A Taste of Desire (32 page)

In a bemused state of wonder, Amelia turned to Lord Alex, who met her gaze with a sly wink. Though sinfully handsome, on their initial introduction he’d appeared as mild-mannered as a man of the cloth. But upon closer association, it was clear this man could chew her up and spit her out with such finesse she wouldn’t even feel the bites—a talent of
only the truly dangerous. She was doubly glad he considered her a friend.

The earl approached Lord Alex on silent treads as the countess stared grim-faced after her brother. “I told you I won’t tolerate you spoiling Christmas. Fix this with Armstrong and fix it now. You can save your chicanery for when he’s visiting with
your
family.”

Amelia shared a bewildered look with the countess.

“Now I have to go out in the cold and fetch the man before he catches his death.” The earl turned from his friend, bellowed for someone named Randolph to fetch him two overcoats. Seconds later a bald man, short and muscled, appeared with two black wool greatcoats. The earl hurriedly shrugged one on and draped the other over his arm before departing the house, pulling the door closed with a resounding slam.

Thomas didn’t feel the cold. The heat of his blood warmed him against the biting wind sending his hair flying about his head in a whirlwind. He walked with no destination in mind; he just knew he needed to walk off the corrosive anger inside him, the primitive urge to do his boyhood friend bodily harm.

He shouldn’t have allowed Cartwright to rile him. But in matters concerning Amelia, he
was
like a dog in a manger. And he bloody well hated that Cartwright had challenged him with the truth.

Rounding the hedgerows along the side of the manor house, a gust of bone-chilling wind finally penetrated his anger. To be out in this weather without a coat proved just how foolhardy he was acting. If he possessed one iota of sense, he’d go back. But as it stood, freezing seemed a better alternative than going back to face Missy, Rutherford, Cartwright … and, dear Lord, Amelia. He might as well have branded her with a
KEEP OFF MY PROPERTY
sign, sodding imbecile that he was.

Approaching footsteps sounded behind him. Thomas shot a glance over his shoulder.
Rutherford. Blast.
The last thing he wanted was company—even that of the well-meaning variety. He wanted to be alone. Then an involuntary shiver
shook him as the cold crept under his shirt collar. Although he wouldn’t refuse the coat his friend was carrying.

Without saying a word, Rutherford reached his side and offered him the coat. Thomas paused to pull it on, gratified to have the thick garment to defend against the winter elements. He then continued on his way to nowhere in particular.

Rutherford fell in step beside him. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” he asked quietly.

They walked a good half a minute in silence, their breath creating icy smoke trails in the air.

“It’s nothing,” Thomas finally replied. Even if he had the desire to do so, how did he explain himself?

“Has it to do with Lady Amelia?” Rutherford regarded his profile.

Thomas refused to look at him, his pace steady as their footprints disturbed the white tranquility of the newly fallen snow. “This is between me and Cartwright. Leave the matter alone,” he said crisply.

Shoving his hands deep in his coat pockets, Rutherford stared at the ground. “I can certainly understand why you wanted to refuse Harry—Lady Amelia looks to be quite a handful. I bet she’s even more petulant and spoiled than you’d thought.”

Thomas shot his friend a sharp look of censure as something inside him instinctively protested his friend’s unwarranted criticism of her. “I would hardly call her petulant or spoiled.”

“But you did. The last time you were here. I believe you also referred to her as rude and insolent.” The earl innocently returned his gaze.

And so he had. But that didn’t give Rutherford the right to malign her character. Bloody hell, the man didn’t even know her.

“She’s not all that bad,” he grumbled, somewhat annoyed at himself for his own defense of her.

A wry smile tipped the corners of Rutherford’s mouth. “Well, she
is
very beautiful,” he conceded.

“My mother and sisters are extremely fond of her. And she is as intelligent as she is beautiful.”

A choked sound came from the earl, before he quickly cleared his throat. “Really? She sounds like a veritable goddess.” Another choked sound emerged as Rutherford’s shoulders began to shake in swells of amusement.

