A Taste of Desire (33 page)

The woman was absolutely relentless—an Armstrong trait, it would appear. “There is nothing between me and Thom-Lord Armstrong.”

The countess’s eyebrows rose innocently at her slip.

Amelia continued. “He and my father are very close. On the other hand, he and I don’t particularly get along, but we will make an effort during our visit.”

If Amelia expected the countess to lay the whole thing to rest, she would have been well advised not to hold her breath. A full-bodied laugh burst from Lady Windmere’s throat. She laughed and laughed. And the longer she laughed, the more disgruntled Amelia grew. Lord, she hadn’t said anything
that
amusing.

“Oh dear,” the countess said, her slender shoulders still shaking as she wiped a tear from her eye. “For a moment, I thought you actually expected me to believe the two of you have no feelings for each other.” She gave one final hiccupping laugh, her expression slowly sobering. Then her mouth formed a circle. “Oh,” the countess breathed, “you
do
expect me to believe that drivel.”

Amelia blanched. Some thought she had cheek, but it
appeared the countess was looking to best her in that arena. Suddenly, she felt quite put upon and defensive. But she was not about to go off, all half-cocked, as she would have done in the past. Instead, she plucked the serviette from her lap, and touched it to the corners of her mouth, the small action giving her a measure of composure.

“I’m not certain I know entirely what you mean by that,” Amelia said. Normally situations such as this would have called for a swift and cutting response. Unfortunately, she could think of nothing else to say.

The countess’s slate-blue eyes softened, her expression becoming contrite. “Amelia, I didn’t mean to disconcert you.”

Amelia shook her head numbly, trying to ignore the look the countess wore. It was that you-poor-girl-you-are-fooling-yourself expression she knew so well because she’d worn it herself and directed it at many deluded females.

Turning her attention back to her food, the countess popped the last piece of marmalade-laden bread in her mouth. Once finished, she washed it down with the remainder of her tea. Amelia followed suit, her near-empty stomach demanding she try to consume as much as she could.

“My brother has been known for his temper, but that was in the past.” The countess fixed her utensils on her plate to signal her completion of her meal. “The last time I’ve seen him so close to violence was with James.” Her eyes lit at the mention of her husband’s name. A soft wispy sigh fluttered past her lips. “But that was to be expected as Thomas had just learned he’d compromised me.”

Amelia blinked back another wave of surprise at the latest revelation. For a brief moment, she wondered if the countess had said it for shock value, but the frankness of her regard told her differently as she appeared amused by the memory.

“Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—my determination to have James as my husband was a thing to be seen. I was in love, and terribly naïve. But as you can see, it all
worked out for the best, for I couldn’t be happier with my life.” Her smile displayed pearly white teeth, and a woman more than content with her lot in life.

“But getting back to the point I am trying to make. I think I’ve known since your introduction last year, you would play a significant role in his life.” Amelia opened her mouth to speak, but the countess held up her hand to halt the words before she could issue them. “And when I heard word of what happened at Lady Stanton’s ball back in August, I was certain of it. Your reaction to him is too volatile. And instead of dismissing you out of hand as Thomas does with most women he doesn’t care for, he allows you to get under his skin. I have
never
seen my brother allow a woman to get under his skin. Quite the opposite in fact.”

Amelia sat mute in her chair, trying to quell a rising tide of fear. Lord, how exposed she felt. What response did she give to this woman who—much like her brother—seemed to be able to see right through her and would no doubt scoff at her every denial and any defense she chose to mount?

“Are you in love with my brother?”

Months ago the question would have catapulted her into peals of laughter at its absurdity. Or perhaps had her elegant little nose turned up in affront at the sheer audacity of it. But months had passed. Time enough to lose her heart. Amelia didn’t laugh. Instead she sat wide-eyed and stricken. Swallowing became a special process only performed by those possessing the coordination to do so. Or those who hadn’t that same lost organ blocking the passage of her throat.

