Adrienne Basso

by The Ultimate Lover

  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.”

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gareth awoke as the first streaks of morning light began to creep into his r
oom, 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.