A Taste of Desire (6 page)

He turned at the witless remark his friend tried to pass off as humor, and acknowledged Lord Alex Cartwright with a baleful look. “I should have known better than to allow you to drag me here tonight. For all I know, you staged the whole thing with that little—”

“Uh, uh, uh, a gentleman should never speak ill of a lady,” Cartwright chided.

Grown men had quaked at Thomas’s glower. Cartwright didn’t bat an eye; nor did it ruffle one strand of black hair on his head.

“As much as I’d like to take credit for this entire affair, sadly I cannot. The honor of delivering you the set-down of the decade shall be held wholly and solely by the fair Lady Amelia.”

Well aware that his friend couldn’t have enjoyed the spectacle more had he been caught bare-butt with a woman of questionable morals trying to coax his limp cock to life,
Thomas said nothing. He returned his gaze to Lady Amelia as she and her chaperone weaved their way toward the ballroom doors. Slinking away. As well she should.

“So are you going to tell me what you did to the lady to cause her to malign your manhood in the fashion of scorned lovers? Although, now that I think on it, Missy did say prior to your initial tête-à-tête with the lady, you’d been sizing her up like a gourmand at a banquet.”

Thomas slowly turned his head to regard Cartwright. For a moment, he was tempted to use his fist to wipe the smug, self-satisfied smile off his face. “My sister was at the time, and is still, a besotted female. She imbues every glance between a man and a woman with her silly romantic notions. Apparently, now I can’t even look at a woman without it being misconstrued as something more.”

“Still, I do recollect weeks after the incident, your next mistress bore more than a passing resemblance to Lady Amelia. I believe I mentioned it a time or two.” Cartwright’s brows rose, his expression displaying the innocence of a card shark holding a winning hand.

Thomas made a peeved sound in the back of his throat. The man hadn’t made the observation once or twice—he’d harped on it so often Thomas had been forced to end the arrangement just to shut him up. No more mistresses with coffee-brown hair and sapphire blue eyes. “One hadn’t a thing to do with the other, and to suggest so is imbecilic even for a man of your limited intelligence.”

“I may be dumb as a stone,” Cartwright said, tongue firmly planted in cheek, “but I, for one, don’t have women holding up my manhood for the ton’s derision.”

“From my vantage point, only the men were laughing. Spiteful bunch of sods. Women are astute enough to know a falsehood when they hear one and observant enough to spot a shrew at a dead run. Good God, everyone is aware of her reputation. I’m certain both Cromwell and Clayborough still suffer the frostbite from having taken her to their beds. And
just who is
she
to judge any man’s performance—in or out of bed?”

Cartwright winced. Thomas shifted the course of the conversation.

“Yesterday Harry asked me to keep her in Devon during his trip to America. I, of course, declined. But …” Thomas cast a contemplative look about the room.

“But?” Cartwright prompted after several seconds of silence.

“But I now see the error of my ways. I owe Harry this.”

An amused glint appeared in Cartwright’s silver-grey eyes. “And his daughter?”

“Oh her, I owe a great deal more.”

“So, what’s your game? Entertaining plans of seduction are you? God help you if Harry discovers it. He’ll have your hide. And then he’ll give you a violent handshaking and welcome you into the family.”

Thomas shivered. The thought of marriage to Lady Amelia was the stuff of nightmares, plain and simple. But any male worthy of the title “man” would pleasure her until she lay whimpering and moaning incoherently—and make certain the pillars of society witnessed every lurid moment. Unfortunately, however fitting a punishment, a scheme of that sort was too ignoble for his tastes.

“Take that little wretch to my bed? Good God no. I intend to punish her, not reward her. I assure you, it won’t be anything so pleasurable—or merciful.”

Cartwright threw back his head and guffawed. “Then I pray you’ll grant me a front-row seat to the festivities.”

After a pause, his friend’s expression sobered. “By the bye, I thought it might interest you to know there have been recent sightings in town of Lady Lou—beg my pardon—I mean
Her Grace.
She’s back from France, and it appears for good this time. I’ve been informed that she’s been making subtle inquiries in regard to your whereabouts.”

Thomas stilled. What the devil could she possibly want
with him? After all that had transpired between them, she could have nothing to say to him—at least nothing he wished to entertain.

