Amelia drew the reins and paused at the divide in the well-worn path, biting her lower lip as she considered which road to take. The woods were hushed and silent this afternoon, a reminder that she was very much alone. She had successfully broken away from the party of guests that had set out for a spirited ride about the property as soon as she realized that Roger was among the group, but there was a purpose to her solo journey other than just avoiding her odious brother-in-law.
The viscount was also a member of that riding party. He, too, had disappeared, just before she made her escape, and Amelia had a suspicion he had come this way, for it was in the general direction of the folly. Besides, on their previous visit he had as much as told her he would be returning.
On one level she was well pleased with the subtle, fundamental way that things had changed between them over the past few days. She knew she did not possess the sexual attraction to peak his interest, so instead had concentrated on becoming his friend.
It had been a successful strategy. While he still openly pursued Mrs. Fairweather, with limited success, Gareth now also made a point of spending time with Amelia. It pleased her no end, while at the same time infuriating both Roger and Mr. Bascomb.
To Amelia’s way of thinking, that was real progress. Initially she had been tongue-tied and nervous when near the rakish viscount, especially when considering that the underlying motivation for advancing the relationship was to become his lover. She had solved that problem in a rather clever fashion by using dear Charlotte as her inspiration.
Whenever she was stuck searching for the appropriate attitude or phrase, Amelia tried to imagine how Charlotte would react. That notion had carried her through the first few encounters with the viscount, but the technique was needed less and less as time progressed, for it had somehow freed the spirited part of Amelia’s own nature that had been systematically crushed for years as George’s wife.
It was a warm and slightly breezy afternoon and Amelia knew she could not let her horse stand too long in the warm sunshine. Selecting the path she thought would lead to the folly, she steered the mount down the road, paying careful attention to the hanging branches and menacing tree roots that appeared on the path. This was hardly the place to have her horse come up lame, since it was so secluded and far away from the main house.
Soon the sound of lapping water let Amelia know she had chosen the right direction. She sighed with delight when the ornamental lake and formal gardens came into view, but somehow took a wrong turn and was unable to find the narrow bridge that led to the folly.
After several failed attempts Amelia found herself approaching the sturdy cottage from the opposite side. This vantage point afforded her a clear view of the inside of the building through the large windows. As best she could tell it was empty.
Good. It would appear more coincidental if she was alone when Gareth arrived. Amelia imagined herself settled casually on that lovely settee, perhaps with a volume of Shakespeare in her hand. Hopefully the intimate, familiar scene would give her the courage to push things between them beyond a mere kiss.
Fraught with nerves and a tingling excitement, Amelia approached the cottage. The moment she opened the door she realized her initial assessment was incorrect. The cottage was not empty.
Two individuals were seated on the settee. Her settee. One male, one female. Actually only the male was seated, the female was perched upon his lap. Though their backs were toward her it was clear from their entwined positions that they were kissing and caressing each other. Rather heatedly.
Amelia hesitated as a dreamlike feeling of unreality settled over her. There were moans and muttering as the couple shifted. The female’s pelisse was open down to her waist, the man’s hand was inside the garment, resting on her breasts, his fingers thumbing the bare nipples.
Though Amelia swore she stood as still as a statue she must have made a movement or a noise, for the gentleman suddenly raised his head, startled by the interruption.
Amelia’s eyes met Gareth’s. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized she had never understood the meaning of embarrassment until that very moment. It hit her full force, like someone slamming a fist into her stomach.
Panic engulfed her and Amelia’s first instinct was to turn and run, to hide from the reality of truth. But she did not. Instead she stared boldly at the couple, almost as though she were daring them to continue.
Emma Fairweather’s eyes widened in shock. She looked, Amelia thought, like a frightened rabbit facing a hunter’s snare. With one hand held to her gaping bodice, Mrs. Fairweather jumped off the viscount’s lap. She hastily adjusted her clothing, then moved forward.
It took a few seconds for Amelia to realize she was blocking the only exit. Wordlessly she stepped aside. After a final desperate glance in her direction, Emma Fairweather bolted out the door.
The silent stillness of the room surrounded the two remaining inhabitants. Though it took more courage than she feared she possessed, Amelia raised her chin and met Gareth’s eyes.
Half lidded and smirking, the blue orbs revealed only amusement. “Mrs. Fairweather’s sudden departure leaves me in quite a predicament,” he announced in a deep, calm voice.
Amelia’s eyes shifted downward. Gareth flexed his shoulders, and leaned back against the settee, doing nothing to hide the telltale bulge of his aroused sex.
Her eyes narrowed. “I believe your current state of excitement is merely a reflection of your usual, natural condition.”
He gave her a sultry grin. “If I tried walking around with this between my legs I would never move more than ten paces.” The light of expectation in his eyes sent a shiver coursing through her. “Since you have so inconsiderately deprived me of my afternoon’s sport, perhaps you should take Mrs. Fairweather’s place?”
“Perhaps I should.” Her senses leapt. But then doubts struck her, serious and prideful, too strong to be ignored. “However, you will have to ask me with far more charm and enthusiasm than you are exhibiting at the moment.”
