A Taste of Desire (20 page)

“Is that so, indeed? I would assume that Miss Foxworth would have infinitely better things to do than to take on such a task.” Amelia paused in an effort to stem the words and the rise of bitterness within her. But it was to no avail. The desire—the need—to cut the woman down to an insignificant, paltry existence was such that she’d never experienced before. “But then again, I imagine being a single woman with no marriage prospects might leave you with quite a bit of time on your hands.”

Once the final word ended the most egregious statement to ever pass her lips, Amelia would have given anything to take back the insult. She cursed whatever it was that had taken over her, turning her tongue into a vehicle of insolence of the worst sort. But her wave of contriteness came too late.

Thomas’s breath escaped in a hiss, but Miss Foxworth’s only reaction was a brief gaze downward as if to hide the effect of her words.

Amelia willed the floor to open up and envelop her whole. Miss Foxworth had never personally done anything to her. Her only crime appeared to be her association with the viscount and her apparent adoration of him. And since Amelia managed to rub along quite well with the viscountess and her daughters, surely she didn’t consider even that a crime.

“As you can see, Lady Amelia has not yet learned the manners of polite society,” Thomas said through clenched teeth. He gave the woman an apologetic half smile. “If you will please excuse us, Camille, I would like a word with Lady Amelia in private. I’ll call for you once I’m finished here.”

Miss Foxworth nodded slowly, and with her gaze chasing the area rugs and the parquet floors, she quietly exited. The soft click of the door closing echoed her departure.

Thomas’s handsome face could have been carved from stone. Amelia didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes when she spoke, but she was defensive nonetheless.

“I know in its entirety what you’re going to say, so please spare me the lecture. I’m quite aware that what I said—”

His hand shot out and grasped her forearm, his grip unyielding. With a jerk of his hand, he brought her inches away from his rigid form. He had only a six-inch advantage in height but seemed to tower more than that above her. “Don’t you ever insult my guest in my presence,” he said, his voice a grated whisper. He was furious. He was red-faced. He looked as if he would happily throttle her within an inch of her life.

Had she not come from sterner stock, she might have recoiled in the face of the kind of ire that undoubtedly had many men shrinking in their own shadows. She winced as fear crept inexorably to settle in her bones.

He immediately loosened his grip but did not release her. Amelia made no move to further extricate herself from his hold.

“Why did you choose her of all women, for heaven’s sake? Is your ego so grand you must have someone fawning over you night and day?” There, she’d laid bare the crux of her objection.

Thomas didn’t reply at first; he drew back and stared at her, his anger now replaced by something cryptic and unnerving to behold. “What exactly do you believe I intend to do with her?”

“I don’t particularly care what you
do
with her. I just have no desire to be party to whatever it is.”

Releasing her arm, he took a step back. Amelia relished the breathing room. She didn’t like the fact that when she stood so close to him her mind muddled and every nerve ending stood at attention.

He continued to observe her closely, his dark gold lashes fanning the tops of his cheekbones. “Good God, I do believe you’re jealous.” Awe threaded the softly spoken words. If he had been Petruchio reveling in Kate’s obedience, Thomas could not have looked more satisfied.

Amelia sputtered a laugh before finding her voice. “You
couldn’t be farther from the truth. But I’m certain the notion does wonders for your bloated ego.”

“Oh no? Well, you give a very good impression of it.” His eyebrow inched up. “What have you against Miss Foxworth? Why should it bother you if she is—as you quaintly put it—fawning all over me?”

“That is not what bothers me about the situation. I simply have no desire to be used.”

“And pray tell, how exactly are you being used?”

“Well, to-to-to—” Dear Lord, she was sputtering again.

He looked at her as if he could read her mind and delighted in what he found there. “If you are worried that there is something going on between Miss Foxworth and I, let me put your fears to rest in that regard.”

“I don’t care—”

It required only two steps, and he stood inches from her, his masculine scent enveloping her in a sensual prison. He pressed his forefinger gently to her lips, stilling her words. “You might be the most vexing woman I’ve ever met, but the one thing I’d begun to admire about you was your candor. Don’t spoil it now,” he murmured.

