“Good morning, Lady Amelia. Please excuse my tardiness, but a horse lost his shoe in the middle of Piccadilly. Caused quite a bit of confusion. I pray you haven’t been waiting long?” His mouth curved up at the corners, softening the sharp contours of his face, making him appear younger than his twenty-nine years.
At his chagrined smile, Amelia put aside her pique. He could hardly control the vagaries of London traffic. “Good day, Lord Clayborough. That is quite all right,” she said graciously. “Come, let us walk toward the bridge.” Turning to address Charles, who was acting as her groom for the morning, she said, “We shall return shortly.”
From the driver’s seat, the ever-loyal Charles bobbed his head in acknowledgement. Having befriended the fair-haired, ruddy-faced young man when he was just a boy working in the stables, Amelia had received his eternal gratitude when she’d rallied her father on his behalf. Charles had promptly ascended to the rank of a footman. Her father’s paltry effort to appease her after her birthday had come and gone without him offering even a token acknowledgement of the special day.
With Hélène trailing behind just out of earshot, Amelia and Lord Clayborough started down the walking path leading to the river.
They walked in silence for several seconds before she peered up at him from beneath the shallow brim of her bonnet. “My father is sending me to Devon.” She made the announcement abrupt and dramatic in an effort to jolt him from his seemingly perpetual state of bonhomie.
His brows shot up as his brown eyes grew round with surprise. “To Devon? Pray tell, what business have you there?”
Well, it was certainly better than a placating smile accompanied by words of reassurance.
“No business at all. My father’s idea of punishment involves putting me to work.”
Lord Clayborough’s eyes widened another fraction, his strides slowing, only to quicken to keep pace with her when her own continued brisk and unbroken.
“Work?” He uttered the word as if his tongue found it unpalatable. “You cannot be serious.”
First Lady Jane and now him? Did she at all resemble a court jester? “I assure you, I do not sport about such things. For the duration of his trip commencing next month.” This time when his strides slowed to a halt, Amelia followed his lead and turned to face him.
“My dearest Lady Amelia, I can only offer my sincerest apologies.”
“It’s hardly your fault,” Amelia dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. “My father is, as usual, being quite unreasonable. And this—this punishment is barbaric. In light of these events, it is imperative we wed immediately.”
Pushing his brown hat up with the tip of his gloved finger, he furrowed his brows. “What about your father, your chaperone …?”
Amelia could make out minute beads of sweat dotting the line on his forehead where his hat had recently sat. This would be a most inopportune time for him to start having second thoughts about going up against her father. It wasn’t something that had troubled him before. And really, what could her father do? He hadn’t the power to strip him of his title or entailed properties.
“Miss Crawford returned to Yorkshire early this morning. She received word last night that her mother has taken ill.” Though, surely a distressing ordeal for her chaperone, it had made the task of meeting Lord Clayborough this morning a great deal easier.
“I do hope it’s nothing serious,” he said, with a look of concern.
Amelia resumed walking, Lord Clayborough instantly falling in step at her side. “I don’t believe so. She is expected back next week. Now getting back to the matter of our wedding—”
“Well—”
“We have only ‘til year’s end to marry, given the new law in Scotland.” A gust of wind billowed the skirt of her walking dress. With both hands, Amelia clasped the striped muslin close to her legs until the wind subsided.
“If we have until then, why be hasty? I mean, is that really prudent given the disaster of this past week?” Lord Clayborough asked, trepidation lacing his tone.
“I’m returning home the day after tomorrow. We don’t have the luxury of time.” Amelia wondered if he had heard her. She was being put to work. If that did not necessitate haste, she did not know what did.
Removing his hat, he drew out a handkerchief from a pocket inside his jacket and dabbed his forehead. “Don’t you think it would be to our advantage if we were to wait until after your father leaves for America? I should hate to risk a reoccurrence of Wednesday’s incident.”
