A Taste of Desire (30 page)

“You can’t be that tired if you were just looking for a book to read.”

Amelia’s face burned.
Blasted man.

“You’re running from me,” he said softly.

Just a few steps and he would be within arm’s reach. Amelia turned but didn’t make it one step before his hand
locked around her upper arm. His hold was firm and unyielding … and warm. Hot sparks shot through her.

“What are you doing?” A breathless gasp emerged from her lips.

“I want to know why you are so nervous.” He pulled her inexorably closer. Amelia turned away from the sight of his chest, shoulders, and the ridged line of his neck.

Amelia swallowed. “Thomas, do not do this.” She winced at the weak note in her voice. Weak of mind and of body.

“Don’t do what?” he murmured, his voice seductively low.

Now he was standing within a hairbreadth of her, the male scent of him scrambling her thoughts, his nearness sending a cacophony of sensations coursing through her body.

The last time they had been this close, his hands had been on her breast, his tongue tangling with hers. And it had been he who had pulled back, not her, the weak, weak woman that she was. But only with him. She couldn’t allow him this sort of control over her.

He lowered his head, his hooded gaze focused intently on her lips. She immediately clamped them shut tight, and angled her head to the side. Her feet, though, felt glued to where she stood.
Move. Move. Move.

Then the faint shuffle of movement came from the hall. A thread of light soon seeped across the floor outside the room. Thomas quickly stepped back, straightening to his full height. In the next moment, his face was set into one of self-possession.

Amelia sighed in relief and turned away, clutching her cover-up around her as if it could shield her from his potency. She knew it could not.

“Good night.” She didn’t look at him—dared not—and quickly started toward the exit.

“We will be leaving on Saturday for Berkshire.”

She halted abruptly, her head swiveling back around. “Must I go?”

“Do you believe I would leave you to spend Christmas here by yourself?” He actually sounded as if the thought was quite absurd. Her own father had never had a problem with it. After her mother had died, Christmas stopped having much meaning to her father. If he happened to be there on the day, he would invariably hole himself up in his study going over business documents and account ledgers.

“I’d really rather spend it alone.”

Thomas eyed her as if he didn’t want her to come any more than she did. “You haven’t a choice in this, Amelia. You’re coming to my sister’s with me.”

Amelia gave a jerky nod before making a hasty departure, wondering how she was going to survive a holiday with Thomas Armstrong without losing herself completely.

What the hell was wrong with him? He’d have kissed her and God knows what else if one of the servants hadn’t unknowingly saved him from himself. The damned woman was making him crazy.

He recalled, with a clenching of his heart, the expression on her face as she stood there looking fragile and alone, gazing up at the tree. He’d glimpsed a poignant sadness in her eyes when she’d turned to him. He wondered at the cause of the sadness. Then she had started to retreat from him. Something in him, perhaps the predatory instinct that kept mankind from becoming extinct, had risen in him, and he’d pursued with the age-old lure to mate and possess surging wildly through his veins.

He gave his head a hard shake. He had to get a hold of himself. They would have two weeks in the confines of Rutherford Manor with Missy, her family, and Cartwright. His mouth instantly tightened. If for no other reason than for appearances, he needed to curb his baser needs when it came
to Amelia. Whatever spell she had cast over him had to be temporary. Not to be overlooked was the fact he no longer had a mistress, which obviously left him vulnerable to her charms. How often had he ever had a young, beautiful, and desirable woman living under his roof for months on end? Never. No wonder he’d gone a little crazy. But in Berkshire, he could only hope his feelings would dissipate as quickly as bats scattered at the hint of daylight.

The smoke swirling from the black-rimmed chimneys of Rutherford Manor seemed to morph into the clouds hovering above—grey ominous clouds foretelling a heavy snowfall. Amelia turned from the carriage window, taking great care to keep her regard from straying in the direction of Thomas, whose gaze burned her with a quiet intensity.

“Mademoiselle, are you unwell?” Hélène inquired from beside her. “You look piqued.”

Piqued would be a blessing if one considered she’d been anticipating their arrival there much the same way Marie Antoinette must have embraced her fate: with stalwart resignation.

“You have no need to be nervous.”

