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The Countess Takes a Lover
The Countess Takes a Lover
The Countess Takes a Lover
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The Countess Takes a Lover

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The student becomes the master in the precarious game of love.

Sexually adventurous widow, Countess Meredith du Chevalier takes Chris Whitby under her wing to teach him the ways of love. At Lord Whitby’s request she will “make a man” of his son, an intriguing challenge. But Meredith gets more than she bargained for when her pupil becomes her tutor in what true love really means.

Beneath his reserved demeanor, Chris hides a passionate nature. The young botanist travels to Meredith’s country estate to restore her abandoned greenhouse, but one sexual encounter brings more than fallow soil to life. Glimpses of the tender woman under the seductress’s brittle exterior make him determined to slowly coax his mistress to unfurl into glorious bloom.

When Chris learns about the secret arrangement between his father and the countess, his heart and confidence are destroyed. Can he forgive his lover, and will Meredith risk her heart for a chance at deep and lasting love?

This is a previously published book.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherBonnie Dee
Release dateMar 31, 2017
ISBN9781370697342
The Countess Takes a Lover
Author

Bonnie Dee

Whether you're a fan of contemporary, paranormal, or historical romance, you'll find something to enjoy among my books. I'm interested in flawed, often damaged, people who find the fulfillment they seek in one another. To stay informed about new releases, please SIGN UP FOR MY NEWSLETTER. Help an author out by leaving a review and spreading the word about this book among your friends. You can join my street team at FB. Learn more about my backlist at http://bonniedee.com or find me on FB and Twitter @Bonnie_Dee.

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    The Countess Takes a Lover - Bonnie Dee

    The Countess Takes a Lover

    Bonnie Dee

    Copyright © 2017 by Bonnie Dee

    Cover by Fantasia Frog Designs

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

    License Notes

    This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

    Chapter One

    Quite simply, Madame la Comtesse, my son is a booby. Lord Richard Whitby sat on the velvet cushion of the fragile gilt seat. The chair was far too small for such a large man and his knees rose awkwardly before him. In the elegantly appointed salon, he looked as out of place as a bear that had wandered into a millinery shop. The image of the walrus-mustached man trying on hats decorated with ostrich plumes and flowers amused Meredith. She hid her smile by sipping from the bone china teacup she held.

    Setting her tea aside, she prompted. Pray of what concern is this to me, sir? She laced her fingers together on her blue satin-draped lap and arched a quizzical eyebrow.

    I’ve heard… That is, I’ve been given to understand that on occasion you’ve taken a young man…under your wing, as it were. His face reddened and he shifted on his chair, boot heels digging into her floral carpet.

    Under my wing? Of course, she understood, but chose to watch him squirm and flounder for words—a small amusement to brighten a dreary day.

    You’ll take a young gentleman in hand and educate him in…accomplishments that might further his understanding of the fairer sex.

    Take him as a lover, do you mean? she asked just to see his face grow even more florid.

    The gentleman rose from the chair and walked toward the fireplace, a hand tapping nervously against his leg. Perhaps he found it easier to pose his proposition when not looking into her eyes.

    Yes, madame. Whitby fingered the carved ivory tusk resting on the mantle. It was an odd choice for a lady’s salon, but she kept it there to remind herself of her late husband, who’d brought it back from one of his trips to the Dark Continent.

    Let me be frank. As I said, my son is a booby, a nincompoop, a weak-kneed nancy. I don’t believe I shall ever see any progeny at the rate he’s going. I wish him to become a red-blooded man. In short, I want him to grow up.

    Perhaps this is something you should discuss with your son. She traced her finger around the rim of her cup, enjoying the sensation of the delicate china against her fingertip.

    The man heaved a sigh and turned away from the fireplace. That is impossible. Talking to him is like finding one’s way through a fog bank. His head is… He spread his hands. Not in the world we inhabit I can assure you. Unfortunately, he has an academic’s mind and would be perfectly happy spending the rest of his life at university or playing with his posies rather than behaving like a proper man.

