A Taste of Desire (39 page)

Upon hearing the news, Amelia’s heart nearly burst from her chest until reality doused her faint flicker of hope. The viscountess would not be coy with her if Thomas had returned home.

Her thoughts then flew to Lord Clayborough, but he too she dismissed swiftly. Their last encounter hadn’t left any room for doubt as to her feelings, or in regard to him, the lack thereof. And after he’d bitterly bemoaned the amount of time he’d spent courting her with money he could ill afford, she very much doubted he’d make the trek to Devon again.

Amelia entered the drawing room not knowing who or what to expect. Perhaps Thomas had sent Lord Alex or James to speak with her. The sight of her father sitting in the leather armchair dashed all her hopes.

He came to his feet. “Amelia.” He spoke her name softly, almost reverently, which was most unlike her father. He was normally all briskness and business.

“Hello, Father.” She addressed him without feeling her
usual rancor or indifference. Somewhere, somehow, much of that was gone.

The marquess came forward, his arms reaching out to her before falling limply to his sides as if the incongruity of the gesture had just occurred to him.

In appearance, he was impeccable, his garments the finest money could buy, but his face looked drawn and older than his years.

“You look well.”

He was lying. She knew she didn’t look the closest thing to well. Lack of sleep had produced unbecoming circles under her eyes and she was pale. But she wouldn’t argue the point.

“Have you come to take me home?” she asked casually, as she walked over to the fireplace.

“Do you want to come home?”

Amelia shot him a look over her shoulder. When had her father ever asked her … well anything really?

“Do I have a choice in the matter?”

“Lady Armstrong would very much like you to remain until after her winter ball.”

Grateful, she nodded and said nothing. She wanted to remain until Thomas returned home.

“I saw Thomas yesterday,” he said in an abrupt change of topics. The gravity of his tone indicated it hadn’t been a happy encounter.

Amelia’s pulse leapt at the mention of Thomas’s name. She quickly schooled her expression and said, “Yes, I imagined you would.”

“He seems to believe I have neglected you over the years.”

This time Amelia whipped around to face him. “He told you that?”

Her father, the Marquess of Bradford, an aristocrat among aristocrats, briefly shifted his gaze as if he found it hard to look her directly in the eye.

“He insinuated something of the sort and then gave me a
dressing-down for neglecting to inform him you had scarlet fever as a child.” He raised his gaze to hers, and she could see from the stern set of his jaw, he’d been offended by the charge. “That is why I am here. Why I
had
to come.”

Amelia stood silently reeling over the notion that Thomas had dressed down the marquess because of her. But in the same time it took hope to flicker in her heart again, it was snuffed out just as quickly.

Over the course of the last few months, she had learned many things about Thomas Armstrong: he could be a formidable foe, was fiercely loyal to those lucky enough to have gained his affection, and possessed a streak of integrity the breadth, depth, and length of the Atlantic Ocean itself. Undoubtedly, the latter trait had prompted his outburst. He’d been advocating for the thirteen-year-old girl she’d been then, not the woman she had become. The woman he now despised.

“… and it was only when I wrote to Reese did I learn the truth. He admitted he and Mrs. Smith kept your illness from me. Although I understand why they doubted that I could deal with it so soon after the loss of your mother, I should have been consulted.”

He emitted a dark, harsh laugh and shook his head in bewilderment. “I would have only learned about it if they thought you were going to die. How could they imagine I wouldn’t have suffered a thousand deaths to know you died alone … without me?” His voice was rife with emotion as the final two words caught in his throat.

With her ears now attuned to his every utterance, Amelia had long gone motionless. The seeds of everything she’d believed about her father had grown and flourished from that one incident. And over the years, she’d watered and tended them, creating roots so strong and entrenched, nothing short of a tornado would dislodge her mind from the fallacy.

“But—but …” Words as well as coherent thought failed her.

“I may be many things, that I will admit, but I pray you
don’t believe me capable of leaving you to fight scarlet fever without me. I implore you to write to Reese if you’re not convinced. He can substantiate everything I’ve said.”

