To Protect An Heiress (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Adrienne Basso

  She sucked in a painful breath. “However, I feel compelled to mention some flaws in your otherwise sterling idea. For example, what if I object to kissing Dardington?”

  Jasper and Jason’s immediate scowls gave Meredith a wicked sense of satisfaction. Apparently this contingency had never even been considered.

  “He is a very handsome, well-turned-out. gentleman,” Jason sputtered. He looked at his brother in confusion.

  “I’m sure you would like him,” Jasper added.

  Meredith tilted her head to one side as if she were carefully considering the matter. “And if I do not?”

  “I suppose you could chose another man,” Jason replied slowly. “But he must be a rake. Are you acquainted with any?”

  “Gracious, how and where would an old, on-the-shelf spinster such as myself have the opportunity to meet a gentleman with an unsavory reputation?”

  There was no mistaking the embarrassment etched on Jasper and Jason’s faces. Yet their clear discomfort did not completely ease the hurt she felt.

  “You have made your point, Merry,” Jason declared stoically. “We apologize.”

  “As well you should.” Meredith bristled as she arranged and then rearranged the folds of her skirt. She tried holding on to her anger, but their guilty remorse ate at her conscience.

  Their plan might be outrageous, but she had done far worse than kiss a gentleman of questionable reputation over the years to shield and protect her brothers.

  “Instead of going through with this ridiculous scheme, why don’t I purchase the bays from the marquess? I’m sure he will accept a fair price for them.” Meredith suggested. “I will, of course, retain ownership of the animals so the poor creatures cannot again be used as gambling collateral, but would keep them here in London, at your disposal, to be used whenever either of you wished.”

  The twins looked appalled at the notion. “The horses are part of a standing wager. You cannot simply buy them.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just isn’t done,” Jasper insisted.

  Meredith shook her head in puzzlement and rose to her feet. As far as she was concerned the discussion was ended. In a moment of weakness, she had offered to acquire the horses her brothers seem to covet so keenly, but they had rejected her offer in favor of some antiquated male code of gambling honor she could not begin to understand.

  Meredith strode to the door, then paused to look back at her brothers. “I politely suggest you both now turn your efforts toward a way to legally obtain the coin needed to cover this bet. For it seems rather certain that despite your flawless plan to emerge victorious, you shall instead be the losers in this wager.”

  Three

  “What are you doing?” the sultry redhead asked as she turned her head languidly on the pillow.

  Trevor Morely, Marquess of Dardington, stiffened slightly at the sound of her voice. Yet he never hesitated as he tugged on his black evening trousers and began to calmly button them, half hoping if he ignored her, she would remain silent.

  “Darling, come back to bed,” the female voice insisted. “It won’t be light for hours, and my dreadful husband never returns until the dawn has broken.”

  Trevor lifted his head and gazed with a practiced eye at the naked woman sprawled among the bed linens. Lady Melody Ramsey was a sight to behold, with her tousled red hair, flushed face, and creamy white skin. It was rumored among the ton that she was able to do most anything a man could want or even imagine. After tonight, Trevor could testify that claim was not an exaggeration.

  Lady Ramsey’s expertise in the bedroom went beyond mere skill. She was inventive, aggressive and incredibly lovely. So why was he donning his trousers instead of removing them?

  “ ’Tis late, Melody.” He smiled gently, hoping to avoid a scene. “And I’m tired.”

  Trevor shifted restlessly, searching the moonlit room for the remainder of his clothing. He discovered his silver patterned waistcoat and linen shirt draped over a chair back, but could locate neither his stockings nor his shoes.

  “You shall hurt my feelings if you leave so soon,” Melody pouted. Her voice was playful, but there was expectation in it, too. She rolled off the bed in a quick, efficient movement and walked toward him, her heavy breasts swaying.

  Trevor grinned despite his mild annoyance. Her athletic mobility was one of the reasons he had found her such an exhausting bed partner—that, along with her seemingly insatiable sexual appetite.

  For a man who had spent the last eight years of his life intent only on forgetting, on living life for the moment, she was the perfect match. As with most of his women, she required little effort. No sweet phrases or coy wooing, no grand seduction or forceful embraces were needed to get her on her back.

  And yet after spending two nights in her bed, Trevor was already feeling restless—bored, almost, though given Melody’s inventive nature that seemed a ridiculous notion.

  She must have sensed his distraction. As she came within reach, Melody struck a provocative pose and gave a low soft moan. Instinctively Trevor braced himself, thinking she was going to fling herself at him.

  Instead she gracefully extended her arms, her eyes glittering with seductive intent. She touched his naked chest with the tips of her fingers, slowly gliding them down his torso until they came to rest on the top of his trousers.

  Trevor drew in a sharp breath when those nimble fingers stroked him through the fabric. With practiced efficiency, Melody slipped the first gold button free, then the second and third. Trevor’s mouth twisted, and he wondered how he was going to escape without mortally offending her.

  But the handsome marquess was too long in making up his mind. Without the protection of his garments, he was an easy target and Melody took full advantage of it. She greedily reached inside his open trousers with both hands, drawing him out. She stroked him slowly with her palm, finding his most sensitive places with unerring accuracy.