No. No. No. I don’t love him. More important, I don’t want to love him.
But as loudly as the words reverberated within her, she could not get her mouth to cooperate and speak them. Why?

I can’t love him,
her mind continued to wail.
I will never be in control with him.
Amelia blinked and swallowed hard, the revelation hitting her harder than gale-force winds.

“I see I’ve discomfited you,” the countess said. “I won’t
continue to press you. Perhaps you yourself haven’t realized it as yet. So now you’ll have to think about what I’ve said.” Patting her hand solicitously, she said, “Since we are finished with our meal, would you like to go up to the nursery and meet my twins?”

“I would love to meet your children,” Amelia said, desperate to latch on to another topic of discussion, willing and ready to throw herself into any activity that didn’t require her to see, think, feel, or speak about Thomas.

The countess gathered her skirts and came gracefully to her feet. “Then come with me.”

Amelia spent the remainder of the day with Missy—as she had been instructed to call her when she’d slipped and addressed her as Lady Windmere. The countess claimed the title made her feel ancient coming from a woman her age.

They spent many hours with Jason and Jessica, the four-month-old twins. Sadly, Amelia’s life hadn’t given her many opportunities to be around children, much less babies. But, as she’d always believed, she took to them with the ease of a mother destined to care for her own. She adored everything about them: their rosy cheeks, their chubby little bodies, their gummy smiles, and their innocent neediness. She could have cuddled the babies for hours more had Jason not fallen asleep in her arms. It was at that point she and Missy placed both babies back in their cribs for their naps.

Missy then introduced her to the earl’s sixteen-year-old twin sisters (twins appeared to be aplenty in the Rutherford household), Catherine and Charlotte. The girls were strikingly lovely. Exotic was the word that came instantly to mind as the only way to describe them with their honey-gold tresses and sun-kissed complexions. Their eyes were the same iridescent blue of their brother’s with the same large, dark pupils. Amelia could see their coming out would set the gentlemen of the ton anxiously on their toes.

The sisters greeted her with an initial reserve, all finishing-school politeness and deference. But during afternoon tea,
they lost much of that reserve, their liveliness bubbling to the surface.

While sipping her hot cocoa, Catherine revealed another aspect of her character when she cheerfully informed Amelia, she and her sister were in fact the earl’s half sisters, the by-blows of the dearly departed fifth Earl of Windmere. The girl enjoyed a salacious tale. Once learning of their existence the year before, their brother, a saint to rival all biblical saints, had promptly taken them in. Their lives hadn’t been the same since, Catherine concluded with a smile. Amelia expressed the desired surprise, although she’d heard varieties of the same tale through the grapevine some time ago.

Charlotte, on the other hand, seemed more concerned with Amelia’s association with Lord Alex. But she was subtle in her approach. A question and comment here and there. Had they met? Was she aware he’d arrived a day early from London? No, Amelia had not. How nice. Alex and Thomas had been ever so kind to them. Did she know Alex was quite brilliant at fixing things? She’d not met many men with eyes like his. Lovely in the empirical sense. The girl had the vocabulary of a literary scholar. Although she said nothing terribly forward, her feelings were obvious. But the poor girl hadn’t a chance. Her beauty, and even the promise of the diamond she would become in another year or so, couldn’t make up for her youth and innocence.

After tea was concluded, Amelia retired to her bedchamber to rest until supper. What else had she to do? Thomas had made himself scarce throughout the day since he’d stormed out of the house. Nearly the entire day she had waited and hoped to catch a glimpse of him, her breath hanging on every footfall she’d heard out in the hall and her heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. But it had never been him, only the servants going about their daily chores.

Missy had been kind enough not to call her on her frequent inattentiveness, merely watching her, a sympathetic smile
playing on the corners of her lips as if she too had experienced the same uncertain, anxious, crippling course of love.

As Amelia lay on her bed, stripped down to her chemise and pantaloons, her gaze idly, almost sightlessly, traced the blue gauzy material of the canopy. She was in love with Thomas Armstrong. There, she had admitted it. And if this was not love, it was a petrifying facsimile of some other heartrending emotion.