Her gaze snapped to Thomas, surprised at his oddly soothing tone and the sincerity in his eyes. “I am hardly nervous,” she replied, her voice unusually high. Lord, what was wrong with her? She’d never ever made a sound so missish in her life. She immediately lowered her voice. “I’m merely anxious to arrive so I can change. I feel molted, traveling a full day in this gown.”

There, she sounded like herself. A minor victory when it came to her quickly vanishing self-control in all things pertaining to Thomas Armstrong.

The door at her side opened, permitting an icy blast of air into the already cold interior of the brougham. A footman in a livery of navy blue and green waited to assist them from the carriage. Amelia quickly offered him her gloved hand, eager to quit the viscount’s disquieting presence.

A short time later, she was standing in the center of the three-storey foyer of the red-bricked structure. Amelia gladly relinquished her bonnet, coat, and muffs to the attending second footman. As Thomas was handing the young man his great coat, a high-pitched squeal pierced the silence.

“Thomas!”

A woman—slim, tall, and blessed with an abundance of chestnut hair—flew past Amelia to launch herself into his arms. He caught her fast and held her secure.

Amelia instantly recognized her from several portraits at Stoneridge Hall—Lady Windmere, or as her family so affectionately called her, Missy. The portraits, however, hadn’t done her justice. She possessed a vibrancy the artist hadn’t quite captured, giving the real flesh-and-blood woman a rare, indefinable beauty.

“God, Missy, you’re smaller than you were before you got with child,” Thomas said, releasing her after a prolonged embrace and setting her before him, his hands clasping her lightly by the waist. Amelia had never seen him smile quite like that before, a smile that rivaled the sun on the brightest day and the glitter of the stars against the darkest and clearest of nights. Her belly dipped sharply.

“Try taking care of two infants and you’ll see how little time you have for anything else. Of the choice between eating and sleeping, sleeping has been winning handily,” his sister replied with a laugh and then pulled him to her once again. “I’m so glad you’ve arrived.”

Thomas’s expression sobered some when he turned to her. “Missy, Lady Amelia, I believe the two of you met the year before. Although at the time my sister was not yet the Countess of Windmere.”

The chestnut-haired beauty turned to her. The woman’s eyes, an arresting mixture of slate grey and blue, glowed in genuine welcome, and she looked positively radiant from her flushed face, right down to her festive hunter-green wool and satin gown. And if the countess had indeed given birth only months past, one would be hard pressed to tell, as her waist couldn’t be more than twenty inches.

“Lady Windmere.” Amelia dipped into a shallow curtsey. How could she ever forget the circumstances under which they’d met? And Amelia was certain the countess remembered the woman who had insulted her brother at their introduction. A brother of whom, she might add, the countess appeared intensely fond. Her actions then, coupled with the warmth of her reception now, shamed her. Unfortunately, it was one year too late for regrets.

The countess, however, would have nothing so formal. She took Amelia’s hands in hers and patted them with the familiarity of old friends.

Nonplussed, Amelia could think of little else to do but allow it. Not since Elizabeth had a woman her age touched her in kindness. If an indication existed that Lady Windmere wouldn’t hold her past behavior against her, this was it. This relieved Amelia to no end.

“Of course, I remember Lady Amelia.” The countess sidled an impish grin at her brother. “I’m so pleased you could join us for the holidays. This is so much better than tea, don’t you agree, Thomas?”

Thomas’s mouth tightened at her question. Amelia’s gaze darted between the siblings.
Better than tea?
“Pardon me?”

“After our introduction last year, I urged Thomas to invite you over for tea. But I think an entire fortnight is much better, wouldn’t you agree?” She gave Amelia a guileless sort of look and gave her hand a final pat before releasing it. “And please, none of this Lady Windmere nonsense. I am Missy to any friend of my brother’s.” She shot her brother a look of pure mischief.

Any friend of Thomas’s? She certainly was not his friend, she was his—Amelia halted, refusing to complete the thought. Their situation was too confusing and discomfiting to be mused about at the present time.

Amelia forced a smile. “I would be more than happy to dispense with the formality of titles.”

