Page 8 of To Catch a Viscount

He reached for both women.

This was all he wanted.

Knock, knock, knock.

And also what he was going to be denied that day.

The hell he was.

“Go away,” he shouted.

Knock, knock, knock.

“It’s me.”

The annoyed announcement came from none other than Benedict Adamson, the Earl of Wakefield, a chum from his Eton and Oxford days. The two men, born to wastrel fathers, had bonded as young boys, who’d been jeered by their peers for their disreputable sires.

That, however, was where all similarities between him and Benedict ended these days.

“Tell him to go away,” Lady Scarlett panted, biting down hard on the lobe of his ear.

“I’m not going away,” the earl called, his voice muffled by the panel.

Andrew was a dissolute reprobate capable of a great many sexual feats. Alas, plowing a lover while his childhood chum pounded and pounded away outside his door escaped the prowess of even Andrew.

With a curse, Andrew set each lady aside.

Both women let out sharp cries of disappointment.

“He’s not going away,” he said, giving them each a stroke on a breast. “We can resume our fun later this evening.”

Lady Charlotte pouted. “You are assuming we’ll want you,” she whined, swinging her long, thin legs over the side of the bed.

Andrew hopped up onto his knees and nestled the back of her neck. “I know you will,” he said silkily, suckling her flesh and earning a breathless laugh that instantly became a breathy moan.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Waters,” Benedict called, an impatient warning there. “It’s urgent.”

With a sigh, Andrew placed a kiss on Lady Charlotte’s right shoulder.

“Just a moment,” he shouted at the panel and swiped up his breeches and shirt from the floor.

“Why do you bother with a bore like Wakefield?” Lady Scarlett pouted as she pulled on her gown.

“Really,” his other companion intoned. “He’s a dullard.”

He narrowed his eyes into thin slits. “Have a care.” He knew precisely what Wakefield was. He also knew that when the other boys had beaten him and mocked him for the crimes of his father, Benedict had proven a staunch ally, lining up at his shoulder and beating his detractors back.

“We’ve displeased you,” Lady Charlotte said with some surprise in her eyes. “I thought you should agree with us. Heisa proper bore.”

“Ladies,” he said when they’d finished dressing. “Thank you for the lovely time.”

Andrew opened the door, and the earl, tall, bespectacled, and with not a blond hair out of place on his always sensible head, stepped aside so the ladies could pass.

A blush on his cheeks, Wakefield averted his eyes to the ceiling. “Ladies,” he greeted.

Lady Charlotte paused and smoothed her palms over the front of the earl’s dark sapphire wool coat. “Perhaps we might convince both of you gentlemen to enjoy—”

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