impression it was anticipation. “I would very much like to see it. I have heard it is rather unique.”

Gareth nodded. “I caught a glimpse of it yesterday. Let’s see if I can remember where it is located.”

Gareth turned his horse onto the path and Amelia meekly followed. They ambled gently through the well-marked path, then came to a narrow turnoff nearly hidden in the underbrush.

They followed it around, with Gareth still in the lead. The quiet stillness of the forest engulfed them, creating a peaceful almost languid mood. The trees gradually thinned to open space and formally laid gardens, which was an amazing sight considering how far they were from the main house.

Gareth halted as they neared the edge of an ornamental lake. Before them stood a stone bridge, arched and narrow, clearly meant only for human traffic. If he remembered correctly the folly stood on the other side of it.

He dismounted, tied the horse’s reins to a sturdy tree trunk, then returned to fetch Amelia. She handed him her reins. After securing them to the same tree trunk, Gareth returned.

He reached up, circled his hands about her waist, and assisted her down. He heard a soft gasp and smiled, thinking she felt a heightened sense of awareness, but then her horse shifted and Gareth realized Amelia feared she would fall.

He braced his legs and tightened his grip. She reached the ground safely, but landed against his chest. Heat began to dance beneath his skin, awakening his body. She glanced up and their eyes met briefly. A strange, possessive emotion skittered through him.

“Forgive my clumsiness,” she muttered, stepping away.

He extended his arm. She clasped it lightly and they proceeded over the bridge.

“Is that it?” Amelia asked in a surprised tone.

Gareth lifted his chin and gazed ahead. Nestled among the trees was a building, not of classic or traditional design, with a domed center and opened sides, but rather a fully enclosed stone structure that in many ways resembled a country cottage.

“It must be. Though the duke strikes me as the type who would create a Gothic ruin or ancient temple or even the more common tower when creating a folly.”

“This is a somewhat eccentric choice.”

“A privilege of his age, rank, and wealth.” Gareth shrugged. “Of course, as a gift to my mother on her fiftieth birthday, my father had a pyramid folly built.”

“Was she pleased?”

“Inordinately.” They exchanged amused grins. “My mother has always prided herself on being at the center of the latest trends. These structures are quickly becoming all the rage and are being erected with seeming random abandon about the landscapes of many grand houses. One can hardly visit a country home without eventually tripping over one.”

“That should not be a problem in this case,” Amelia commented. She tilted her head and gazed about. “I doubt many guests can even find the folly.”

The verbalization of that simple truth seemed to charge the atmosphere with an electric current, as it emphasized how completely alone they were. The rising blush of color in Amelia’s cheeks let Gareth know she felt it too.

If it were any other woman he would have moved closer, by instinct or habit. But there was something unique and special about the countess that Gareth did not want clouded by a sexual dalliance. Besides, there was Emma to be pursued and presently she required every ounce of his attention.

“At least the cottage is picturesque,” the viscount interjected hastily. “The rumor persists that the Earl of Dunmore is constructing a gigantic pineapple building at Dunmore Park.”

“A pineapple! Good heavens.” She let out a shaky laugh. “Well, that only confirms my original impressions of the earl. Though I have encountered him only intermittently over the years, I never thought him to be a man who possessed an excess of good taste.”

“Shall we go inside?” He opened the door before she could answer.

Amelia obediently stepped forward. Gareth had to duck his head to avoid hitting the cross-beam, but once inside he could stand upright without difficulty.