Tension built slowly in her chest, making her knees feel weak, but Amelia somehow found the strength to turn on her heel and walk away.
CHAPTER SIX
As the guests gathered to await the start of the evening’s musical interlude, the sultry sound of feminine laughter echoed through the high-domed conservatory. That tingling noise drew several interested gazes toward the source, some shifting completely in their seats to catch a glimpse. Amelia, however, did not bother to turn her head. She knew well the owner of that laugh and the individual who had brought it forth.
Mrs. Fairweather and the Viscount of Longley.
Three days had passed since Amelia had interrupted their illicit meeting at the folly. Nothing further had been spoken about the incident by any of them. In many ways it was as though it had never occurred. Yet the nature of Amelia’s relationship with the viscount had changed dramatically.
He no longer arrived early at the breakfast table, no longer sought her out for a few moments of private, amusing conversation, no longer teased or flirted or made her feel they had a special, unique bond. All the progress she had made had vanished in an instant, for such was the fickle heart and temperament of a rogue.
Time was running short. Eight days were already gone, in another six the house party would end and the guests would go their separate ways. Mr. Bascomb was pressing her, Roger was pressing her. They expected an announcement of an upcoming marriage before the week ended. Amelia was growing desperate.
So, it appeared, was the viscount. His pursuit of Mrs. Fairweather was the talk of the house party, his open regard for the pretty blonde a source of gossip and amusement and speculation. Time and again Amelia told herself she was being foolish for feeling such jealousy, such disappointment.
Another twinkling laugh had Amelia lifting her chin to gaze at the pair. She saw Mrs. Fairweather shift in her chair, tilt her head playfully, and smile broadly up at the viscount. A light blush had risen to her cheeks and her b
reathing was no longer steady.
The viscount’s eyes flared, turning stormy. He lifted his gloved hand and delicately traced the side of her neck. Amelia sighed as she caught the look that passed between them. There was little doubt as to where Gareth would be spending his night. In Emma Fairweather’s bed.
Though she was far from happy with the unfortunate turn of events, Amelia knew she had no one to blame but herself. Her chance had come and gone that fateful afternoon at the folly and she had not had the courage to grasp it.
Yet she would not admit defeat. Over and over, Amelia’s thoughts returned to Charlotte’s words—she need only appear to be his lover, his conquest, to create the scandal that would make Mr. Bascomb cry off from the idea of marriage.
Amelia had been mulling the notion over for days. It had taken some time to accustom her mind to the idea, but in the end Amelia knew she must be practical. If the viscount was not going to be using his bedchamber this evening, she might as well spend her time there. And then be seen by at least one other member of the house party leaving that same bedchamber in the morning.
“You seem very pensive this evening, Amelia.” Charlotte, looking very handsome in a daring gown of red watered silk took the empty chair beside her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes.” Amelia snapped her fan shut and placed it in her lap. “Would you have your maid slip a note, along with a coin to the viscount’s valet tonight?”
Charlotte’s lips tightened. “I need not ask which viscount, do I?”
“ ’Tis Longley, of course.” Amelia schooled her face into blankness. “I have lost any chance I might have had with him, so I must be sensible. Time grows short. I shall take your advice and create the illusion of being intimate with him.”
“I would pay good money for someone to explain precisely what he sees in Mrs. Fairweather,” Charlotte said. “Her conversation is not particularly interesting, she can barely sit a horse without sliding off, and her looks are passable, but hardly unique. Despite his reputation for chasing skirts, I had thought better of the viscount. He is a charming young man. I cannot for the life of me understand why he must think with his—”
“Charlotte!” Amelia hissed.
The militant gleam in Charlotte’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I know you are not the type to make decisions lightly. Are you very sure this is what you want to do?”
Amelia gritted her teeth as another of Mrs. Fairweather’s giggles filled the room. “Yes, I am very certain this is the right course of action.”
Amelia had little awareness of the events of the rest of the evening after that moment. At one point, between the violin solo and the harp melody, Charlotte leaned over and whispered simply, “It is all arranged.”
“Were there any difficulties?” Amelia asked.
“None.” Charlotte crossed her arms tightly. “The note, written in my hand, requesting that his lordship’s valet vacate the viscount’s bedchamber until morning, has just been delivered, along with appropriate compensation. I can only surmise from the ease with which the exchange took place that this was hardly the first time it had occurred.”
Amelia snorted. “I shall leave the moment the performance concludes. If Roger or Mr. Bascomb asks, tell them I have retired for the night. With a headache.”
“Gladly.”
Once in her room, Amelia’s maid, Mildred, helped her undress, then don an ivory silk nightgown. It was simple in design, with a low-cut neckline that exposed the tops of her breasts, and delicate lace trimming on the sleeves and hem. Its purpose was clearly meant to tempt a man.
Amelia had never worn the garment before, but decided it was the perfect apparel for an illicit rendezvous. At least she hoped that would be the impression she gave when seen leaving the viscount’s bedchamber in the morning.
She dismissed Mildred, who was obviously curious about her choice of evening clothes, but made no remark. Once alone, Amelia sat in front of her dressing table rhythmically brushing her hair. When she finished, she picked up a matching silk ribbon to tie it back, then caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.
