A Taste of Desire (19 page)

Then she was free, his hand abruptly withdrawn. He levered himself to his feet, a satisfied smile curving the lips she’d so desperately wanted on hers. She stared up at him and saw her own stark look of horror reflected back in his eyes.

“You see, I’m sure I could have already had you in a hundred different ways.” Thomas shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets because they shook. They shook with the urge to pull her into his arms, lower her onto the floor, and take her in at least one of those ways—the front, the side, from behind, he didn’t care how as long as he could assuage
this hunger for her that had been practically eating him alive the past month.

He turned away to hide his reaction, his bloody erection.

“Why did you do that?” She sounded hoarse.

Thomas half turned back to her, surprised at the question, the bluntness of it.

“To prove a point,” he replied after a long moment of silence.

She rose from her chair and started toward him.

Thomas wanted to close his eyes against her allure but knew he couldn’t afford to betray any weakness. She’d use it against him and eat him alive.

“Which was what?” she asked, her voice cooler, more composed.

What the hell was he to say? To prove he was in control? Given his current feelings, fiction of such magnitude deserved its own stage.

Before he could collect his thoughts enough to offer an articulate response, she was pressed against him, her slender hands on the nape of his neck tugging his head down.

His senses were bombarded, overrun with the scent of something delicately feminine and the feel of soft female flesh. Painfully aroused, Thomas had neither the strength nor the desire to fight her—much less himself. He cupped her face in his hands and assumed control of the kiss before their lips met.

Desire and hunger obliterated every bit of his restraint. A month of denying himself and a month of wanting went into the kiss. With her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, his hands scored the slim length of her torso. His palm grazed the tip of her breast before closing around the firm thrust of female flesh.

The nipple peaked to a hard nub beneath the silk bodice as he began to pluck at it. Her breath hitched, and then she let out a strangled moan.

He yearned to bare her breasts to his gaze. In his dreams,
he’d imagined sucking the rosy, pink tip. Thomas bit back a groan. God, when had he ever wanted a woman more? It seemed like forever ago.

She returned his kisses with the fervor of an innocent, her mouth parted, her untutored tongue capable of bringing a man to his knees.

“God, I want you.” He used his free hand to pull her hips flush with his. Too many layers of clothes stood in the way of the kind of fit he most desired.

Just as quickly as he’d found himself locked in the passionate embrace, she was out of his arms.

Reflectively, he reached for her, but she hastily stepped out of his reach, backing up to her desk. Thomas emitted a low, tortured groan.

Her lips were still pouty from his kisses, her coiffure mussed so clumps of hair hung past her shoulders in a stream of dark chocolate silk. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips and stared at him with eyes still heated with passion.

“What was the meaning of that?” He barely recognized his own voice.

She didn’t reply for several seconds. Perhaps she couldn’t, given the dramatic rise and fall of her chest as she drew gulping breaths. “I kissed you because you are an arrogant, presumptuous man who believes he can make a fool of me because he’s dedicated his entire adulthood to the art of learning to pleasure a woman. Well, I think you’d have to be a complete simpleton if you didn’t have your skills honed to perfection by now. Congratulations, my lord, you are not a
complete
simpleton.”

Thomas knew he’d just been insulted but didn’t care. His body had yet to recover from the feel of her. His hands ached to snatch her back into his arms and continue where they’d left off. Heavy with arousal, all he could think about was locking the door and taking her up against the wall, the floor, the desk, the rug in front of the fireplace. Sliding into her
slick heat. Driving into her repeatedly until she didn’t know her own name and he could claim only a passing acquaintance with civility.

“I understand that what I said at the ball injured your pride,” she continued evenly. “But as you can see, my response to you has proven me wrong. There, I’ve conceded to your superior sexual prowess. Now, will you leave me alone?”

Thomas could barely comprehend what he was hearing. He’d not anticipated her admission would come quite like this. The shattering climax had her saying it with more humility as she begged him to end her torment and take her. Of course, that’s when he would deny her. Nowhere in the script was she supposed to admit she was wrong and then calmly ask him to leave her alone.

