A Taste of Desire (5 page)

Murder might be a hanging offense, but Thomas could see there were times when the trespass was well worth the consequence. But he’d be damned if he allowed the blasted chit to cause his masculine pride to supplant a level head.

He strode through the crush, his gaze locked on the source of his ire donned in a peach ball gown, her hair a mass of dark, silken curls elaborately arranged atop her head. She stood frozen, her face cherry-blossom pink, her eyes like a deer on the verge of flight. What a pity beauty that blinding hid a heart encased in stone and housed such a virulent tongue.

The crowd watched spellbound. Randolph, Smith, and Granville did little to squelch their amusement, their chuckles reaching his burning ears. And there wasn’t a single guest present fooled by the loud and prolonged coughs of Essex and Cartwright.

Lady Camden, Lady Dalton, and Widow Ramsey looked on in mute denial, their expressions stricken—and they should know, they themselves had experienced enormous pleasure at the hands of his alleged sexual shortcomings.

Thomas imagined at least half those attending the ball waited in salacious delight at what they hoped would be a scene from a particularly titillating melodrama.

“Lady Amelia.” He managed a pleasant enough tone and a courtly bow. But his mouth strained under the effort of producing a smile.

Cobalt blue eyes stared up at him with such stark horror he was almost moved to laugh. Almost, but not quite. She swallowed, and then like a curtain being drawn, her expression became shuttered.

“Good evening, Lord Armstrong,” she replied coolly, her delicate chin tilted high as she performed a modest curtsey. But the quaver in her voice betrayed her nervousness … or fright.

She had every right to be scared. He hoped she was quivering in her lacy French drawers.

“Will you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked in cordial tones, extending his hand. Hardly the gesture of a man whose images of wringing her neck had barreled back in his mind with the force of a ferocious storm.

He could
feel
the shock ripple across the guests standing close enough to hear his request. Much like spectators at a pugilist match, this crowd wanted blood, though they’d be loath to admit such a thing. They yearned for something raucous to break up the humdrum of their dreary week.

The air was taut as the collective ton suspended their breaths to await her response. They made no attempt to even feign disinterest in the encounter that he was quite certain would top the list of conversation topics in parlors and drawing rooms all over town.

Amelia thought she must be losing her mind—or at least had rattled her brain. He could not have just asked her for a dance.

Her heart had only just begun to beat again. Now the wretched man stood too close, her senses picking up his distinct scent. Why had she come to this blasted ball? How she now craved those four silken walls. At the moment, she’d
welcome Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle. Really, she’d willingly read anything at all.

But there he stood, his jaw firmly set, appearing the height of civility. Yes, this was more his style. Crush her with kindness. Watch her squirm. Make a show of philanthropic compassion. And the moment they took to the dance floor … She shivered. She could well imagine the kind of retribution he intended.

But if he expected her to stutter in embarrassment or issue a false apology, he’d wait an eternity. It was clear he intended to weather the incident with the veil of gentlemanly decorum. Well, so could she. Though her father would vehemently protest otherwise, she could act the proper lady when the occasion called for it. At the present, the occasion called out rather loudly.

“Good evening, Lord Armstrong. As much as I would—”

Someone tugged sharply on the tulle bertha of her gown, halting her before she could complete her refusal. A startled glance to her left revealed her chaperone appearing even more dour than the high-necked, brown poplin dress adorning her too-thin figure.

How perfectly splendid.
Now she returned. If the blasted woman had returned only minutes before, she would undoubtedly be sipping some sweet drink instead of facing down this wretched man in a ballroom full of the crème de la crème of society.

Miss Crawford shot her a hard look that said,
Refuse him and I’ll make you regret the day you were born.
She then gave a shrill laugh, to cover the silence that had befallen their rapt audience. “She would be delighted, my lord.”

This she tittered to Lord Armstrong, who wore the same smile Lucifer must have worn when committing the sins that brought about his expulsion to earth.

A low murmur started amongst those surrounding.

