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Authors: Adrienne Basso

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BOOK: To Protect An Heiress (Zebra Historical Romance)
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Meredith struggled to control her emotions, but when she spoke her voice was nearly a whisper. “I know the marquess has a reputation as a reckless gamester, but he is not a fool. Why would he make a wager with you that can be so easily lost?”
“He does not realize how clever we are.” Jason slapped his thigh gleefully. “That is the true beauty of our plan. By the time Dardington discovers we have tricked him, it will be too late. The wager will have been lost, and we will already be in possession of our winnings.”
Meredith sincerely doubted it would be as easy as her brothers insisted, but she needed to know the details of this ingenious plan, so she kept that opinion to herself.
“What precisely is the wager?” she asked. “A horse or a carriage race?”
“No. We are not foolish enough to bet against the marquess in a race,” Jason stated emphatically. “I have never heard of Dardington being beaten on horseback nor when racing his phaeton. He has nerves of steel, and even with disaster only a hairbreadth away, he won’t pull up or hold back.
“I once saw him balance his carriage on its two left wheels as he shot around a narrow curve and overtook his rival. They were so close the men could have touched whips, but the marquess never faltered. His steady hand and boundless courage won the day.”
There was no mistaking the admiration in her brother’s voice as he related the tale, and that troubled Meredith deeply. The marquess was hardly the type of man she wanted her brothers’ to emulate. They already had enough bad habits to overcome.
“If the wager does not concern racing, then what is it about?” Meredith asked again.
“Women,” Jason admitted with a sly grin.
“Women!” A spot of color flared high on Meredith’s cheeks. “When it comes to experience with the female sex, I am certain the marquess is far more knowledgeable than either of you.”
Or both of you combined,
Meredith added silently to herself.
“Oh, no. In this instance the marquess just
thinks
he knows more,” Jason said. He paused briefly for a moment as if he were carefully considering his words. “When the subject came up late last night, a rather heated debate ensued.”
“A debate about women?” Meredith squeaked, fearful the gist of the discussion was about to take a most embarrassing direction. While she certainly did not consider herself a prude, there were some subjects she preferred not to discuss with her younger brothers.
“Our conversation turned to unmarried ladies, specifically those who are placed firmly on the shelf,” Jasper explained. “Dardington insisted a spinster has no passion lurking within her soul, and I disagreed.”
“As did I,” Jason added. “Several other opinions were offered, and in the end Dardington proposed a wager. He said it would be impossible to get a confirmed spinster to passionately kiss a rake, but if we somehow managed it within the week, he would pay us each five hundred guineas.”
“And if the spinster was passably pretty, he would throw in the bays for good measure,” Jasper concluded with an eager grin.
Meredith nearly sighed with relief. Clearly the marquess was jesting with her brothers. “Getting a rake, a man who has an extremely limited moral code, to kiss a woman, spinster or otherwise, hardly involves any effort. I imagine a true rogue would kiss his horse and not think twice about it, if the poor animal was female.”
Jasper and Jason both grinned.
“You are missing the subtle nuances, Merry,” Jasper said, a smile still brightening his face. “Everyone knows a rake is a connoisseur of women and, given the opportunity, will chase nearly anything in skirts, even a woman who is firmly on the shelf.
“To win our wager, the woman must be the one who pursues the gentleman. She must be the one who initiates the kiss. That is the essence of the challenge.”
Jason leaned closer to her. “And it must be a real kiss, lips firmly locked upon each other. A full, passionate embrace, given freely and with no regret.”
“It appears you have given this a considerable amount of thought,” Meredith stated dryly. “ ’Tis a most frightening notion knowing that men of wealth, rank, and privilege spend their nights concocting these outrageous wagers. I can assure you almost no one else cares in the least about spinsters and rakes kissing each other. Passionately or otherwise.”
“There were some that felt far more physical involvement was necessary to prove our point. However—”
A fierce glare from his twin abruptly ended Jason’s confession.
Meredith gritted her teeth, having a fair idea of what her brother had nearly revealed. “So you believe I should commend you for your restraint in limiting this wager to a single kiss?” Meredith asked, her brow raised.
“It is just a harmless bit of fun that won’t hurt anyone,” Jasper insisted hastily, glowering over her head at his twin.