Surely it was only love that could take one from the summit of the highest mountain to the depths of the deepest valley. It could only be love that had her uncertain as to whether she was right side up or upside down, and had her every sense screaming for a cessation to the excess of feelings: the yearning, the anger … the passion roiling constantly inside her.

Lord, she had never felt so much and with such intensity since … yes, since her mother’s death. Sometime after that—perhaps when she’d realized she’d lost not one but both parents—the numbness had claimed her. She had welcomed the numbness. She’d welcomed freedom from the pain that rent her heart at the thought of the mother she would never see again. She’d ceased to feel the pain, like tiny jagged knives into her skull, when her father’s eyes would look right through her, if he chose to look at her at all.

Shifting on her side, she tucked her hands to pillow her cheek and let out a ragged breath. Feeling again was exhilarating, like coming back to life. But it had its dangers, especially now that she’d given her heart to a man whose feelings she was unsure of. He could make passionate love to her one moment and the next treat her as if he’d gladly see the last of her. Her choice wouldn’t have made a whit of sense if she’d in fact had one. She’d be better off with the likes of Lord Clayborough: affable, courteous, and well-mannered. He would perch her high on some invisible pedestal and treat her like the vestal Virgin Mary. There would be no lustful passion, riotous kisses, or glorious lovemaking. With him
she’d be safe from ever truly hurting again. But after a taste of the pulse beat of life, could she go back to having her emotions cocooned off for life? From life?

The question followed her into an uneasy sleep.

For the majority of the day Thomas had not been fit for company, his mood dark and brooding. After returning to the house with Rutherford, they had gone their separate ways, his friend more than likely gone to seek out his wife or children, or both. He had taken to his guest chambers, the need to be alone overwhelming.

Despite his intention, Thomas didn’t go there directly, his attention caught and held by the sounds of feminine laughter and baby noises. He followed the sounds to the nursery. He stood outside the gaily decorated room, watching the scene silently from the hall.

Amelia was cuddling his nephew, cooing and scattering tender kisses all over his face. She looked happy and … maternal, which was mildly surprising. He’d never thought of her in that light. As a mother. Earlier, when he’d resolved to marry her, he’d been thinking about the physical side of things, having full and unfettered access to her body. The prospect of children would merely have been an inevitable result of that unquenchable passion.

But seeing her like this made him realize his feelings ran much deeper than he’d thought. Deeper than the Pacific Ocean. He could see only her as the mother of his children. Not only because he wanted her in his bed, but because he wanted her forever in his life. And he’d been unfair to her. She deserved better than a tumble, no matter how pleasurably explosive an experience. She deserved to be courted properly, as any lady of her rank should be. Even more so because she was his.

Supper could be summed up in one word: Strained. At least on the part of her and Thomas, Amelia mused. Or perhaps strained was too ambivalent a word to describe the combustible electricity that simmered between them.

Thomas treated Lord Alex with surly politeness, which meant he only spoke to him when specifically addressed, and responded in curt monosyllables. It came as no surprise to her that Lord Alex didn’t appear the least bit offended by his treatment.

Thomas spoke to her twice throughout the meal. The first time to inquire about her day, and the second to ask if she was finding everything to her liking. She replied to each question “excellent” and “yes,” respectively, in as normal a voice as she could muster, considering that when he’d walked into the room, he’d literally taken her breath away, dressed to the nines, his scent a mixture of delicious clean male flesh and rosemary and bergamot. Thomas’s own scent. If bottled, she’d purchase it by the caseload.

The silence between them after the last exchange was deafening and fraught with an indefinable anticipation, for thereon he took to watching her. And there was nothing informal, pleasant, or even polite about his regard. He watched her as if he’d like to devour her instead of the roasted fowl
on his plate. And she was helpless not to do the same, snatching a glance here and there when she thought no one was paying her any mind.

Thankfully, the others at the table—the twins, the countess, the earl, and of course, Lord Alex—kept conversation from being in short supply.