“Let her ask,” Thomas bit out.

“I expect she’ll be making an appearance here tonight. I’ve heard she likes to be fashionably late so she can make a grand entrance.”

That was all Thomas needed to hear. “Then I shall leave unfashionably early this evening.” He started for the door.

“Surely, you’re not running from her?” Cartwright sounded amused and half-disbelieving.

Pausing, Thomas shot his friend a glance over his shoulder. “A wise man doesn’t run, for that encourages a chase. What he does is avoid. I am avoiding.”

Thomas could hear Cartwright’s laugh ringing in his ears long after he took his leave of the ball.

The following day, while Amelia was still suffering the ill effects from a fitful night of sleep, Clemens interrupted her morning meal. Her father requested her presence in his study, the second footman conveyed. He then issued a deferential bow and departed with a click of his heels.

Goodness, midday hadn’t even been reached and she had yet to see Miss Crawford poke her head from her bedchamber. Surely, word of last night’s incident had not gotten back to him so swiftly.

With her heart racing and her appetite, which hadn’t been substantial to begin with, now nonexistent, Amelia dabbed a serviette to her mouth, gathered her skirts, and rose from the table.

Given the tenuous nature of her circumstances considering the elopement attempt earlier that week, and now the unfortunate faux pas involving her mouth, Lord Armstrong, and a ballroom full of their peers, she thought it unwise to keep her father waiting.

As she made her way down the foyer, her steps a soft tap against polished wood floors, she thought back to her perfectly horrid evening, which had ended just as abruptly as Lord Armstrong had taken his leave of her.

She and Miss Crawford had managed a hasty but dignified exit, Amelia endeavoring to avoid eye contact with guests whose expressions ranged from mild rebuke to high amusement. She’d then endured a carriage ride home in oppressive silence, tumbling into bed after midnight only to have her sleep disturbed with dreams of the bloody man. Dreams of threatened kisses. Disturbing dreams.

Smoothing not-quite-steady hands over her loose chignon, Amelia drew in a calming breath before delivering two knuckled raps to the oak door. This time she awaited her father’s muffled bid to enter before opening the door … slowly.

Harold Bertram sat ensconced in his wing-backed leather armchair, a pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose. Judging by his appearance, the world had righted itself back on its axis. His neckcloth looked as if painstaking efforts had been made to starch, press, and knot it to perfection, his bespoke garments immaculate, as always.

“Ah, Amelia, I feared I would have to send for you. Have a seat—we have things to discuss.” He gestured to the chairs opposite him. Not exactly the manner of a father who’d heard scandalous news about his daughter. In fact, the curve of his mouth lit his face with the same pleased sort of smile usually brought on by the advent of a promising business venture.

A feeling of unease coursed the length of her spine as Amelia inched closer to his desk. He appeared too happy, too agreeable, not exhibiting his normal impatience when dealing with her. Their encounters normally consisted of few words, her father, at most, sparing her a preoccupied glance, before immersing himself back into his account ledgers.
Only when she was embroiled in a scrape that might affect her standing in society was she worthy of his full attention.

Amelia firmed her jaw, pushed back her shoulders, and took a seat in the chair closest to the door. She then occupied herself by arranging her skirt so the lace-trimmed flounces lay in perfect symmetry. If her father had called her here to inform her he’d accepted a marriage proposal on her behalf, he’d find himself up for the fight of his life.

Harold Bertram directed his gaze toward the back of the room. “Thomas, please join us.”

With a start, Amelia twisted in her seat before she could stop herself, to find the man standing in front of a wall of teak bookshelves casually examining the spine of a leather-bound volume.

Her heart took off on a wild gallop as the dark corniced walls of the study seemed to close in on her, sucking all the air out in the process. The embodiment of her worst nightmare turned his regard to her, his air one of artless detachment. How was it possible she hadn’t sensed him the moment she crossed the threshold when his presence permeated every crevice of the room?

“Good morning, Lady Amelia.” His placid greeting rolled off his tongue as smooth as velvet.

“Lord Armstrong.” She managed the address between tight lips, giving a vague nod in his direction before swivel-ing back around.

