A Taste of Desire (29 page)

She tasted like peppermint. She felt soft and firm in all the right places—her delectable bottom, her beautiful breasts. And God, she could kiss. She knew how to use her tongue for such an innocent. She had a way of capturing his between her lips, and languidly sucking, coaxing, sipping on it as if she were enjoying one of those flavored Italian ices that were so popular.

Thomas adjusted their positions so he could fit his erection against her sweet mound, silently cursing the endless swaths of grey fabric of her skirt. His cock jerked at the contact. He ached for nothing more than to take her right there on the study floor.

Again, he was experiencing a loss of control. Amelia had somehow managed to turn him into a simpleton when it came to matters of the flesh. He dragged his mouth from hers and feathered down the smooth line of her neck back up to the sensitive spot behind her ear. At his kisses, she began to pant and moan. His mouth then sought the indent of her shoulder. She moaned again.

Drowning, that sound was his lifeline back to sanity. Summoning up a will he required in Amelia’s presence, Thomas released her. His release was so abrupt she stumbled backward. Her hands caught the edge of the desk to steady her. She stared up at him, her blue eyes unguarded for a moment. Surprise, lust, and yearning were all there on her face. She quickly turned her back to him, her breath ragged, her slender shoulders heaving with the exertion of unspent passion.

Thomas thought to say something—anything. He could think of nothing. He cleared his throat, his heart pounding as if he’d been holding his breath under water until his lungs
threatened to burst. And each drawn breath didn’t bring him the relief he sought. Slowly, carefully, he turned from her bent figure, and made his way from the room as if she were opium and he, addicted.

Amelia straightened only when the door whistled closed. Her breath escaped her lips in an audible, jagged hiss. She tentatively put her hand to her throat and then touched her face to ensure she was still there. Then the knowledge rushed through her with the force of a wave crashing against the shores. It had been he who had called a halt to the kiss, not her. He who had pulled away.

Her face burned; her hands trembled. What was this man doing to her? She had offered little to no resistance when he’d taken her virginity. She had liked it. Who was she fooling, she’d been like a gourmand at the most lavish spread in all of London, gorging herself to satiation, and then wishing she could go back for more.

Amelia’s gaze toured the bronzes and Staffordshire figures on the rosewood étagère in the drawing room. The ornaments displayed were not so plentiful as to give it a cluttered appearance. She herself preferred sparse simplicity rather than a hodgepodge of knickknacks laying claim to taste and money. Yes, Lady Armstrong had made Stoneridge Hall a place anyone would be proud to call home. Which was one of the other reasons Amelia so desperately needed to leave—the sooner, infinitely the better.

She hadn’t intended to become comfortable here. More important, she and Thomas had crossed a line in their relationship and couldn’t go back. With the heat of his touch and kiss … his possession, he could send her high as a kite in flight, ascending the dizziest heights. But all too soon, she was cast down low to the darkest depths of despair. Never in her life had a person affected her so. She feared the risk of remaining would somehow include her heart—a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

Since Lord Alex’s departure three days ago, they now circled each other like strangers. Their conversation—such as it was—extended to staggering five-word sentences.
Good morning. I’ll be at the stables.
And the moment he finished, he’d vanish and not return for the remainder of the day. She
worked the hours in solitude. Rarely did he speak to her during the evening meals, choosing to converse almost exclusively with Miss Foxworth, who proved to be a most captive audience. He’d committed the grievance, yet she was being ignored. More glaring evidence of his arrogance.

“Lady Amelia?”

Amelia started at the sound of her name, quickly turning to view the pale, wisp of a woman hovering at the entrance of the drawing room. Speak—or in this instance think—of the devil and she was sure to appear.

Since Miss Foxworth’s arrival at Stoneridge Hall, she’d continued to follow Amelia’s advice, managing to unearth from her wardrobe brighter colored dresses more suitable to her complexion. Today, she wore a chartreuse dress with raglan sleeves and a full, billowing skirt.

“Is anything wrong? You’ve been so very quiet lately.” Miss Foxworth edged into the room and daintily sidestepped a rogue footstool.

Amelia summoned a small smile. “Nothing really. You’ve just caught me deep in thought.”

“Are you missing home?”

