A Taste of Desire (21 page)

“She pounced on me like a cat.” Thomas slanted a glance at his friend, feeling fatigued by the whole affair. “By tomorrow I’m sure to bear some of the scars of our encounter.”

A small mirror in the carriage had already revealed a faint bruise appearing near his jaw.

“Who the hell told you to do it in person?” Cartwright chastised, lifting his legs to rest his stockinged feet on the
ottoman in front of him. “Some flowers and a note should have sufficed, or perhaps a little trinket.”

“Yes, well, it was not my intention to break it off when I set out.”

His remark drew a quirked brow from his friend, who tipped his glass back for a sip of the port. “Then why did you?” Cartwright asked, placing his drink on the redwood side table next to his chair.

Yes, why did he? Thomas had pondered that question often since he’d left Grace’s residence. He lifted his shoulders in a helpless sort of shrug. “I don’t know. I guess because I’d been getting bored with her and she was becoming too possessive. Too demanding of my time.”

“Yes, that does happen. But in your case, much sooner than usual. How long had it been with her? Six months? A year?”

“What does that matter? She’s over and done with. At present, my most pressing matter is that damn Louisa.”

“And just what has our fair duchess done now?” Cartwright asked dryly, his grey eyes alight with interest.

Thomas quickly recited what Grace had told him.

“To seek out your mistress, at her residence no less, was bold beyond words. And with her husband gone not even three months.” Cartwright tsked. “The passing years have changed her. I don’t believe she’d have attempted anything so blatant when we made her acquaintance. Although, there was the incident with Rutherford….”

Yes, the incident.

Thomas had been foolish enough to believe Louisa when she’d said she loved him and claimed she’d marry him without a shilling to his name. At that time, his bank account contained little more than that.

He’d been completely taken with her blond beauty and coquettish innocence. But her veil of innocence came down with a mighty tug when he’d caught her pressing herself up against Rutherford at a ball Thomas hadn’t been expected to attend. At first, he’d stood there in shock, hidden behind the
hedgerow in the garden. Then he’d waited in growing rage and watched to see just how far she intended to go.

Despite the fact that Rutherford had gently but firmly pried her hands from about his neck and left the scene shortly after, the incident had caused a small rift in their friendship. He’d confronted Rutherford the day after, but by the time he’d swallowed his pride enough to confront her, she was already betrothed to the Duke of Bedford.

Thomas had had to face the truth then. He, a young, penniless viscount with nothing but his name to recommend him, and his mother and younger sisters to care for, had been nothing more than a flattering diversion until she could worm a proposal from one of her two intended victims. Never mind that Thomas had meant to marry her.

“So how do you mean to handle the situation?” Cartwright continued.

“Well, I bloody well have to talk to the damn woman now, don’t I? She’s given me little choice, which I’m certain is exactly what she intended.” Thomas bowed his head and ran a weary hand over his face.

“Then you should come with me to Lady Forsham’s ball. I have it on good authority Her Grace has deigned to make an appearance.”

Thomas raised his head and eyed Cartwright skeptically. “You expect me to confront her at a ball? I don’t want to be more fodder for those damn gossip sheets.”

“Would you rather go to her home or worse yet, have her meet you at your residence? I would advise against being alone with her for any reason.”

Cartwright did raise a good point. No good could come of that. And the more thought he gave the idea of the ball, the better it was beginning to sound. Louisa was too aware of her position in society to create a scene in such a public venue.

“Very well, I will go, but don’t expect me to remain for the duration. As scintillating as I find these events, I have other duties to attend to. Since I had to retain a chaperone for Amelia
and
bring her into town with me, I’m forced to keep a close eye on her. I’m almost positive she’ll try to contact Clayborough, and while I’m confident Camille will be circumspect in her duties, I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

A burst of laughter came from Cartwright. “A positively seamless foray into the discussion of difficult females as I’ve ever heard. But truly, Armstrong, Miss Foxworth chaperoning Lady Amelia? Have you gone soft in the head? If things are that bad, perhaps I could be of assistance. I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her for you.” His grey eyes glinted appreciatively as he waggled black eyebrows.