She looked almost wanton, with her hair spilling about her face and the lovely silk of the nightgown clinging to her womanly curves. Though there would be no man to admire her lush sensuality she decided to leave her hair unbound, the curling strands hanging down her back to her waist.
Now all that was left to do was wait. Feeling the nerves of a virgin bride on her wedding night, Amelia listened to the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece for a full half hour. Then she began the long walk to the opposite wing of the house. She encountered no one, not even a servant, for it was barely ten and they were all still below stairs attending to the needs of the other guests.
Amelia knew well which bedchamber Gareth had been given, for she had casually and deliberately walked past it many times these last few days. Her hand hesitated for an instant as it hovered above the door handle. What if the valet had not yet left?
Amelia’s nerves flared as she considered the possible mishaps, the potential for embarrassing misunderstandings. Taking a fortifying breath, she wiped her damp palms against the cool silk of her nightgown, then with a firm, resolute grasp turned the latch and entered.
The room felt warm. It was lit by several candles, each casting a warm, yellow glow about the chamber. The shadows danced about the room in mock warning, seeming to know she was an intruder. Amelia ignored her fanciful imaginings, crossed to the windows, drew back the heavy curtains, and opened the window. She lifted her face to the incoming breeze, savoring the sweet, clean smell of the night.
Amelia stood there for several long minutes, calming her beating pulse and wryly reflecting on the circumstances that had brought her to this room at this point in time.
’Tis only for a few hours. Surely I can endure that in order to gain my independence. She turned from the window and examined the chamber, trying to decide how best to be comfortable while she waited. She gave the large four-poster bed only a cursory glance, ruling that out instantly as a place to rest.
There were too many candles lit also. She picked up the one nearest and held it aloft as she extinguished the others. As she crossed back toward the windows to settle herself on the upholstered chair, she noticed a linen band laid carelessly on a small table.
Gareth’s cravat. His valet must not have achieved perfection the first time when dressing the viscount this evening, so a second cloth had been used. Unable to resist, her fingers reached out and snatched the garment. She crushed the fabric to her chest and inhaled the scent that was so uniquely his.
It brought on a shudder she could not control. If only things had worked out differently she might be here with Gareth. In that lovely bed.
Still clutching the cravat to her chest, Amelia assumed her seat, curled her feet beneath her, and lolled her head against the cushion.
It was going to be a long, lonely night.
Mrs. Fairweather was indisposed. She had sighed most prettily and lamented this dreadful state of affairs with an attitude that seemed genuine. Yet Gareth was uncertain. Her apologies and excuses were always sincere, but he still spent his nights alone. Truth be told he had missed his chance to have her thrashing beneath him three days ago.
Or rather his perfect opportunity had been interrupted by the cavalier countess, Amelia. He was surprised at the time of the interruption that he had felt only mild anger and very little regret. True, it had been disappointing to see Emma run off like a scared fawn, but it had been even more interesting to see Amelia’s reactions to the unfolding events.
With wicked thoughts filling his mind he had flashed her a devilish, seductive grin, had issued a blatantly sexual invitation. For a moment, just a moment, Gareth thought he had seen real temptation in Amelia’s eyes. But she had not taken the bait. Pity.
The clock struck midnight, reminding the viscount he had yet to solve his current problem. Gareth stood on the third-floor landing, riddled with indecisio
n. He glanced down the hall to where his room was located some distance away. It was far too early to go to bed, especially if one was alone.
In Gareth’s mind there was nothing worse than lying in bed, weary and frustrated and unable to sleep. He turned to walk down the staircase, intending to join the gentlemen at the billiards table, then paused. It was no secret he had been pursuing Mrs. Fairweather. And no secret that he had been less than successful.
If he entered the billiard or card room at this hour of the evening he would be announcing his failure to all. Again. Not a pleasant thought.
A board in the hallway creaked as he made his way down the deserted corridor. Gareth turned the knob and walked into his bedchamber.
A pool of flickering candlelight illuminated a section of the chamber, but that glow was extinguished the moment he shut the door behind him.
“Richards? Richards?”
The valet did not answer. Odd, the servant always waited up for him, no matter how late, or early the hour. Moonlight slanted through the open window, casting enough light so Gareth could move about the room without knocking into the furniture. With only minor difficulty he located the bell cord and tugged it impatiently to summon his valet.
His hands searched the table near his bed blindly, but he could not locate a flint to relight a candle. Due to the warmth of the night, no fire burned in the grate.
Brimming with impatience, the viscount sat in a chair to wait. A strange sound drew his attention to the floor-length drapes. For a second he thought he saw something move, a female figure, shrouded in the shadows.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Gareth’s call received no answer. He blinked, then started forward to investigate, but his toe caught on the edge of the heavy wooden bed frame.
“Hell and damnation!” The pain shot up his calf, sharp and stinging. Gareth hobbled onto the bed, cursing loudly with each step. He removed his shoe, which had offered little protection, and rubbed the injured toe gingerly, hoping to alleviate some of the sting.
Adrienne Basso Page 7