“Given what you’ve just confessed, are you certain that’s what you want?”

Amelia looked away and smoothed a hand over her hair. “Yes.”

Later he’d tell himself it was all for the best. He’d made a discovery of his own: that he no longer wanted to be party to his game of seduction. She’d made him feel petty and small, and he’d be exactly that if he had continued on his course. So it was done, the game officially over. Now he must act the role intended for him. Her guardian cum employer. Which meant he must leave … now.

“Then it shall be as you wish,” he said solemnly.

Her gaze shot back to him as if she feared duplicity.

“I will leave you to your tasks. Tomorrow, you can take the day to pack for our departure on Friday.” With a swift bow, he was gone.

The instant the vis—Thomas disappeared through the doorway, Amelia sank back into her chair, inhaling a lungful of air. The man had had his tongue in her mouth, his
hands on her breast, and parts of him knew parts of her almost as intimately as she knew herself. She could scarcely think of him so formally anymore.

Dear Lord, what had possessed her to kiss him like that? All she knew was that when he had pulled away and left her still wanting, she couldn’t see anything beyond the hypocrisy of his actions. How she’d wanted to prove to him that the powerful pull of their physical attraction wasn’t confined to her alone. But knowing didn’t make things better; in fact, it could make things a far cry worse.

How vastly different he was from Lord Clayborough. The baron didn’t elicit even a fraction of the physical reaction in her that the viscount did. But that was all it was, merely a physical response to an attractive—stunningly beautiful—man. What she shared with Lord Clayborough was more important than that. Which was why his lack of response to the three letters she’d posted since her arrival was so troubling. He’d always been overly solicitous of her, so his behavior now was very much out of character. Something was wrong. And to add to her problems, she was now expected to travel to London with Thomas and his family.

Just as she was beginning to despair that things could not possibly get worse, she remembered that Lord Clayborough was in London. She made the connection with the staggering relief one would feel in finding solid ground in a bed of quicksand, as opposed to the giddy excitement a woman might have at the prospect of seeing her betrothed. But her feelings were immaterial here. The only thing that mattered was that after over a month, she and Lord Clayborough would finally have a good chance to meet. The viscount couldn’t possibly know the gift he’d just given her. One she intended to utilize to the utmost.

The trip to London was uneventful. Their arrival at the viscountess’s residence in Mayfair occurred at precisely two o’clock in the afternoon. And as Amelia should have expected, her argument with Thomas occurred an hour later, five minutes after the viscountess and her daughters exited the townhouse.

Amelia faced him across the expanse of his mother’s drawing room. As if by tacit agreement, they both now gave one another a wide berth when circumstances demanded they be in each other’s company.

“Your mother invited me to go with her and your sisters. I should like to have gone.”

“Your father didn’t send you to me so you could traipse about enjoying the pleasures of the city.”

“So I shall be denied a shopping excursion on Bond Street? I’m in need of some personal items. What do you expect me to do?”

“Make a list, and I’ll have someone procure them for you.”

Amelia silently counted to five, resisting the urge to bash him with one of the candelabras on the fireplace mantel. “So I’m to be kept a prisoner in this house?”

“Well, let’s see. You’re confined to this house until we
depart on Sunday. Yes, I’d say that’s an accurate assessment of the situation.”

He didn’t smile, and the firm set of Thomas’s jaw, the cool directness of his gaze, told her that on this, he would not grant her even the slightest bit of latitude. Just how she was to get word to Lord Clayborough of her arrival in town was growing to be a task of monumental proportions.

“If you will ready that list …”

Amelia glared at him, tight-lipped and angry. And not solely angry over his obstinacy in the current matter but at his treatment of her. When he spoke to her—as infrequent as that had been in the last several days—he did so in clipped tones to the exclusivity of instructing her on her duties. No doubt she could have paraded about the place naked for all the notice he’d taken of her. And despite repeated reminders to herself that this is what she wanted, at times her words seemed a hollow resonance of a fervent, ill-fated prayer. She wished it didn’t bother her, but the sad fact was, it did.