Taking his hesitancy as an unacceptable show of weakness, Amelia angled her head and fixed him with a look of reproach. “Well, you must ensure that he does not discover us until after the ceremony.”
A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he returned the handkerchief to his pocket and jammed the top hat back on his head. “If it were that easy.”
Lord Clayborough was the antithesis of her father in the ways that mattered most to her. He’d make a splendid husband, attentive but at the same time undemanding. He had no ambitions of amassing Croesus’s wealth, and he had a manner that told her he’d be a caring, concerned father.
Since they’d become acquainted, rare were the times that she could say that he had vexed her. That he should choose to do so now, the one time she needed him most was in alarmingly bad taste. “We shall just have to be more careful this time. Once I leave London, eloping will be a far more difficult endeavor.”
“But to make another attempt so soon would not only be indiscreet, but foolish.” He spoke in a fierce whisper, his gaze darting about the quiet of the dale.
If he thought they might be overheard, he could put that fear to rest. While the sounds of the Serpentine’s flowing waters created a natural impediment to the breeze carrying their voices, the handful of ladies strolling farther up were well out of hearing range.
In a flash of pure brilliance, the idea came to her. “I will tell him that you have compromised me.”
Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors drew less horrified looks than the one that contorted Lord Clayborough’s paled visage.
“Good God, we’d no sooner marry than you’d find yourself in widow weeds.” His Adam’s apple gave a frantic bob. “Or at the very least, your father would have one of his hired brutes make a eunuch of me.”
The Marquess of Bradford would never resort to anything as base or illegal as murder or maiming. However, knowing the kind of contempt her father held for Lord Clayborough and all gentlemen he considered of his ilk—men of little financial means—he would in all likelihood send her off to a convent … for life. It wasn’t as if she was his heir. Now, if she had been born a male—
Breaking that particular train of thoughts—for they were tracks bound to nowhere—Amelia focused her attention once again on the matter at hand: the cause of the lines of strain etched into the planes of her would-be husband’s face and dark strands of hair plastered wetly to his forehead.
His mouth opened. Before he could continue with a litany of the excuses why what she’d suggested was not sound in its reason, she held up her hand to stay the words. “You are correct, of course. When it comes to the matter of his son-in-law, my father will not be threatened or coerced.” How splendid it should be the one time she’d welcome his disinterest.
Relief appeared to slither down the length of Lord Clayborough’s frame. It was there in the way his shoulders came unhitched, loosening his rigid stance, and the resumption of color in his face.
“I am glad we are in agreement.” He smiled, but he still appeared a trifle uneasy.
“As we cannot marry immediately, you will have to come to Devon after my father has gone. By then I will be in residence at Lord Armstrong’s estate.”
The baron stumbled with his next step, but managed to remain upright. “Armstrong? You will be residing at Armstrong’s estate?”
Amelia shot him a sharp look. Had his voice just cracked upon uttering the viscount’s name? Surely he couldn’t be suffering from anything as prepos
terous as jealousy, for she’d not tolerate that sort of emotion in respect to her. It conveyed a possession no man would ever have of her. Not even her own husband.
“Yes, who else would you expect? In my father’s eyes, the man can do no wrong.”
Frowning, he raised his hand to his chin and began stroking the line of his jaw. “But Armstrong—”
“Oh please, I beg you, let us not discuss that odious man. It’s enough that I’m in this wretched situation. I’m well aware of the viscount’s reputation, but my father doesn’t appear to hold that against him. Men are allowed most liberties denied women.”
As if he feared the bitterness tainting her words would somehow turn on him, Lord Clayborough’s expression cleared, his hand dropping to his side. “Come, let us start back. I wouldn’t wish for your father to send his men out to bodily retrieve you should you stay too long,” he said wryly, his hand hovering beneath her right elbow as they turned and proceeded back in the direction of their waiting carriages.
“I will contact you after my father has left and I have settled in Devon. By then I should have a reasonable idea of how best to proceed with our plans.” Amelia slanted him a glance. He affirmed her statement with a slow, deliberate nod.