She hadn’t actually thought he would do it. However, here he was, the dew on the grass barely dissipated by the early morning sun before he’d rushed to tell her father the tale of last night’s incident. He was worse than the gossiping matrons of the ton, she thought, silently railing him with a string of epithets.

Unable to bring herself to look at her father, she cast her gaze about blindly. Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried to focus on something—anything else—she sensed the moment Lord Armstrong came within feet of her. He approached
with the stealth of a jungle cat, but his scent heralded his proximity just as loudly as a blast from a trumpet. Sinking his long length into the armchair beside her, he splayed legs encased in a forest green fabric before him.

“I told you I would apprise you when I found a situation appropriate for you during my stay in America,” her father began, his words commanding her attention with mind-boggling swiftness.

Dread and disbelief coalesced on a wave in her belly.

“And Lord Armstrong has kindly consented to take you on.”

An enraged gasp tore from her throat as she shoved white shaking hands into her lap, her fingers clutching swaths of sky blue pyramid silk.

Take me on!
As though she were some—some
thing
to be managed. She tamped down a cauldron of emotions and stared back at her father while endeavoring to keep her expression void of emotion
and
make sense of the utterly senseless.

He intended she remain in London and work at the shipping company? The idea was preposterous. It actually went beyond that, trampling unhindered into the completely asinine realm. Wasn’t she to remain in Westbury at Fountain Crest?

“But, Father, really, Wendel’s Shipping? Surely—”

The marquess’s hearty laugh filled the study, his shoulders shaking in mirth. “Good heavens, do you really believe I would send you anywhere near those docks?”

Finding nothing particularly amusing about any of it, Amelia narrowed her gaze. “But this makes no sense a’tall. Lord Armstrong isn’t involved in any other business enterprises—is he?” She addressed the question to her father as if the viscount wasn’t sitting a mere foot away and hadn’t the capacity to answer for himself.

“As a matter of fact, I run a very lucrative horse-breeding farm.”

Humph. Figures it would have to do with breeding.
Her caustic observation was accompanied by a sidelong glance in Lord Armstrong’s direction, where she encountered his bland, green-eyed stare.

“In Westbury?” The deadly calm in her voice did not belie the emotion surmounting her disdain, overtaking her, and rendering her insensate with horror.

Harold Bertram drummed blunt fingers against the surface of the desk. “I think perhaps you misunderstand the situation.”

Amelia’s narrowed regard swung back to him. “What am I misunderstanding, Father?” Her tone sharpened with each word.

The viscount cleared his throat, bouncing her attention from her father back to him like a spectator at a tennis match.

“What your father is trying to tell you, Lady Amelia, is that my farm is in Devon and you will be residing there on my country estate with me.”

Amelia shot to her feet amid the rustle of silk and one rather cumbersome crinoline, nearly toppling the chair.

“I-I cannot live with him at his residence,” she said, struggling to catch her breath and bridle the panic threatening to careen out of control. “Father, it wouldn’t be proper. I will be ruined.”

“I really don’t believe it will come to that.” A flash of dimples denting his chiseled cheeks betrayed the viscount’s amusement.

Amelia hadn’t thought it possible to despise a person more than she did him at that moment. His smile—no, it was more a taunting grin—laid that assumption to rest.

Harold Bertram’s chest swelled beneath his black and grey checkered jacket. “Of course, I would not allow anything not sanctioned proper by society. You will be well chaperoned at Thomas’s estate. Miss Crawford and Hélène will accompany you. In addition, during a portion of your stay, Lady Armstrong and her two teenaged daughters will be in residence.”

His words neither registered nor penetrated her horrified brain. The only thing she knew without an ounce of doubt was that she could not—would not—live with
that man.

“Father there must be someone—anyone else—whom you
could prevail upon so I may work this ridiculous punishment off.” Never before had she pled for leniency, but the circumstances demanded she make an exception.

Her father’s denial came with a hard shake of his head, as final and definitive as a judge bringing down his gavel. Inhaling a restorative breath, Amelia subsided right into the straight-backed chair. Arrowing a glare at the man seated next to her, she noted the barely contained look of satisfaction in his eyes. The urge to snatch up the marble weight from her father’s desk and smash it repeatedly against his skull had her fisting her hands in her lap and clenching her jaw tightly enough to grind her back teeth into enamel dust.