Thomas didn’t find him the least bit amusing but nonetheless forced a smile under the vehement protest of his facial muscles. “Thank you, but I believe I can manage.”

Angling his head, Cartwright narrowed his gaze. “And by managing you mean …?”

Thomas abandoned his relaxed posture and came up straight in the chair. “What the hell do you think I mean?”

Cartwright held up his hand in mock surrender. “Whoa, no need to get yourself into a state over a simple question,” he said, laughing. “The last I heard, you intended the fair Lady Amelia receive her, er, comeuppance at your hands. She did, after all, question your sexual prowess. I’m merely inquiring how things are coming along on that front.”

Given his overwrought reaction to Cartwright’s teasing, Thomas could only imagine what his friend must be thinking. He forced a low chuckle from his throat, relaxed back into the chair, and offered Cartwright a dry smile before taking a deep swallow of his port.

After resting the etched glass on the table to his left, Thomas said, “I’ve come to see she isn’t even worth the bother.”

Cartwright barked a laugh, his eyes dancing. “That bad, eh? Well, I’m certain there are a number of ladies prime for whatever you had in mind for Lady Amelia. Though if you want a mistress who won’t become too attached, someone like Lady Amelia would suit you admirably.”

A dull suffusion of heat warmed Thomas’s face. He quickly shuttered his expression, hoping Cartwright would mistake the reddening for distaste and not guilt. “The one thing I do require from the women I take to my bed is that they don’t despise me. It would also be nice if I had some liking for them.”

After draining the last of his port, Cartwright lazily pushed to his feet and padded to his desk to pour himself another. Turning, he silently held up the crystal decanter to his friend. Thomas declined with a shake of his head.

“When are you returning to Devon?” Cartwright asked, as he made his way back to his chair.

“Sunday.”

“Perfect. I’ll need somewhere to go while the duke is in town. If I remain, he’ll expect to meet with me. I’d rather spend time in Newgate than see my father.”

Normally, Thomas would not have had an issue with his friend staying at Stoneridge Hall—he had been a frequent guest there since their youth—but this time … it just didn’t feel right. Couldn’t he avoid the duke without leaving town? Good Lord, his friend acted as if London wasn’t a big enough city for the two Cartwright men.

At his silence, Cartwright asked, “It won’t be a problem, will it?”

Thomas quickly shook his head. “No, no problem at all.” However, something inside him refuted the claim—loudly.

“Wonderful. It will also give me an opportunity to become better acquainted with Lady Amelia. Of the handful of times we’ve met, we’ve exchanged scarcely more than a polite greeting.” Cartwright appeared to be watching him closely for a reaction.

A thousand words of protest sprang to his lips. Thomas voiced not one word and flickered not one eyelash. “I’m certain she’ll be delighted for the company.”

On second thought, perhaps he could use that second drink.

There were no two ways around it; Amelia knew what she had to do. And if she did it now, she might be able to avoid awkwardness at supper.

With nothing to bolster her flagging courage but the deepest sense of remorse, she knocked on the bedchamber door and waited in dread.

The door was opened quickly. Camille Foxworth stood on the other side regarding her with eyes widened in shock—or perhaps it was horror. Amelia really couldn’t take issue with that. No doubt the poor woman believed she had come to divest her of her last shred of dignity. Finish the job, so to speak. Amelia could well understand why; her remark had been the veriest of insults.

“Lady Amelia, I-I—”

“Might I have a moment of your time, Miss Foxworth?”

“Yes—yes, of course.” She appeared flustered and not only a little nervous as she hastily moved aside to bid her entrance.

The bedchamber was on par with hers in décor as well as size: roomy, adequately heated, with solid, elegant furnishings and an exquisite canopied bed. Apparently, like hers, Miss Foxworth’s accommodations were more those of a guest than servant.

Quietly, Miss Foxworth closed the door before turning to face her. Amelia swallowed hard.

“Please allow me to apologize for my behavior this afternoon. I don’t know what prompted me to say something so unkind, so unwarranted. My rudeness was inexcusable and utterly reprehensible.” Amelia could barely stand to meet the woman’s gaze after she ended the contrite and rushed apology. Humble pie did not go down as easily as chocolate-dipped strawberries, nor did it come even remotely close to pleasing the palate.