    I see. She knew the type—a man so enamored of knowledge that he had no room in his head for earthly pleasures.

    Walking back to the little chair, Whitby perched on the edge once more. When my son was younger, I overlooked his propensity toward bookishness, thinking he would abandon it once women caught his attention. That hasn’t happened.

    How old is the lad? Her curiosity was piqued despite her full intention of shooting down Whitby’s ridiculous proposal.

    Hardly a lad anymore. He heaved a sigh. Twenty-five. Finished at Cambridge yet still laboring at cataloging and studying his infernal plants! He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

    You want him to take an active interest in your business concerns.

    I don’t give a damn about that. I have men of affairs to run the estate. What I want is a son who’ll cut a swath in society, gamble, drink and ride to hounds like any normal gentleman, a son who’ll find an appropriate wife and get her with child.

    The countess laughed. You believe I can help you with all that, sir?

    I believe you are capable of turning a boy into a man. When sensual desires are awakened, the rest of those things will naturally follow.

    Why not take him to a bordello? That is a common rite of passage, is it not?

    When Christopher was nineteen, I attempted that. He wouldn’t, er, take the bait, as it were. Too high-minded to indulge in a bit of fluff. In all honesty, I don’t believe the boy’s ever… He raised his eyebrows significantly. But a woman like you could take him in hand without ever letting him know he was being handled. You could teach him the things he needs to know not just in the bedchamber but in the ballroom. You could make a real man of him.

    Please, sir, I assure you tales of my prowess have been exaggerated. Besides, why would I be interested in such an endeavor?

    The red flush was back in full force. I suppose ‘for the challenge’ would not be sufficient recommendation and so I’ve come up with a monetary proposal to tempt you. He cleared his throat and produced a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket, which he handed to her.

    The countess took it in one gloved hand and glanced at the number. A generous figure. She looked at the man fidgeting before her. You do realize, sir, that I am not a whore?

    His face became scarlet. Of course not! I didn’t mean to offend, but I was given to understand—

    However, she continued, folding the paper carefully along the crease and offering it back to him. I’m not averse to accepting favors in return for favors, between friends. For instance, if I were to ask you in your capacity as a member of Parliament to rally support on behalf of a particular bill, I would expect your cooperation.

    Oh. He blinked, and then a smile shone across his florid countenance at the realization he would lose nothing financially and could still accomplish his goal. That would be entirely possible. Quite possible indeed, provided you complete your end of the bargain.

    Have no fear on that account. Meredith smiled. I look forward to meeting the young man. What was his name? Christopher? After an initial introduction, I’ll let you know if I’ll be able to assist you in this matter. She took another sip of her tea, letting Whitby know by her manner that he was dismissed. She’d long ago learned if one acted like royalty, one was likely to be treated as such.

    Good. Very well then, madame. I will arrange a meeting. Where would you like it to take place, a dinner party, a ball, or something more intimate? I must say, it’s rather difficult to get the boy to commit to any social event.

    Invite me to a light tea on Friday. She imagined her target would be more relaxed in his natural environment, and she could better assess his personality, his interests and his strengths and weaknesses.

    Whitby rose and bowed. Thank you. I may, of course, count on your discretion should you choose not to…exchange favors?

    The countess laughed lightly. Certainly. How would I profit from letting it be known you asked me to make a man of your son?

    Yes, well… He cleared his throat. Good day, madame. I shall tell my wife to send an invitation for Friday.

    As she watched him walk from the room, she wondered how he would explain to his wife the sudden need for them to befriend the infamous Comtesse de Chevalier. Only her connection to nobility allowed her entrée into society despite the rumors of her scandalous, outrageous behavior.

    Most of the stories weren’t rumors; the bacchanalian parties at her country estate, the affairs with gentlemen and occasionally women, the encounters with whomever caught her fancy, from a head of state to a common laborer. The countess was egalitarian in her sexual proclivities. She indulged in far more decadence than prudish society even imagined. Charming and seducing a bookish man was not going to be a problem. By the time she finished with Christopher, he would be a work of art. Any woman lucky enough to land him would never know that she had the la Comtesse de Chevalier to thank for her pleasure.