“Don’t bother. I shall take care of it myself,” she snapped before turning on her heels and exiting the drawing room.

The sharp click of her heels echoed loudly on the planked floors of the hallway. As she spun to take the stairs to the first floor, reflexively she darted a glance back at the drawing room entrance to find Thomas watching her. He acknowledged her regard with a slight bow, his gaze steady, his features inscrutable.

Amelia raced up the stairs, her heart beating in tandem with her footsteps.

Unlike many of the more accomplished ladies of the ton, Amelia hadn’t an ear for music, couldn’t carry a note any further than she could a piano, and would surely bleed to death if she attempted another needlepoint sampler. But she did enjoy reading, fiction novels being her
greatest indulgence. So it would stand to reason she’d be drawn to the library. The works of the most esteemed and prolific authors graced the viscountess’s bookshelves. The room was a librarian’s dream, and where she found herself an hour later.

She ran her finger down the spine of
The Taming of the Shrew
and debated whether she’d rather a Shakespearean farce or something tragic and romantic like
Jane Eyre.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startled Amelia from her reverie, causing her head to swivel sharply in the direction of the door. Framed at the threshold was the tall—very tall—footman, Jones, if she remembered his name correctly.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but his lordship begs your presence in the morning room.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she couldn’t quell the frisson of anticipation that shot through her. She gave a brief nod. “Please tell his lordship I will be there in a moment.”

“Yes ma’am.” With a stiff bow, he departed.

Thomas hadn’t gone? She’d thought he’d left an hour ago. The viscountess had told her he would be staying at his bachelor’s residence. But he was still here. And he wished to see her.

Amelia would have gone there directly if the immediacy of her response didn’t make her appear too eager and willing to bend to his will. Let him cool his heels. He couldn’t have everything to his liking. Ten minutes seemed an appropriate amount of time to make him wait.

Nine minutes later, she breeched the morning room threshold, halting abruptly at the sight of Camille Foxworth conversing with Thomas.

Leave him alone, he’s mine.
Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of the woman’s presence there that stirred such a primitive reaction in her. Inhaling deeply, she ignored the voice and proceeded toward the pair.

“Ah, here she is, Camille,” Thomas said, turning his attention to Amelia.

Despite his easy manner, Amelia felt she’d interrupted a private conversation, which made her as belligerent as a child who’d had her toy taken away long before she had finished playing with it.

He wore the first smile she’d seen in days, she noted with some rancor. Apparently, Miss Foxworth brought out the bonhomie in him.

“Lady Amelia Bertram, I would like to introduce you to Miss Camille Foxworth.”

Amelia forced her limbs and the muscles in her face to relax. When she was able to wade her way through her pique, a sobering question reared in her head.
What is she doing here?
Then a horrifying thought struck her with the same force of Lord Stanley coming down on her toes during an energetic polka dance—he was eighteen stone if he was an ounce—surely Thomas didn’t intend for her …? No, the idea was preposterous.

Miss Foxworth smiled and executed an elegant curtsey. “Good day, Lady Amelia. I believe we were introduced on another occasion. The Randall ball earlier in the Season.”

Lest she wished to appear lacking in the basic societal niceties, Amelia acknowledged the woman with a dip of her head, endeavoring to keep her emotions from her expression. She received a sharp look of censure from Thomas for her efforts.

“Yes, I do recall,” she replied, her voice having acquired a thin layer of ice.

Amelia ignored another one of his hard stares.

“Miss Foxworth has agreed to be your chaperone while my mother is away.” Thomas’s features instantly softened when he turned his regard to Miss Foxworth—who stared up at him as if he were a deity, and she his worshipping subject.

In turn, Amelia stared at the woman, her horrifying suspicion confirmed. She took in her thin figure in a dress more
appropriate for an elderly matron, and her eyes, blue beacons amid a ghostly complexion, and became inexplicably angry.