Staring up at him, Amelia wasn’t certain what kept her mute, his audacity or his finger on her lips.

“Now,” he continued, as casual as you please, “If you’re going to pitch a jealous fit, at least have just cause. Case in point, the appointment I have this evening.”

“No doubt a bed romp with your wretched mistress.” Abruptly, she stepped back and swatted at his hand.

His hand fell to his side. “Why should you care who I sleep with, mistress or otherwise?”

It was only at his softly spoken question that Amelia realized she must have given a voice to her thoughts. Heat flooded her from head to toe as she wished she could snatch back those renegade words.

“I don’t care who you bed,” she said coldly.

Thomas threw back his head and emitted a dry laugh.
She suppressed the overwhelming urge to slap him clear into oblivion.

“So you say. However, I’m getting the distinct impression you care more than you like or will ever admit.”

“Believe what you choose.” Avoiding his gaze—the knowing glint in his green eyes—Amelia turned sharply and stalked from the room with the sound of his laughter, a taunting trail behind her.

Thomas glanced around Grace’s parlor and wondered again what he was doing there.

The idea of an uncomplicated evening of sexual release had been foremost in his thoughts when he’d set out from his townhouse. More than a month had passed with nothing but his hand to relieve his sexual urges. He should be fairly frothing at the mouth in anticipation of an encounter with Grace. He wasn’t. And he dare not examine the reason why.

“Darling.”

Thomas started, and then turned at the soft lilting exclamation. Grace swept into the room, her hands outstretched. She wore a silky robe over an equally silky, pale pink confection of lingerie, which skimmed her lush figure. Before he could respond, she enfolded him into her arms, her neck angled back for her kiss.

Thomas pressed an obligatory kiss on painted red lips and then hastily extricated himself from the embrace and the overly sweet scent of her perfume. The pleasure on her face dimmed. She quickly offered him a smile too bright, too wide-eyed to be genuine. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to town,” she scolded lightly, trailing her hand up his arm.

Her touch failed to elicit the normal rush of desire. At that moment Thomas knew what he had to do and couldn’t help an inward cringe.

Thomas caught her hand with his, and drew her down to the chintz, floral sofa. “Come, we must talk.”

Grace subsided without a demur, her nightwear pulling taut over womanly hips and thighs, but her hazel eyes held a glimmer of unease. “You want to talk before we retire to the bedchamber?” Again her smile appeared forced.

“I’m not here for that. I’ve come to tell you I’m ending our arrangement,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, while retaining his hold on her hand.

The force of the slap caught him unawares, causing a stinging pain in his left cheek. That was when he wished he’d captured both hands.

“You wretched bastard.” Fury contorted her features, turning what he’d always thought was a comely visage into something not quite as comely. Not with her pupils dark pinpoints of rage and her red mouth drawn into a feline’s angry hiss.

She sprang to her feet and commenced raining blows all over his shoulders and arms.

The instinct of self-preservation surged to life and sent Thomas to his feet to capture the small hands before she managed to do any real damage. “Good God, Grace, get a hold of yourself.” He held her hands firmly while she tugged in vain to free them.

“A year I have saved myself for you. An entire year when I could have had any gentleman in London. They all wanted me, you know. Do you know how many men offered their protection? Men I turned down waiting for you, and you could barely see your way to call on me in the last three months.”

In an abrupt and unexpected move, she stopped struggling, her body going limp. She dropped back down onto the sofa. Thomas released her and quickly positioned himself on the other side of the center table opposite her, well out of her arm’s reach.

A violent shudder wracked her body as she covered her face with her hands and began a noisy sobbing.

Thomas could bear almost anything but a weeping,
distraught female. And it had been at least three years since he’d had to endure such a scene. One of the reasons he had chosen Grace was because she’d not appeared the sort of female prone to crying fits. She’d handled herself with the kind of aplomb he admired and wanted in a mistress. With her, there’d be no histrionics. She’d keep to fulfilling his sexual needs and being the model escort when he desired one. Or so that’s what he’d thought. Four months into their arrangement she’d dispelled that assumption when she began to complain as the frequency of their meetings began to wane. From that point on, Thomas knew the clock on their arrangement was winding down. But obviously the end hadn’t come soon enough, he thought, rubbing his smarting cheek as he flexed his jaw.