    Chapter Two

    How in the world could it possibly matter if I’m present for tea with this Countess whoever? And since when does Father take an interest in whether I come or go? Chris drew a deep breath, unable to fill his lungs properly in the over-heated, stifling den. He’d never been comfortable in this dark-paneled room and empathized deeply with the stuffed elk head on the wall, killed and mounted for a gentleman’s sporting décor. Father hadn’t even shot the elk, but bought the head at an estate sale.

    "Will you, for once, do what I request? For that matter, this isn’t a request, but a command. You will come to tea and make your mother happy!" Father’s voice rose on the last words.

    There was something odd about the situation, but Chris couldn’t imagine what was going through his father’s mind. "I’ve already made plans. There’s a lecture at the Botanical Gardens on the Ayapana triplinervis. Professor Einrich Lufkin is presenting samples from his recent South American expedition."

    You can go to your flower exhibit another time. Today I insist you attend tea with our honored guest.

    This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I won’t miss it. Chris usually avoided arguments by simply staying out of his father’s way and following his own desires, but today the man was making it impossible to avoid confrontation.

    What time? When is this ridiculous professor speaking?

    At six o’clock.

    Tea is at four. You should be able to attend your lecture afterward.

    Chris couldn’t argue with that logic, and was beginning to be almost curious about why his father was so insistent on his meeting this countess.

    Very well. I shall stay for tea.

    Thus it was that a couple of hours later he found himself in a high, starched collar and throat-choking cravat, wearing a coat that was far too warm for such a fine afternoon. He’d escaped the house to spend time in his garden before he was called on to make polite conversation with a stranger over tea. If the countess was such an illustrious guest, shouldn’t his mother be fluttering in nervous anticipation instead of wearing a sour face? The invitation appeared to be a grudging one on her part, which made no sense given that his mother usually enjoyed entertaining. But then his parents’ motivations were often a mystery to him.

    Plants were much easier to relate to than people, who talked and talked but said nothing of any value. He bent to examine the Thornescroft hybrid he’d so carefully cultivated all season long. The first rose would soon open and he eagerly anticipated the event, doing everything in his power to keep the aphids and beetles at bay lest they devour the leaves and chew holes in the blossom.

    He touched the bud with his fingertip. The soft pink petals were pressed tightly closed and waiting to unfurl. Nature was endlessly fascinating in its complexity and infinite beauty.

    Christopher. His father’s voice broke into his reverie. Our guest has arrived. Please welcome Madame la Comtesse de Chevalier.

    Chris straightened and squinted against the blinding light, trying to focus on the features of the woman standing on the steps above the garden path. How very odd that Father should escort her to the garden. Mother’s friends always remained inside, out of the hot sun, and visiting ladies usually merited little attention from his father.

    Recalling his manners, Chris strode forward and held out his hand. How do you do, Madame la Comtesse. He was pleased he’d remembered to use her title as was appropriate. Since he generally shunned the social whirl, it was easy to forget such protocol.

    Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whitby. Her cool hand slid into his and he noticed it was ungloved, most unusual for a lady. The smooth skin sent a pleasant tingling charge into his palm. He’d moved so the sun wasn’t blinding him and now could see her face, which caused him to pause with her hand still clutched in his.

    Her eyes were the color of the sky on a cloudy day and fringed in deep black lashes that reminded him of the thick petals of some exotic flower. That image was enhanced by the scent of her spicy, foreign perfume, which wafted around him and made him think of India, a place he’d never been but would like to visit. Her shiny black hair, piled in elaborate loops and curls, also conjured fantasies of distant lands. She might have been a Maharani in a sari rather than the English widow of a French count repatriated to her native land.

    Her royal blue dress seemed too rich and vibrant for an afternoon tea. It was the color of a rare orchid he’d once seen and nothing like the insipid pastels that women usually wore in the daytime. Chris didn’t know much about fashion, but guessed this was more the hue of an evening dress. Her lack of convention, paired with a certain pride of bearing, informed

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