For a moment Miss Foxworth stood motionless, her expression that of someone who’d received a hard knock on the head. Then she was fluttering her hands about and speaking quickly. “Lady Amelia, you needn’t apologize. Believe me, at my age and circumstance, I’ve heard much worse. All you did was speak the truth.”

Such self-deprecation. No one should be so inured to insults as to be resigned to them. Make light of them. A stab of shame hit her square in her conscience, one Amelia felt down to her bones.

“No.” Amelia said quite emphatically. “I have every need to apologize. What I said, how I acted, was beyond reproach. I remain more than a little ashamed of myself.”

Miss Foxworth smiled tentatively lighting up her blue eyes and accentuating cheekbones Amelia only now noticed were attractively high. It struck her then, that the woman wasn’t as nondescript as she’d first thought. Yes, her appearance certainly could be improved, and the first thing Amelia would suggest was a change in her wardrobe, which seemed to consist primarily of pale colors that did nothing for her pallid complexion.

“You have such lovely eyes and cheekbones.”

Miss Foxworth averted her head in a quick dismissal of the compliment, but her face turned the color of a ripe apricot. “Please, Lady Amelia, you do not have to—”

“I’m not saying so to make up for my behavior. Believe
me, I’m not that kind.” Well, perhaps she was being a little kind, for she had much too appease for.

“I believe you’re kinder than you think.”

“And I believe there are others who would not agree with you,” Amelia answered with a little laugh. After a shared moment of amiable silence, her regard went to the bed, where a newspaper lay open atop the flowered counterpane. “I see I’ve interrupted you. I shall allow you to get back to your reading.”

Miss Foxworth glanced somewhat guiltily at the newspaper. “Oh, that is nothing but a gossip sheet. They say if one is to indulge in scandal, the preference is to have it on paper in black ink involving others.”

It appeared Camille Foxworth had a sense of humor. A surprise, given what Amelia had seen of her and the little she knew of her, but a welcome one nonetheless. “Yes, I suppose that’s the only way one would find it palatable. I hope the scandals are keeping you properly entertained.”

“Nothing terribly scandalous at the moment. However, the town is abuzz over the ball tomorrow evening.”

“And whose ball is that, pray tell?” Amelia asked more out of curiosity than anything else. After her last appearance at a ball, she wasn’t overly eager to attend another.

“Lady Forsham’s ball.”

Amelia stilled. Could it be the stars were aligning in her favor? Not only had she and her father received an invitation to the gala months before, but Lady Forsham was Lord Clayborough’s aunt. From his account, he and his aunt could have only been closer had she actually birthed him herself. Amelia had no doubt he’d be attending the ball.

“We should attend.” Amelia silently vowed she’d find a way, come hell or high water, though neither option was preferable.

After a perceptible pause, Miss Foxworth smiled as if caution should be preserved at all costs. “But, of course, you must have been invited. I will confer with Lord Armstrong
when he returns. He might well be inclined to act as our escort.”

“Lord Armstrong informed me himself that he has other plans for the evening.”
With his mistress.
Not that it mattered to Amelia. It did not. But if the poor woman was foolish enough to be taken with him, a warning of this nature could save her in the long run.

“Then perhaps we shouldn’t—”

“And if we attend, I shall have my maid fix your hair. She is quite proficient with the tongs. I think curls will suit your face admirably. Of course, there is the matter of your gown.” Amelia gave her dress a critical stare. “I think a brighter color will go best with your complexion.”

A flicker of excitement sparked in Miss Foxworth’s eyes. There was nothing like flattery to bolster a woman’s self-image.
And a handsome viscount to lead an innocent to scandalous behavior.

“I have a blue gown that will look divine on you. I can have Hélène take the hem up a few inches and take in the bodice, and it should fit you perfectly. We’ll also experiment with some cosmetics. A little color on your cheeks would be quite flattering. What do you think?” Amelia would simply overwhelm her with the tremendous possibilities to such an endeavor.

Thankfully, it worked, for Miss Foxworth appeared to have gone on the journey of her transformation with Amelia, her eyes shining with girlish excitement. And just like that, the matter of going to the ball without the viscount’s permission or escort ceased to be a concern.