Amelia shook her head slowly. She didn’t need to write to Reese. Her father had that desperate look in his eyes, as if her belief in him was the culmination of a year’s dream. He wasn’t lying.

“I believe you,” she said softly.

His shoulders rose and fell as he heaved a long, ragged sigh of relief. For several seconds, he gazed upon her with a tenderness in his eyes she’d never seen. Reaching out, he placed his hand on her arm. She didn’t pull away but received his touch like poultice on a long-festering sore.

“A girl needs her mother and you were no exception. When she died, I-I was a wholly inadequate substitute. Looking back now, I can see I acted selfishly, too locked in my own prison of misery. There was hardly enough room in there for me, much less you. You needed—deserved much better than me.”

“I needed my one remaining parent, and that was you.” For years she’d suppressed the truth, but now she wanted to stop hiding and pretending. She was tired of the fortress of stone she’d erected around herself.

A forlorn smile curved his mouth. “My greatest cross to bear was that you reminded me of her. Your mother. And those months after her death, I couldn’t bear any reminders of her. I wanted to lose myself in a world that held no connection with our life together. Heavens, I remember you used to look up at me as if expecting me to make everything all right when I was barely holding onto my sanity.”

For the first time in her life, Amelia felt the depth of her father’s grief at the loss of his wife. All her young life she’d seen him as a father, infallible and indestructible. But he had also been a husband who had probably lost a piece of himself when the woman he loved had passed away. And his grief was compounded, not relieved, with a living, breathing
reminder of that inconsolable loss. Her throat locked up, making speech impossible.

“But that is no excuse for how I handled your upbringing. After your illness, you became distant and cold. I should have known it was more than your mother’s death. I should have pressed harder. However, I’m embarrassed to say, I was relieved that you were no longer looking to me for answers or for comfort. Thomas’s problems—financial issues—I could solve. With you, as I said, I was ill-equipped, ill-prepared, and wholly inadequate.”

Thomas. The sound of his name burned her ears; memories of him tore at her weak and battered heart. “I always believed you loved Thomas more than you did me.”

Her father looked stricken in the ensuing silence. Slowly, he raised his hand to gently cup her cheek. “If you fail to believe anything else I say, believe me when I say I love you above all others.” He then pulled her close, and she stood pliant as he enfolded her into his arms. It had been so long since he’d held her like this. Soon, she was returning his embrace, holding onto him tighter as time progressed.

A minute later, he drew back and held her at arm’s length. “I will endeavor to make it up to you. All of it.”

Amelia smiled tremulously. “I’d rather we start fresh.”

Pulling her to him again in a brief hug, he said, “A fresh start it will be.”

What Amelia wouldn’t give to hear those same words from Thomas.

Thomas should have breathed a sigh of relief when he crossed the threshold of Stoneridge Hall; instead he felt the emptiness of knowing Amelia was gone.

It had been three weeks and four days since he’d seen her. Midnight would add yet another day to the crawling total.

Harry had taken her home, back to Fountain Crest. His letter informing Thomas of this had arrived at his residence in London three days before. It was a timely departure as his mother’s winter ball was set for this evening. At least he wouldn’t have to see her.

“Thomas, you are late,” his mother said as she coasted toward him, her chartreuse taffeta and tulle gown floating about her. She kissed his cheek in the manner of a mother affectionately admonishing her offspring.

“Good evening, Mother.” He wanted to protest he wasn’t that late. In fact—he glanced around—he appeared to be one of the first people there.

“I have so many little things to tend to before the guests begin to arrive and every one of the servants is occupied. Dear, would you mind terribly if I asked you to check about the place for the punch bowl. I’ve mislaid it somewhere, I simply cannot remember where. Oh, and you can store your
coat in there. I have no idea where all the footmen could have gone.”

Thomas glanced around, noting the frenzy of activity in the brightly lit Stoneridge Hall. It appeared his mother had emptied the biggest local candle shop of its inventory.

“You might want to start with the library. I believe I went in there earlier for some reason or another.” She finished with a motherly pat on his hand, before turning and hurrying toward the ballroom.