“You’ve known from the start these sorts of arrangements are temporary,” he said, shifting on his feet. He watched her body heave as she inhaled and exhaled long, shuddering breaths.

At his words, her head jerked up, her hands dropped from her face, and he saw red swollen eyes and tear-stained, mottled cheeks. “It’s that woman, isn’t it? She’s demanded that you give me up, hasn’t she?”

Thomas’s thoughts flew immediately to Amelia. How could Grace possibly know about her? “What woman?” he asked sharply.

“The bloody Duchess of Bedford. The one who was here three weeks ago. Oh, she went on as if she’d mistakenly called on the wrong house. Said she thought a Mrs. Franklin lived here. But even after I told her there was no woman by that name around here, she didn’t leave. She started asking me questions about you. Were we acquainted? She told me how you and she had been close.” Grace stopped to swipe the tears from her cheeks. “I’m not stupid. I knew why she was here.”

Shocked but careful not to betray his alarm, Thomas stated calmly, “I’m not involved with the duchess nor do I desire to become so.”
Never, ever again.

“You’re lying.” Her statement was bitterly accusing.

“Why on earth would I lie to you? You are not my lady wife. I have nothing to hide.” The letters were naught but a small nuisance. Her temerity, however, in calling on his mistress was a different matter altogether. One he intended to put a stop to immediately.

“You have had no discussions with her in regards to me?” Still disbelieving.

“I’ve had no contact with the woman in well over seven years. I was barely a man when we became acquainted.”

Faint hope flared in eyes still glassy from tears. “Then why—”

“But that changes nothing between us.” He sighed a long weary sigh. “I made no promises, Grace. You are acting as if I offered more than what we had. I did not.”

“Yes, just someone to scratch an itch when the need strikes you.” Tears choked her voice.

“That’s what a mistress is for.” Thomas didn’t want to sound callous, but in that she left him little choice.

“I’ve fallen in love with you.” She slowly rose to her feet, continuing to swipe at the tears rolling down her face.

Briefly, Thomas closed his eyes. As he’d feared, she imagined herself in love with him. He quickly consoled himself with the knowledge that in a few months time she’d imagine herself similarly in love with her next protector.

Miss Grace Howell, with all her worldly airs and invulnerability—or so that’s how he’d seen it when they’d first met—didn’t have what it took to be a good mistress. She too easily became emotionally entangled. What she needed was a husband, not a protector, which was something he should have seen from the onset. But this knowledge came one bruised heart too late.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He could think of little else to say.

Instead of dissolving back into tears, she visibly collected herself and treated him to a hard glare.

“You are even more heartless than I was told. Does
nothing affect you? Save your precious mother and sisters, is there not a woman you care enough about to feel anything for?”

A vision of Amelia pushed to the forefront of his thoughts, a place she tended to linger all too frequently in. He forcibly shoved it back. “I will ensure there is enough money in your account to keep you until you find a new situation. Three months should be adequate.” Three months should be more than plenty. In two weeks or less, the Earl of Chesterfield would snatch her up. He’d been waiting impatiently for Thomas to tire of her. Or so Grace had told him on more than one occasion.

“Keep your damn money.”

If he had handed her a bank draft, he could see her ripping it to pieces and crushing it under her rosette embellished slippers. As soon as he’d gone, she’d be on her knees frantically collecting every jagged scrap. Pride and anger would elicit the former reaction, practicality and logic the latter.

“I will put it in your account. Do with it as you will.” By then, her temper should have cooled.

Thomas exited her residence for the final time with the grim thought,
Women are more trouble than they are worth.

Instead of an evening on silky linen sheets, Thomas sat in the small library at Cartwright’s residence on John’s Street. Each man cradled a glass of port in their hand and lounged in brocade armchairs in the respective colors of deep green and burgundy in front of a blazing marble fireplace.