“What did she say?” one woman inquired.

“Did she order the Bertram girl to dance with him?” an older gentleman asked of another balding, portly one.

“Move closer, Henry—I cannot hear a thing,” the hostess, Lady Stanton, instructed her husband.

Amelia darted a glance around. Eyes alight with almost fiendish anticipation stared back at her. Their expressions said they wanted her to refuse. It was as if the taste of a scandal had bestirred their hunger and her refusal would merely whet their appetite for more.

What choice did she have but to accept? At present, she’d do anything to halt this embarrassing debacle before it grew to such proportions that someone—namely Miss Crawford or perhaps even Lord Armstrong—would apprise her father of her gauche. Lord, he’d have her on the next train to some godforsaken convent to spend a year on bended knees, clutching a cross, and reciting
Hail Marys
and
Our Fathers.

“I would be delighted.” She echoed her chaperone’s sentiments, praying her abhorrence wasn’t writ plain on her face for all to see. Placing a gloved hand on his proffered arm, the innocuous touch igniting a shower of sensation from her fingertips up the length of her arm, she followed his lead.

They made what seemed like a mile-long walk to the dance floor amid a flurry of movement as onlookers hurried to clear a path for their progress. Amelia wasn’t certain which was worse, the intense scrutiny and whispers, or having his hands on her person as he drew her into the circle of his arms. The impulse to jerk from his touch overwhelmed and alarmed her … as it did to every one of her nerve endings.

Her instincts told her to run, to go. Then pride tugged her up by the shoulders, lengthening her spine and tipping up her chin. Amelia didn’t mind if people called her cold and emotionless, but she’d never give them cause to call her a coward. So instead of bolting, she rested her hands on his shoulders, ignoring the tingling of her flesh in all the places they came in contact: her hands, her waist, the small of her back.

With his athletic physique, she had taken Lord Armstrong for a man more suited to masculine pursuits like rugby or rowing. But he proved to be a dancer of finesse and grace, twirling her expertly about the floor. Uttering not a single word, he gazed down at her, his green eyes half-lidded. His slumbered look could not, however, hide the sharp glint in coal-black pupils bespeaking a mind in action—surmising, scheming … plotting her demise.

Well, he didn’t frighten her.

Amelia gave an involuntary shiver and in flustered haste, shifted her gaze from the heat of his perusal. Was it her or had the temperature in the ballroom risen several degrees since the waltz had commenced?

Minutes and too many thundered heartbeats later, when the final notes of the waltz arrested the air, Amelia could hardly believe her punishment was over. That was it, only one dance for her insult? She’d receive no reprimand or belittlement on her conduct as a lady?

In a state of bemusement, she allowed him to escort her off the dance floor. And she dared not look up at him for fear her relief was too palpable to be disguised. Poking a sleeping lion while within moments of escape would be the height of stupidity.

“Come and join me. It would be a shame not to take this time to get to know one another better.” Cupping her elbow in the palm of his hand, Lord Armstrong steered her in the opposite direction of where Miss Crawford stood alone next to a large potted fern.

Amelia started at his words, instinctively tugging her arm back. “No thank—”

“Uh-uh, perhaps you think I’m issuing you an invitation.” He shook his head, his manner awash in the kind of parental admonishment that instantly caused everything in her to rebel against his authority. “No, that was an order.” He retained a firm hold on her arm while keeping his tone conversational and smiling down at her with a hard, unyielding
glint in his green eyes. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? I fear you’ll have to suffer my presence a little longer.”

As much as Amelia despised surrendering control, she gave up the fight almost as abruptly as it had begun. The man outweighed her by at least six stone, and she’d discovered during their dance that under the cut of the finely spun fabric of his evening jacket were hard, muscled arms.

“Whatever for? I’m quite certain you don’t actually wish for my company,” she said, endeavoring to keep her tone neutral.