  “It appears you are not so very tired,” Melody pronounced with relish as she cupped his testicles, squeezing gently.

  Trevor shut his eyes. He briefly entertained the notion of stepping away from his insatiable partner, but she had dropped to her knees before him. One vigorous pull of her mouth destroyed any thoughts of leaving. She blew a stream of hot breath over his straining penis and the marquess groaned at the sensation. His hands fell to her head, spanning her skull and holding her firmly in place.

  He took a deep breath, his chest heaving with the effort. Trevor gave himself up to the passion, reasoning that if he brought Melody to whimpering pleasure, rode her hard and long, she would fall deeply asleep, and then he would be able to make his escape in blissful silence.

  “You are late.”

  Forcing himself to a civility of tone he was far from feeling, Trevor replied calmly, “Yes, I am. Would you like me to leave?”

  He struck a casual pose and waited. Trevor’s father, the Duke of Warwick, flicked a chilly gaze over his son.

  “Sit down,” the duke commanded after only a brief hesitation. “It has already taken you three days to answer my summons. If you leave now, lord only knows when you will see fit to return.”

  Deciding it would be in his best interests not to provoke the duke further, Trevor complied, though he wondered at his father’s fairly mild response. In the past, a battle of wills between the duke and his heir would not have been so easily conceded.

  Yet as he settled himself in an upholstered gilt chair near the blazing fire, Trevor remained wary. Though he saw his father rarely, it seemed each time he did, the duke was increasingly ill-tempered and petulant.

  “The weather is exceedingly fine this afternoon,” Trevor said conversationally. “I noticed many green buds on the trees as I rode through Hyde Park. Perhaps we shall have an early spring.”

  “I did not ask you here to discuss the damned weather!” The duke cast him a glare that would have withered a lesser man, but Trevor returned the stare with equal measure.

  “I was
merely trying to engage in polite conversation,” Trevor said evenly. “We speak so rarely I thought it might be refreshing to begin our discussion on a civil note for a change.”

  The duke grunted. “You’re a fine one to be speaking of civility and polite conversation. Those ruffians and reprobates you spend your days and nights carousing with wouldn’t know a civil discussion if it came up and bit them on the arse.”

  “And therein lies the essence of their charm,” Trevor replied. He settled himself back against his chair, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. No matter how cruelly provoked this afternoon, the marquess was determined not to be baited.

  “Have you eaten?”

  Trevor blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. A grumble from his empty stomach gave the answer before the marquess could voice it, and the duke nodded his head in understanding.

  Instead of ringing for a servant, the duke walked to the door and opened it. A footman stationed outside snapped to attention. “Tell Cook the marquess is hungry. I want a meal served to him here within the hour. A combination of hot and cold dishes will be fine, but make certain to include a lemon cake for dessert. ’Tis his lordship’s favorite.” The duke glanced back at Trevor. “And tell Harper to bring up another bottle of wine.”

  The servant bowed deeply and rushed off to do his master’s bidding.

  “Thank you, sir,” Trevor said cautiously. He suspected his father had ulterior motives for demonstrating such benevolent concern, but surprisingly his suspicion left Trevor feeling a distinct sense of guilt. “I find that I am rather hungry.”

  “I doubt you can remember the last time you had a decent meal,” the duke grumbled as he crossed the room to stand near Trevor’s chair. “I don’t know why you insist upon living in those squalled rooms on St. James Street when you have a perfectly fine home right here.”

  “My quarters are hardly squalid,” Trevor replied. “Especially if one takes into account the substantial rent I pay. More importantly, the size and location of my rooms suit my needs perfectly. I want for nothing else.”

  “I still say it is unnatural to prefer them to all of this,” the duke proclaimed, lifting his hand in a sweeping gesture. “If you lived in a proper establishment, you would be taking better care of yourself. You are far too thin.”

  It galled Trevor to realize his father was correct. He had lost weight this past winter after suffering from a nasty cold and had yet to regain it. But he was determined to make light of the situation.

  “A man of fashion cannot have a protruding stomach. It totally ruins the smooth line of one’s waistcoat,” Trevor replied airily.

  “Prinny’s stomach protrudes noticeably and he fancies himself a real connoisseur of fashion,” the duke said.

  Trevor smiled in private amusement. “That is true. However, it is my understanding that the Regent does not button his waistcoat completely unless he is wearing a corset.”

  “He is still a fool, no matter how he is dressed,” the duke grumbled.

  He took the chair opposite his son and glowered. Trevor wasn’t certain if his father’s annoyance sprang from his dislike of the Regent or his disapproval of his son, yet he realized philosophically it was most likely a combination of both.

  A silence settled over the room. Trevor regarded his father patiently, knowing the duke would reveal the true reason for this summons when he was good and ready and not a moment sooner.

  Despite his age, the duke was still an impressive, aristocratic presence, possessing towering height and a sharp, authoritative voice that could reduce many a servant, male and female, to trembling tears.

  Trevor had feared his father when he was a young boy, held him in awe as an adolescent, and grown to respect and admire him tremendously when he reached adulthood. Yet that, like so many other aspects of Trevor’s life, had changed dramatically at Lavinia’s death.