Good God, the bloody man was laughing at him. “Christ, if I’m going to have to deal with you too, I’ll bloody well go back to Devon.” Thomas pivoted abruptly to start toward the front.

“You’re in love with the woman. Why can’t you just admit it?”

It was Rutherford’s words that caused him to halt, not the restraining hand he placed on his coat sleeve. Thomas slowly turned to face him, feeling as if he’d been struck in the head by a heavy instrument, numb from the bluntness of the question and the starkness of that word. Love.

“I ran from Missy for four years, and where did it get me? Bound to her for life—and happier than I ever thought possible. There’s something to be said for beautiful, stubborn, willful, infuriating females. They can prove to be downright irresistible.” As it always did at the mention of his wife, love lit Rutherford’s eyes and softened his features.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what his friend was angling at. “Please don’t compare your relationship with my sister to mine and Amelia’s. I wouldn’t even term what the lady and I have as a relationship, unless incessant fighting classifies it as such.”
And passion with enough fire to reduce a thousand forests to ashes.

Their unplanned trek had left them at the back of the house, next to a final line of hedgerows before the land gave way to gently rolling hills blanketed in shimmering white. Thomas fixed his gaze on a patch of clouds hanging incongruously in an otherwise crystal blue sky.

“Whatever is going on between you two must be strong if it has you like this.” And they both knew that
this
was him acting the fool over that slip of a woman.

“This is Cartwright’s doing.” Thomas growled and jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

Rutherford chuckled dryly. “Well, he does like to have his fun.”

“Has it come to your attention that this fun he’s intent on having is at my expense? Who the hell told you to invite him for Christmas anyhow?” Thomas slanted him an accusatory look.

“You know damn well I haven’t any say in these matters. Moreover, your sister adores the man.”

Yes, Cartwright held a special place in Missy’s soft heart. Lord, she had known him before she could crawl.

“So will you now admit you’re in love with Lady Amelia?”

Thomas gaze snapped to his friend, his mouth poised to issue a forceful denial. But the commiserate expression on Rutherford’s face stopped him cold. Although the words died in his throat, the very essence of who he was as a man begged him to bluster and prevaricate something—anything that would give him the appearance of being immune to the debilitating emotion.

As if sensing his turmoil, Rutherford gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “If it’s at all comforting, admitting it to yourself is the hardest part. After that it’s just the matter of setting a wedding date and showing up at the church.”

Marriage to Amelia? A dull ache started in Thomas’s chest. He swallowed hard. “I would be a complete fool to even consider her for my wife.”

Rutherford’s lips quirked. “Perhaps not a
complete
fool.”

Thomas’s toes were growing numb from the cold and so too was his mind, for he wasn’t just contemplating marrying Amelia, he was all but resigned to it. What else is a fairly honorable man supposed to do when he takes a lady’s virginity? So what if the incident had taken place weeks
before? He thought himself fairly honorable. She was already his, but marriage would legalize the union. Suddenly, what felt like a heavy weight fell from his shoulders. He wouldn’t concede it was love, but he felt the emotion was strong enough to sustain a marriage.

“Well, let’s see if the lady will have me.” Thomas turned and started back toward the house.

From behind him, he heard Rutherford mutter, “I have the distinct feeling she already has.”

After the door closed behind the earl, Amelia regarded Lord Alex, who appeared the very picture of guilelessness. But she knew quite well that if wickedness were a virtue, he’d by far be considered the most virtuous person there.

Missy peered up at him, a frown fixed on her beautiful face. “And just what, pray tell, is that smile all about? What did you do to my brother?” The countess punctuated her question by jabbing him in the shoulder—hard. He responded with an exaggerated wince. Missy possessed the litheness of a dancer and she was a half-foot shorter than Alex, but Amelia had no doubt she was more than up to the task of browbeating him silly.

“I didn’t do anything,” he protested, all mock innocence. “Your brother really needs to try to control that temper of his.”

“He could freeze to death out there.” Another jab of Missy’s finger to his chest was followed by another unconvincing wince.

“You saw for yourself—Rutherford is bringing him an overcoat,” he reasoned, still smiling.