“Have you contemplated what would happen if your father refused you your dowry when we marry?” He delivered the question insouciantly, given the importance of the response.
“My father’s guilt will not allow his only child to live in genteel poverty, as he refers to your unfortunate circumstance,” she said dryly.
A brittle sound emerged from Lord Clayborough—one she presumed he meant to pass off as a laugh. Amelia was well aware that he did not like to speak of those particular circumstances. And she certainly understood his embarrassment, for truly, what self-respecting man countenanced the public airing of what many in the ton considered his rank inadequacies.
If a gentleman could not afford to support a wife and children in the manner befitting a member of the privileged aristocracy, he was a man of little value. The gentlemen in this unenviable situation could only hope to marry well, and Amelia knew that a marriage to her would be marrying very well indeed. Lord Clayborough wanted to marry her for more than just the financial resources she would bring to the marriage. He understood her need to retain her independence. He understood theirs wasn’t a marriage that would be ruled by passion but one built on the foundation of respect and companionship. Truly, the ideal marriage.
They exchanged few words once they reached the carriages, agreeing he would await her communication upon her arrival in Devon. Then with a light squeeze of her hand, he assisted her back into the plush, burgundy interior of the brougham. By the time Charles flicked the reins to set the matched chestnuts in motion, Lord Clayborough had disappeared into his older model landau. There were no lingering looks or longing glances, which was precisely the way Amelia preferred it.
Chapter 7
Thomas thought his mistress’s parlor overly feminine—even for a female dwelling—cluttered with enough frippery to make an unsuspecting guest blanch and fall into an appalled silence at the ostentatious display of taste—or lack thereof. From the showy velvet curtains and a plethora of figurines and bronzes mounted on the chiffonier, to footstools, and a sewing box littering the floor, it was hard to move about in the small space. He couldn’t even speak about the jarring his visuals endured upon taking in the gaudy flowered, red, green, and gold paper covering the walls.
Thankfully, his offended senses were not forced to suffer the sight long. Within moments of his arrival, Miss Grace Howell swept in through the doorway. She was a beautiful woman: petite, voluptuous, fair-haired, and hazel-eyed. Tonight she had donned a pale, green chiffon dress, worn off her shoulders to plunge at the neckline in a daring décolleté.
“Hmmm, Armstrong you look good enough to eat,” she murmured, her voice low and sultry. Looping her hand about his neck, she dragged his head down for a kiss. It had been a fortnight since he’d seen her last and the way her tongue delved and tangled with his in a long, lusty mating of the mouths, it was apparent that she wouldn’t satisfy easily that evening.
Thomas allowed himself the luxury of losing himself in the kiss, but when her hands began to roam to the front of his trousers and discovered the thick ridge of his arousal, he reluctantly broke the kiss, holding her straying hands gently but firmly at her side.
“I will not be discovered by one of your servants making love in the parlor,” he murmured, his voice throaty.
Flashing him a coquettish smile, Grace fluttered her lashes up at him, her eyes heavy with desire. “Then, my darling, what are we still doing down here?” She took his hand in hers, offering him her back with a sensual spin on her heel, and led him down the narrow hallway and then up the stairs.
Thomas appreciated the sway of her lush hips. Upon reaching the bedchamber, they made straight for the canopied bed. Grace fell back onto the mattress. With a quick tug of her hand, she pulled him down atop her.
Lips met, open and hungry, tongues tangling in wet demand. In no time, clothes lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Just as Thomas had guessed, Grace was insatiable in her lust, clutching his buttocks and moaning loudly minutes later when he slid his length into her.
For Thomas, it too had been a long two weeks. He plucked at her peaked, dusty nipples, wringing a string of whimpers from her lips, her head twisting in abandon against the bed linens as he pounded relentlessly into her. She came with a wail of pleasure, the high-pitched sound reverberating off the walls as she convulsed helplessly, endlessly beneath him. And while she still trembled in the aftermath of her orgasm, he found his release with a harsh grunt and clenched teeth.