“Yes, perhaps a little.” At this point, lying was easier than a game of twenty questions … or the truth.

“May we sit? I would like to speak with you.” Miss Foxworth motioned to the dark blue sofa flanked by a balloon chair on her left.

Dear Lord, this all sounded quite ominous. Amelia took a seat in the balloon chair and tamped down any show of apprehension by busily arranging her skirts around her.

Miss Foxworth sat on the edge of the sofa with her hands clasped neatly on her lap, her expression earnest. “I would like to assure you that Lord Armstrong has no designs on me whatsoever.”

Amelia’s jaw went slack. Of all the things she had expected the woman to say, this hadn’t even made her mental list. “Pardon?”

Miss Foxworth studied her with sage eyes. “From the beginning, I’ve gotten the impression you don’t particularly care for my association with Lord Armstrong. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she added hastily, “I certainly don’t fault you for your reaction. I might be moved to act in a similar fashion for his affection. That is why I felt the need to assure you, he cares nothing for me—at least not in a romantic sense.”

Amelia choked out a laugh, endeavoring for a smooth recovery from the shock of the woman’s words—and the accuracy of her observation. “You are very much mistaken. Nothing could be further from the truth.” She then held her breath to see if a bolt of lightning should appear in the crystalline, blue, winter sky. After a minute pause without the scent of burning flesh, she continued. “And truly, it is none of my concern what the true nature of your relationship is with the viscount.”

Miss Foxworth now appeared puzzled. “So your grievance is with Lord Armstrong, not me?”

“No—I mean—yes—what I mean is my grievance is with no one. Lord Armstrong is free to associate with as many women as he pleases. It is not my concern.” Of all the characteristics Amelia would have attributed to Miss Foxworth, tenacity hadn’t been one of them.

“You see, we’ve been getting on nicely since our time in London. I just didn’t want—”

“Truly, Miss Foxworth, I don’t think it’s any of my—”

“Does your disapproval of him stem from what you said at the ball?”

Dear Lord, did the woman know when to stop?

“If that is the case, I must disabuse you of the notion that Lord Armstrong indiscriminately goes about town bedding any and every woman who happens to cross his path. That is your assumption, is it not?” Miss Foxworth appeared so utterly confident of what she spoke. As if Amelia were the sadly ignorant girl and it was she who was schooled and
learned in the inner workings of human behavior. Amelia didn’t very much like the feeling.

“The man is hardly a saint, so if that’s what you hope to convince me of, please save your breath.”

Miss Foxworth nodded. “That is true. He isn’t a saint, but then show me a man who is. Lord Armstrong is kind, loyal, and generous beyond fault. Were you aware he gave my brother the money to buy his commission? He is also paying for the lease on our flat in town. He has been doing so since Marcus entered the military.” Her voice softened with emotion. “Thomas Armstrong has been a saint to Marcus and me, and we owe him a great deal.”

She gave a short self-deprecating laugh. “Don’t mistake me, it would be far too easy to fall in love with Lord Armstrong.” Miss Foxworth lowered her gaze to her lap where she stared at her intertwined fingers. “But for me that would be a foolish act. Although he likes me just fine, he is not interested in me like that. He would deny it, of course, for that’s the kind of gentleman he is, but to him I am merely Marcus’s rather unfortunate spinster sister who is in need of support while her brother is away fighting wars. And that is fine with me, you know.” She peered up at Amelia. “I would never do anything to damage our friendship.”

Why had Miss Foxworth told her all of this? Such outpourings were better reserved for broken dams and rain downfalls. She’d already said she had no interest in the nature of their relationship. But her heart did lighten and flutter in the most abominable fashion at what she’d just heard.

Despite the fact he would be spending the Christmas holiday at his sister’s home in Berkshire, Thomas allowed the servants to decorate the hall much in the same manner as his mother would have done. A Christmas tree was magnificently displayed in the morning room, its sturdy branches
holding a ponderous amount of ornaments of bronze and silver. Against the backdrop of the night sky, candles lit the tree like a festive beacon in the bow-shaped window.