The countess rolled her eyes. “You are impossible,” she said, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Just don’t come complaining to me when Thomas beats you black and blue.” With a sharp turn on her heel, she dismissed him as one would an exasperating younger sibling. “Come, Amelia, let
us go and eat so that Alex can determine the best way to bring down swelling without a poultice.”

If his fate involved a sound trouncing, as the countess inferred, the man in question didn’t look the least bit concerned. He acknowledged their departure with an overly deferential bow and a playful glimmer in his grey eyes.

The countess led Amelia down the hall, hooking their arms at the elbows like longtime friends while grousing about what an unapologetic rapscallion Lord Alex had become. Amelia, who was little more than a novice at sharing this kind of intimacy with a female contemporary, permitted it, somewhat taken aback and too polite to react differently.

A short time later, they entered the breakfast room. Candles lit the room as only weak rays of sunlight streamed through three large windows.

“Please help yourself. We’re generally only formal for supper,” Missy invited her, angling her chin toward the sideboard, which was currently home to silver-covered platters of varying sizes. Amelia’s stomach gave a celebratory lurch, growling at the bombardment of pleasant smells assailing her nostrils.

The countess laughed. “I told my brother someone should have awoken you last night, but he insisted you needed your rest more.”

Amelia didn’t know quite how best to respond. Though the countess made the statement without any apparent innuendo, his actions came across almost … protective. “I was quite tired,” she said, busily piling her plate with crumpets, poached eggs, bacon, and oven-warmed bread. Hunger should not suffer the pretense of female delicacy.

After their plates were duly filled, the women took them to the linen-covered table, where the attending footman—a tall, sturdy young man with a shock of red hair—seated them. When he reached for the teapot, Lady Windmere lightly batted his hand away. “We are fine, Stevens. Please go and ensure Lord Alex has no hot water for his shower
bath.” She proceeded to pour two cups of tea before glancing at Amelia. “A cold one will do him good.”

As though that kind of order were commonplace, Stevens gave a brisk nod and bowed out of the room.

The countess let out a soft chuckle at Amelia’s raised brow and wide-eyed stare. “As fitting a punishment as that would be, Stevens has known me long enough to know that I am not serious.”

Beauty and a sense of humor. In the past, Amelia wouldn’t have thought the two traits together admirable in a female. Usually, it was the lack of the former that necessitated the latter.

They commenced eating, Amelia digging into her food with zeal. After a minute of companionable chewing, Lady Windmere said, “Would
you
like to tell me what caused that display out in the foyer? Is something going on between you and Alex?”

“N-No!”

“Between you and my brother then?” she asked pleasantly, picking up her teacup to take a sip.

Given the previous question, the second one shouldn’t have surprised Amelia at all—but it did. It so discomfited her, her mouth couldn’t form a denial. “Um—”

“You find me terribly forward, don’t you? Ask my husband, it’s a terrible personal flaw of mine.” But there was no embarrassment or apology in the countess’s admission.

Amelia slowed the chewing of her buttered scone to give her time to collect her thoughts. How did one articulate to the man’s sister the complexities of their relationship?
He’s taken me to bed, where we had scorching, passionate sex, but still we don’t exactly get along.
Somehow that just didn’t seem a wise thing to say. At least not at the breakfast table.

“Lord Alex has been kind to me. He is my friend—or at least I believe he holds me in that light.” There, it was much easier to start with the initial question. The relationship she understood. She knew that whatever Lord Alex was playing
at, he had no interest in her as a prospective wife, or even a conquest. But it seemed it would take the return of Christ to convince Thomas of that.

“And my brother? Why were we about to witness a brawl in my foyer?”

“I believe Lord Alex just enjoys provoking Thomas.” Which was as apparent as a trunk on an elephant.

The countess’s mouth curved in a secretive smile as she took another drink of tea. “Alex can be provoking, period. Although, only those close to him are aware of that fact. But rarely can he get a rise out of Thomas. They have known each other too long. But I wonder how long you will try to avoid my question about you and my brother.” She flashed Amelia a guileless smile before popping a forkful of ham in her mouth.