With his great coat draped over his forearm, Thomas strode down the corridor to the library. It too was brightly lit although the curtains were closed. He walked over to the brown leather armchair. His coat fell to the floor at the same time his mouth fell open in dull surprise.

A wide-eyed Amelia stared at him from the sofa. She looked ravishing in a lavender gown, the neckline leaving an expansive amount of creamy skin on display. And that was all it took after over three long weeks to make him hard. And then angry with her, but more with himself for his lack of control.

“Thomas.” She whispered his name like a prayer come true.

His heart slammed against his chest. “I was told you were gone,” he said coldly, as he bent and scooped his coat from the floor.

The light in her eyes dimmed. “I can’t imagine who would have told you such a thing,” she said, coming to her feet.

“Your father.” And idiot that he was, he’d believed him. He should have known. Damn, he should have known. Harry Bertram had proven to be a premier manipulator.

“By any chance, have you seen my mother’s punch bowl?”

Amelia shook her head, giving him a blank-eyed stare.

You might want to start with the library. I believe I went in there earlier for some reason or another.

And it appeared his mother was in line to assume his mantle should Harry ever relinquish it.

“Then my business here is done.” He bowed deeply and turned to go.

“Thomas, please. May I speak with you?” He’d heard Amelia plead but once. He discovered the second time made it all that harder to deny her.

He halted but kept his back to her. While his traitorous heart urged him to go to her, his pride willed him to continue on his way. He’d told her he loved her and she’d said nothing. His pride—as always—won the battle. At the door, he heard a muffled noise that sounded like a sob. But that was impossible because Amelia never cried. Never allowed herself to give in to the weakness of tears.

Once standing outside the library door, he saw he was still in possession of his coat.

“You will go back in there and speak with that girl.”

The viscountess’s presence several feet away startled him. The tone of her voice even more so. It had been a long time since she’d reprimanded him with such rank censure.

“I’ve spoken all I care to, to Amelia. And I beg you to keep out of my personal affairs. I manage them quite fine without either yours or her father’s interference.” Rarely was he forced to speak to his mother in this manner, but then rarely did she give him cause.

She approached him, her mouth set in a line of disapproval. “I don’t know what crime Amelia has committed to cause you to treat her this way, nor do I really care to. What I do know is that for almost a month she’s become a shadow of the girl who returned from your sister’s home. She mopes about the place like a lost soul. She jumps every time someone comes to call because she believes it might be you returning home. She looks haunted every time your name is mentioned. If not for her sake or your own, then go back and talk to her for my sake. Listen to her. Perhaps you’ll see sense enough to lower that pride of yours.”

Thomas wasn’t sure for whose sake he turned and reentered the room, but he did.

Amelia’s throat locked up, and the corners of her eyes stung. She heaved in another painful sob. But her eyes remained dry.

After another minute of grieving the death of her hopes, Amelia rose to take her leave when the door opened and Thomas strode in, halting by the table of spirits. Without glancing at her, he poured himself a drink, downing it in one swallow. Only after he’d placed the empty glass back on the table, did he turn to regard her.

Amelia longed to sink back onto the stability of the chair, but as it was, he was peering down at her, his green eyes glacial and narrowed, his mouth a slash under his nose. So she remained standing, her hands clammy and cold.

“I returned at my mother’s urging,” he stated coldly.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely.

The room went silent.

“I’m waiting,” he said, impatience and a trace of anger in his voice.

Lord, he was going to make her crawl—not that she believed it would do much good. “My father was here. We talked.”

“And your point being? I am quite aware your father was here.”

Amelia swallowed hard, and before her courage splintered into a train wreck at her feet, she whispered, “He told me that you might care to see me again. That perhaps you’ve been unhappy since you left … me.”

A short, dark laugh rent the air. “And in your arrogance, you believed him? Well let me clarify my position. If I was at all unhappy, it was not due to our parting but due to my own gullibility. That for even one second I believed you to be anything than the utterly selfish and feckless woman I met the year before.”