  “I won’t bother to ask what has kept you away from my house for so long,” the duke began. “I am well aware you spend your time and money in all manner of salacious pursuits. I shudder to imagine the depths to which your debauchery has sunk.

  “Drinking, gambling, womanizing.” The duke shook his head. “With all the advantages you have been given in life, the rank, privilege, and wealth, you choose instead to live the life of a ne’er-do-well, without purpose, without restraint, without basic morality. I raised you to be a noble gentleman, a peer of the realm, and this is how I’m repaid for my efforts.”

  He regarded his son shrewdly. Trevor held his ground beneath that razor-sharp gaze. He also wisely held his tongue.

  “I expected more from my only child than a son who’s retreated from the world,” the duke concluded. “Who has retreated from me.”

  Trevor’s fists clenched, but he forced himself to remain calm. Father and son had already had this discussion many times, and the end result had never changed. Trevor continued to live his life exactly as he pleased, and his father continued to vehemently disapprove.

  “You have accused me of being an overly licentious man, yet that is clearly an activity I certainly cannot pursue without venturing forth into the world.” Trevor slowly released his clenched fist. “Please do make up your mind, sir.”

  The marquess’s response squarely hit the mark, but his father had no opportunity to vent the anger that visibly rose to the surface, for a knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” the duke called out.

  The butler appeared, leading a procession of footmen, each carrying a silver tray. He bowed solicitously toward his employer, then gave a polite nod of greeting to Trevor.

  “Would you care to eat by the fire, Your Grace, or do you prefer the window overlooking the south garden?”

  “The fire.”

  The first footman set down his laden silver tray and stepped forward. Under the keen eye of the butler, the servant efficiently moved a round wooden table near the fireplace and positioned it between Trevor and the duke.

  The moment it was set properly in place, the next footman moved ahead. His arm muscles bulged under the weight of the tray he carried, which held an assortment of china plates, linen napkins, silver cutlery, and crystal goblets.

  The table was quickly laid out with the proper plates, cutlery, and glasses for a five-course meal. There was even a small cut glass vase filled with fresh flowers to serve as a centerpiece. Trevor watched in slight amazement as the staff bustled about with deft precision. He knew his father had a well-trained staff and Harper, the butler, was known to be a hard, yet fair, taskmaster.

  Yet the proficiency displayed came not only from good and proper training, but from experience. Obviously the servants had performed this task numerous times before, for no detail was left to chance.

  But why would they be serving meals in the drawing room when the house boasted a formal dining room, two smaller dining salons, and a breakfast room? Did his father dine alone so often that he had begun to forsake the vast, cold formality of the dining room? Were the even slightly smaller dining salons so unwelcoming a place to partake of a meal on one’s own?

  Could his father possibly be lonely? The thought forced a rather distressing observation on Trevor’s conscience.

  To distract himself from these unsettling thoughts, the marquess turned his full attention to the servants as they uncovered the various dishes.

  A savory soup of fresh vegetables, tender chicken stewed in wine and flavored with thyme, thick slices of cured ham, poached Dover sole, creamed potatoes, peas, marzipan tarts, strawberries, and the requested lemon cake were all displayed with dignified formality.

  Trevor attacked his meal. The food was piping hot, perfectly seasoned, and delicious. Though he would never admit it to his father, the marquess realized it had been a long time since he had eaten such fine food. He soon found himself savoring every forkful.

  When he joined his male companions for supper, they were far more interested in the quality of the brandy, the quantity of wine, and the availability of the se
rving wenches for entertainment after the meal than the variety or quality of the food.

  Realizing he could not possibly swallow another bite, the marquess at last settled his fork upon his plate. He looked up and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. The duke had apparently finished. His plates and cutlery were already cleared from the table. All that remained before the duke was a half empty goblet of wine.

  The footmen removed Trevor’s dishes, but at the duke’s command left a second bottle of wine and the goblets. As he faced his father across the table, Trevor realized his apprehension as well as his hunger had been appeased. Partly due to the excellent bottle of wine he and his father had consumed, no doubt.

  “I want you to attend Lady Dermond’s ball tomorrow evening,” the duke announced abruptly. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Trevor blinked. The goblet in his hand began tilting. Catching himself before the red liquid spilled out and stained the linen cloth, he set the crystal to rights. “I have already made plans for tomorrow evening.”

  “Break them.”

  “I could not possibly on such short notice.”

  “If you had answered my summons immediately, as I requested, you would have had ample time to make your excuses.” The duke scowled. “I have told several people, including the hostess and the lady you are to meet, that you will be in attendance. I want you at that ball.”

  “Matchmaking, sir?” Trevor arched his brow at an insulting angle. “I thought only desperate maiden aunts and scheming mamas indulged in that distasteful task.”

  “Don’t turn your nose up at me, boy,” the duke responded with an indignant sniff. “You were singing a far different tune when I paired you with your first wife.”

  His wife! The unexpected mention of Lavinia caught the marquess unawares, igniting once again the tormenting ache in his heart he tried so desperately to control.