Spent and sated, Thomas flung himself from atop Grace’s limp form and onto his back, his chest falling and rising as he luxuriated in the pleasure of his release. From the corner of his vision, he saw her turn slowly on her side toward him, and felt the languid slide of her hand over his chest. She was in the mood to cuddle, and now satiated, he yearned for his own bed—alone.
Then in his head, Lady Amelia’s voice rang out crystal clear in that scathing tone as she announced to everyone within hearing range, that he was too self-involved to care for anyone else’s pleasure. So, with her words rattling about in his brain, instead of bounding to his feet, throwing on his clothes, and going home as he was wont to do, he lay acquiescent under his mistress’s caresses.
“Will you stay the night?” Her voice purred with satisfaction.
“I can’t. Tomorrow I will be leaving for Devon,” he said, turning his head on the pillow to face her. “That was my other reason for coming. To tell you in person.”
The moment her hand stilled just above his navel, Thomas knew he had made a mistake. Grace bolted upright, her plump breasts bouncing against her ribs.
“You are going to Devon?”
Thomas suppressed a wince at the shrillness of her voice. Lord, why hadn’t he simply sent her a note once he’d arrived?
Raising himself to a sitting position, he dragged his hand through his hair. “I told you when we started our arrangement that I routinely go home this time of the year to tend to my business interests.”
However, his reminder was to no avail. For the next several minutes, Thomas listened with half an ear while Grace bemoaned the fact that his visits to her had dropped off over the past few months. She complained of feeling neglected. The bloody woman sounded more like a wife than a mistress. And truly, he had no idea what she need fret about. He’d set her up in a quaint townhouse in a fashionable part of London. Each month he parted with a good sum of coin to pay for her creature comforts, and he had opened accounts in her name at some of the best shops in town. She possessed a healthy supply of jewelry and he escorted her to some of the best entertainment to grace this side of the Atlantic. What more could she possibly want? Well, except for more of his time, which he had no inclination to give her, and she had no right to ask of him.
“Would
you rather my visits not decrease but stop entirely?” He asked the question in a world-weary voice that conveyed his impatience all too clearly, while shooting her a look that said he was within minutes of ending their arrangement.
By the speed at which Grace ceased her fretful prattle, her expression immediately becoming contrite, she had taken heed of his warning. Soothing him with her hands, they fell back onto the bed, her fingers wrapping around his cock as she worked to coax it back to life.
Thomas stilled the movement of her hand and brought it up to his mouth for a kiss. At the moment, he had no desire for another bout of lovemaking. And once again, Amelia Bertram assailed his thoughts.
Clayborough might have won her affections, but Thomas sincerely doubted the baron had been able to elicit in her one iota of passion. A task surely more difficult than wringing blood from a stone. How was he, a man of questionable temperance and patience, and an inordinate amount of pride, supposed to accomplish such a feat? How was he going to make her want him—better yet, crave him, his touch, his kisses, yearn for the very thing she’d scorned? Were his acting skills truly up to the part of the smitten gentleman?
At present, the answer was an unequivocal no. But he’d need to hone those skills quickly enough if he was to see his plan to its completion.
“Apart from my title, my wealth, and my appearance, what is it that you find appealing about me?” All of the attributes the chit had discounted with a disdainful tilt of her chin. He surely had more to offer a woman than those things, didn’t he?
He could feel Grace’s hazel eyes boring into his profile. Angling his head to view her fully, he quirked a brow.
Silence met his question head on. Thomas laughed dryly. “As those are things largely out of my control, I’ll try not to feel insulted at your speedy response.”
“No, darling, I guess I just find it a strange question,” she said, smiling, tiny wrinkles fanning the corners of her eyes. “Don’t tell me you have been reconsidering your charms?”
A Taste of Desire Page 6