In response to her invitation, Missy appeared more than a little pleased. Thomas, on the other hand, raised his brow, clearly surprised by her willingness to do so. She had held a rather hard line with him. But why shouldn’t she? Just because the countess—Missy—was his sister. She’d far outgrown the stage when she’d hold a person’s association with him against them. She wasn’t nearly that petty … anymore.

“Thank God you’re finally here, Armstrong. I thought my wife would expire awaiting your arrival.”

Amelia started as the deep male voice sounded from behind her. Twisting on her heel, she took in a
very
handsome, tall dark-haired man casually attired in shirttails and black trousers. The Earl of Windmere. The only member of the dimpled trio she had yet to meet. Goodness, Thomas and his friends must have kept the females of London in a constant state of wanting. And undoubtedly still did.

The men greeted each other in the manner of longtime intimates. After they concluded the Englishman’s form of an embrace—a brisk handshake and some masculine shoulder slapping—Lord Windmere turned to her. He then exchanged a brief inscrutable look with Thomas. “And this must be the fair Lady Amelia.” He watched her with a teasing glimmer in his pale blue eyes. Beautiful eyes.

No one spoke in the ensuing silence. Amelia’s cheeks warmed. If tales of her verbal exploits hadn’t reached the earl’s ears through the gossip mill, then of course, Thomas would have eagerly informed him. She could well imagine how badly they’d bandied her name about.

“James, do behave. You’ll have Amelia believing you’re
as impertinent as I am,” Missy admonished lightly. “Since my brother seems to have forgotten his manners, Amelia, may I introduce you to my husband, James, the sixth Earl of Windmere.”

“Lord Windmere,” she said, dipping in another curtsey.

The earl dropped at the waist in a formal bow and grasped her hand in his, raising it to his lips for a kiss. “The pleasure is mine,” he said, slowly relinquishing her hand.

“Come, Amelia. You must be perfectly exhausted from your travels.” Addressing the footman who stood by the double staircase behind them, several large portmanteaus at his feet, Missy said, “Stevens, please take Lady Amelia’s baggage to the pink guest chamber and my brother’s to the green.”

“Yes, milady.” Stevens hefted one of the portmanteaus in his hands and proceeded up the stairs.

“I’m sure you would like to get out of those clothes and take a nice warm bath,” Missy said, her gaze skimming over Amelia’s wrinkled claret-colored traveling suit with its simple lines and full sleeves.

Suddenly self-conscious of her appearance, Amelia tucked several stray hairs into her once pin-neat coiffure. Too much napping had dislodged one too many pins from her chignon. “Yes, as you can well imagine, it has been a tiring day.”

She certainly wouldn’t tell the countess how excruciating the journey had been due to her brother’s brooding presence. As much as she’d tried to ignore him, she had found her gaze frequently drifting back to him, only to hastily look away as soon as he turned his regard to her.

“Come then. Let me show you and your maid to the guest quarters. I’m sure the men have much to discuss.” Missy smiled at her brother and then cast her husband a look so blatantly adoring Amelia averted her gaze. The feeling of intruding on something rare and intimate washed her in a cloud of melancholy.

With a familiarity no woman, save Elizabeth, had ever shown her, Missy hooked an arm through hers and proceeded up the stairs to what would be her bedchamber for the next two weeks.

“So that’s the infamous Lady Amelia,” Rutherford commented dryly, his eyes sparked in appreciation. “While no woman can hold a candle to my wife, she
is
a beauty.”

Rutherford was as enamored of his wife as any man Thomas had ever seen, which was just as well for she suffered just as badly as he.

“I couldn’t very well leave her at Stoneridge Hall,” Thomas muttered.

Rutherford chuckled. “Is that what you convinced yourself?”

Before Thomas could offer a response in his defense, the door sounded. Another footman quickly appeared to answer the chimed summons. Everything within him stiffened at the sight of Cartwright breezing through the doorway, hat in hand.

His friend’s presence normally would have promised a good time filled with great conversation—raucous and intelligent alike—and the ease of a long-held friendship. Or so it had been until Cartwright’s last visit. What the hell was wrong with him? Years ago, they’d all promised each other nothing, especially a woman, would ever come between them. Especially since the incident with Louisa. Pushing aside his feelings, Thomas forced a smile. If it lacked in authenticity, so be it. He was at least making the effort to be cordial.