But for all the outward signs of Christmas cheer, he was feeling anything but in the holiday spirit. The last three weeks had been the most tension-wrought he’d ever spent, Amelia being the source of his disquiet. Like a festering sore, she seemed to affect everything he did. His sleep—or lack thereof—could only be considered fitful at best. The guilt of taking her virginity couldn’t escape him. The unquenchable need to have her again had him keeping as far away from her as physically possible.

So many times he’d wanted to go to her and explain his reasons for taking her letters. But two things had always stopped him, the first being he could offer no acceptable excuse. He hadn’t had to take Harry’s suggestion that he monitor her correspondence. The second was that he could clearly see in her manner toward him that any kind of peace offering on his part would not be well received. She treated him like a pariah, and it was obvious she regretted giving him her innocence.

Raking a hand through his hair, he weaved his way between the side table and the settee, and dropped into the damask armchair facing the tree. He silently watched the flickering candles dance under the light of the crescent moon outside. He was too wide awake to take to his bed, and a book couldn’t distract him from the things he wanted to do more. Even a drink had done nothing to soothe his nerves or ease the tension in his muscles. No, nothing had worked the past week.

Thomas dropped his head back against the cushioned chair and closed his eyes. But Amelia’s beautiful face remained firmly implanted in his mind and thoughts.

In the tortured silence, he heard the rustle of cloth. Snapping his eyes open and jerking his head up, his gaze flew to the entrance. The unmistakable figure of the
woman who now haunted his dreams by night and thoughts by day appeared, gliding into the room to stand in front of the Christmas tree. Flicking a glance at the longcase clock adjacent to the stone fireplace, Thomas was surprised to note it was much later than he first thought—fifteen minutes to eleven.

What was she still doing up? And good God, why hadn’t she the sense to don more than the blue, silky cover-up that draped her from her slender shoulders to the tip of her stockinged feet and had him aching like a man too long deprived of a woman’s touch.

Thomas shifted to rest his forearms on his splayed legs. She started at the movement before swiveling sharply. Her eyes widened when she spotted him tucked in the shadowed corner. Her hand flew to her throat.

“Oh Lord, I didn’t realize anyone else was up,” she said in a breathy voice. She immediately began to edge toward the entrance. “I was—was getting a book from the—the library, when I noticed the tree….” She trailed off with a gulp, her face flushing a becoming pink.

“Don’t allow me to stop you from looking your fill.” In that moment, he decided it was time to end the standoff.

Amelia’s instincts urged her to leave immediately. But foolhardy she must be, for she halted at his words. Thomas looked too … masculine, his hands hanging between his muscled thighs, and his jaw shadowed from a day’s worth of growth. And his eyes, dark and vibrantly green, watched her from between lids lowered to half-mast. If any man should keep the aura surrounding him bottled to keep all the females of the world safe, it was Thomas Armstrong.

“I just wanted a closer look at the tr-tree,” she said, stuttering like a child who had just learned its way around its tongue.

Two craterlike dimples creased his bristled cheeks as a
smile tipped the corners of his mouth. Lord, he was more beautiful than any fully grown male had a right to be. Amelia’s gaze skittered away in a show of keen interest in the garland decorating the fireplace mantel. She hated this new nervousness that struck her when around him.

“You are beginning to remind me of your father.” He made no attempt to keep the amusement from his voice, coming to his feet in one lithe, fluid motion.

Amelia’s gaze narrowed. What on earth did he mean? She was not at all like him—in any manner.

“You both have a tendency to stutter when you’re anxious.”

Her father was never anxious; therefore he never stuttered. And neither did she! At least she hadn’t done so until she’d met the viscount.

“I am not stuttering,” she managed to say without the embarrassment of stumbling over her words. “The air down here is quite chilly. I should have realized the servants would have already put out the fires.” She could think of nothing else to say so as to not appear completely ridiculous.

“Why are you so nervous?” With every word from his sensuous lips, he advanced a step. Self-preservation urged her to close her eyes and keep them shut.

“I—” Amelia was forced to stop when she realized she was about to do the very thing he’d just accused her of. She cleared her throat, and began to edge toward the entrance. “What you’re mistaking as nervousness is fatigue, as it’s late and I’m tired.” She tried for a bit of hauteur, but failed miserably as he drew closer, causing her throat to lock up and the last several words to trickle out low and breathless.