Lord Armstrong laughed in amusement. “The first true thing I’ve heard come from your mouth this evening,” he said, as they threaded through the crowd toward the refreshment room. “What I am attempting to do is save your father from embarrassment. I believe he’s been through enough this past week, wouldn’t you agree?” He cocked one eyebrow and leveled her with a censuring look, which effectively wilted her indignation.

The heat suffusing her face told Amelia she’d added a new hue to mortification. Of course, he knew. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Who else would her father have confided in when she’d run off with Lord Clayborough but the man who had usurped her in her father’s affections and the man he no doubt wished was his flesh-and-blood son? She could well imagine what else her father had told him. Another wave of heat washed over her. Blast her father, and double blast this wretched man.

He kept her tight by his side as he retrieved two glasses of punch from a liveried footman. He thrust one into her hand. “Here, it appears you need this. You look quite flushed. Perhaps this will cool the fire in your cheeks … and other such places.” He directed a pointed look at her décolleté, raising her ire
and
color, the latter to her consternation.

It required every bit of control she possessed to stop herself from throwing the contents in his face. She managed by
a gossamer thread, taking a sip of the tepid punch to occupy her mouth, lest she say something else she would regret that evening.

Lord Armstrong didn’t spend nearly the amount of time drinking his punch as he did eyeing her neckline. In two trips to his mouth, his glass came away empty while hers remained hardly touched. His arrogance, his proximity, his presence had obliterated her thirst.

“It’s not every day that I have a woman cast aspersions on my abilities in the bedchambers, especially in such a public venue.” So casual was his tone, he could have been speaking of the weather.

Some might have winced in embarrassment at having uttered something so raw and emasculating. Amelia felt no such emotion but instead clutched the glass as if her entire existence depended on her not upending it all over his head.

“So how do you intend to
prove
you’ve won the wager?”

Startled, she shot a look up at him, her desire to see him dripping in overly sweet punch forgotten for an instant. “What wager? What, pray tell, are you talking about?”

Guileless eyes regarded her as he batted decadent lashes. “Did you not wager your friends your dowry that I was not close to my rumored prowess in bed? By the bye, what exactly do the rumors say of me in that arena?” His hooded gaze dipped for a leisurely perusal of her form. “I suppose you’ll want to sample my abilities for yourself.” He spoke in a low purr as he directed his gaze back to hers. “I wouldn’t want you to have to depend on hearsay.”

A choked breath wheezed past her lips. The blasted man was thoroughly enjoying exacting his pound of flesh. Relished it, in fact.

“Not if you were—”

“Please don’t say the last man on earth; it sounds so trite. I would think a woman with your penchant for wit and scorn would have come up with something more original. More biting.”

Amelia sputtered, and her hand commenced shaking, nearly spilling her drink.

Gapping the distance between them so that he stood close enough for her skirt to brush his black trousered leg, he gently extricated the glass from her hand.

“You seem unnerved.” He paused, and then said in lowered tones and a throaty rumble, “I should kiss you senseless right here … right now.” He dropped his gaze to her lips, before lifting it back up to her eyes. “But perhaps that’s what you want.”

Before she could respond to his taunt, he bent his head, the warm, clean scent of his breath feathering her ear. For a brief moment, she feared he intended to make good on his threat.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I
am
a gentleman and I will not heap any more embarrassment upon you this evening by making you eat your words.”

He then delivered the coup de grace in a very,
very
soft whisper. “That must be saved for another time, for what I have planned for you won’t be fit for public consumption.”

Amelia’s mouth went dry. She shivered despite the unaccountable heat that scorched through her to settle low in her belly.

And then as if he’d not just threatened—promised—to commit untold debaucheries upon her person, he straightened to his full height and inclined his head in a bow. “Good evening, Lady Amelia.” With that, he sauntered off.

Thomas had left Lady Amelia just as indignation had begun to replace the shocked look on her face. But he didn’t venture so far as to miss the graceful sway of her bottom as she crossed the room, her head set at an angle that expressed no signs of embarrassment or remorse. Haughty to the end.

“I see Harry’s progeny is quite taken with you.”