“I’m not sure your poor, unsuspecting spinster will feel that way,” Meredith retorted sharply.
She had always heard the betting book at White’s was filled with absurd, ridiculous wagers concerning just about anything—the color of the coat worn by the third gentleman to enter the room, the exact time it began to rain on a particular afternoon, the number of flies on the wall. This preposterous wager her brothers had accepted amply demonstrated that point.
“No one will be harmed,” Jasper said in a smooth tone. “Especially if you agree to help us.”
For an instant Meredith was struck dumb. Then angry color flooded her cheeks. “You expect me to find and then persuade some unfortunate, unsuspecting woman to aid you in winning this ridiculous wager? For the love of God, have you lost all sense of decency?”
“You have misunderstood us completely,” Jasper yelped as he sprang to his feet. “We would never think of, let alone ask you to perform, such a distasteful task.”
“Never,” Jason stated emphatically as he stood beside his brother.
Meredith stared at them for a long, hard moment. When she concluded the expressions of surprise, shock, and indignation on her brother’s faces were genuine, her anger slowly disappeared.
“Then what are you asking of me?” she asked with a puzzled frown.
Jasper’s eyes suddenly had great difficulty meeting her own. Meredith swung her gaze toward Jason. She saw his finger creep up to his cravat and tug insistently at it, attempting to adjust the fit around his neck. A nagging suspicion snaked through her mind.
“ ’Tis me,” she said in a voice of soft wonderment. “I am to be the spinster.”
“Don’t look so distressed,” Jasper admonished. “It’s a clever, flawless plan. Dardington will never suspect you.”
“Never,” Jason repeated enthusiastically. “In fact, I’m not even sure he realizes you are our sister.” Jason rubbed the palms of his hands together gleefully. “The best part is that everyone in Society knows what a beautiful woman you are, so Dardington will have to pay out on the second half of the wager and give us the horses, too.”
“Is that how you see me? A beautiful spinster-” Meredith choked off her words, unable to continue.
“For pity’s sake, Merry, we would never call you a spinster,” Jasper said, his expression suspiciously innocent. He moved the tip of his polished boot back and forth across a small section of the carpet. “However, you are well past the age when most women marry, and it seems unlikely you will form a union anytime soon.”
A chill skittered along her spine. True, she was twenty-six years old and unmarried, with no immediate prospects to change that situation. But that was
her
choice.
Over the years she had lost count of the men whose marriage proposals she had rejected. Why, only last year the Earl of Monford had offered for her. He was a well-established nobleman in his early fifties, possessing an important title and an adequate income.
She had been both kind and gracious when refusing his offer, mentioning neither his lack of personal hygiene nor his inclination for conversation so boring it could be classified as mind-numbing as her main reasons for refusing his suit.
Meredith had always known she was different from other women of her class. At first the difference had confused her, but over the years she had learned to embrace and even celebrate her independence. She said it often and believed it totally—the opinion of others did not matter to her.
Yet why did it hurt so much to discover her brothers thought of her as a woman firmly on the shelf? A spinster!
“We thought you might find the wager amusing,” Jason said. He glanced worriedly over her head at his twin.
Concern flickered in Jasper’s eyes. “Your helping us win was meant to be a bit of fun. A lark.”
Meredith suppressed the exasperated reply that sprang to mind and instead searched her heart to find the humor in this situation. Yet she was still feeling too ruffled to find any.
“Since you have already decided I would be the perfect spinster, I assume you have also selected the rake I am to kiss?”
“We would hardly allow our sister to kiss someone we did not approve of,” Jasper said with a great show of indignation.
“How comforting to know I can count on your diligent vigilance of both my person and reputation,” Meredith said. “It warms a sister’s heart to know how highly she is regarded by her brothers. So who is it to be?”
Her expression remained frozen as she jerked her head back and forth to stare at the men seated on either side of her. They both looked sheepishly back.
“Dardington proposed the terms of the wager,” Jasper finally replied. “We thought it only fitting he should be the man who is kissed.”
“Very clever.” Meredith sniffed in a most unladylike manner, hardly surprised by the answer. “I applaud your ingenuity. If Dardington is the man kissed, there shall be no quibbling over the completion of the wager. I was wondering how you were going to prove the task had been accomplished, but frankly was afraid to ask.”
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.
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