A Taste of Desire

by Beverley Kendall

  “Only you could make me regret my gesture of kindness today.”

  “Ha! You weren’t being kind, you were conceding to your mother’s wishes.”

  His eyes sparked like green bolts of lightning. “Yes, taking my parent’s wishes into consideration, something of which you have no concept. Well, you should consider yourself lucky you ungrateful little chit. At least your father would see you married to a gentleman who won’t fritter away every shilling of your dowry at the hazard tables. If I were him—which I thank God every day that I’m not—I’d gladly give you the rope to hang yourself by allowing you to marry that no-account Clayborough. But I’ll tell you this, the Bank of England doesn’t possess enough coin to entice me to marry you, so you can rest easy on that score.”

  Amelia swallowed hard, remembering the last time she’d cried. It had been the summer of her thirteenth year. She’d been in bed with the fever awaiting her father’s return. He hadn’t come. Five days she’d cried for him. She’d cried for the loss of her mother the year before. She’d never shed another tear since.

  What she wouldn’t give now to be that thirteen-year-old child who’d been able to cry without fear of revealing the depth of her pain and hurt. But she knew she couldn’t. Not here, not with him, perhaps never again.

  Amelia mustered up some of her dwindling composure. “You’re correct. Tonight I’m certain to sleep much easier.” She then turned and made the walk back to the house alone.

  Chapter 14

  At the library door, Thomas bid the woman adieu, sent the footman escorting her out a curt nod, then made his way right to his desk and dropped into the high-backed leather chair. He ran a weary hand through his hair and pondered his options with the same concentration a surgeon would wield his scalpel.

  Two weeks, ten perfectly amiable women later, and the right chaperone for Amelia continued to elude him. Deliberately, he was almost certain.

  “I gather she won’t do either?”

  His mother’s voice drew Thomas’s attention to the door. She proceeded in, in a rustle of silk and satin.

  “Would you have the woman give notice before she has enough time to put away her belongings?” he asked wryly.

  “Oh, you’re too hard on her. Lady Amelia is a lovely young woman. Why in the past month, I’ve seen a marked change in her. And she has been wonderful to the girls, so I won’t hear another word against her.”

  Yes, a whole month had passed since her arrival and she’d warmed to everyone—including the servants—save him, of course. Since their last exchange during their outing, a chasm now existed between them, unbridgeable and empty. And frankly, he was glad of it. He wanted as little to do with her as conceivably possible. But as it was apparent his mother had become her staunchest defender, Thomas wisely kept such opinions to himself.

  “Have you considered Miss Foxworth?” his mother continued. “She’s of an appropriate age and is as respectable as they come. I’m certain you need only ask her and she would agree. Remember, with only three days until our departure, you haven’t a lot of time. I absolutely refuse to leave the two of you here without a proper chaperone.”

  Ah, Camille! Though somewhat self-effacing, she was loyal to a fault, which would do him well in dealing with Amelia.

  “Yes, you might be right. She could suit the position adequately. I’ll send off a letter to her today,” he said, and settled into the deep pocket of his chair.

  “Then perhaps you will come with me and your sisters to London and escort Camille back. You can make a trip of it.”

  “And what, pray tell, would I do with Amelia?” He’d be damned if he’d leave her here alone. Lord only knows what chaos would await him upon his return.

  “Well, why else do you think I’m suggesting the trip? Of course, Lady Amelia would come along. Honestly, Thomas, you have the poor girl like a prisoner in your study all day long. And don’t give me any nonsense about her wanting it so. A young girl needs her amusements. I’m certain she would welcome the change.”

  Yes, and therein lay the problem. She’d enjoy it too much. But perhaps his mother was right. A trip to London would give him an opportunity to visit Grace. Over a month without sex had begun to wear on his nerves and temper.

  “As you wish,” he acceded.

  The viscountess’s gaze skittered around the room. Several times she turned to him, her mouth open as if to speak only to snap it closed. Her hands began to fidget with the gauze net of her skirt.

  Once again, she shifted her gaze back to him, a smile fixed on her face. “Thomas, I’ve been thinking….”

  In the context of many women, these were ominous words in and of themselves, but added to the gravity of his mother’s tone, they sent a jolt of trepidation through him. Thomas swallowed and indicated she continue with a brief nod of his head.

  “When I was speaking to Amelia yesterday—”

  And just like that, Thomas could add another phrase to the list of the most dangerous terms in the English language.

  “—she asked me what I intend to do with myself when the girls are gone. I must confess, I am embarrassed to admit I hadn’t a response.”

  Thomas emitted a heavy sigh. “Mother—”

  “No, dear, I have given this much thought. It has been eleven years since your father’s death, and I am not growing any younger.”

  “With your beauty and grace, a woman half your age would be considered fortunate.” And that was no empty praise.

  A blush heightened the color of her face. Pivoting on her heel, she strolled over to a side table and picked up the intricately carved ivory horse she’d given him last Christmas. She examined the figurine as she spoke. “In just three years Sarah will make her debut, and soon after I shall be alone.”

  His mother gazed at him, and in that instant he saw something in her eyes he had never seen before: loneliness. When his father had died, he’d witnessed her sadness, her hurt, and her fear. But never this. She’d had responsibilities then: an estate to run, three young daughters to raise to maturity, and a son going off to Cambridge.

  Thomas was out of his chair and at her side within seconds, his arm wrapping tightly about her shoulder. “You will never be alone, not with the brood of grandchildren Missy will give you to spoil,” he teased and lightly brushed his lips against the smooth skin of her temple. He slowly released her and took a step back.

  The viscountess offered him a faint smile. “Yes, but the care of a grandchild is hardly the same. No, dear, it’s past time I started to carve out a life of my own.”

  Thomas furrowed his brows. Just what did a life of her own entail? Increasing the frequency of her calls and engaging in endless hours of cribbage and whist? It took several seconds more for his slow-witted mind to comprehend his mother’s meaning.

  “Oh, Thomas, do not look so appalled. One would think I just told you I’ve decided to join the theater.”

  “No, no, that’s not it at all,” he hastened to assure her. It was just that—well, she was his mother. There wasn’t a man alive good enough for her.

  “The only reason I’m even broaching this subject with you is because—well, I will be in America for the next two months and I expect I’ll run into Mr. Wendel and Lord Bradford.”

  At the mention of Derrick Wendel, the president and majority stockholder of Wendel’s Shipping, Thomas began to understand his mother’s discomfiture. The men had recently travelled to America to negotiate the deal to purchase a steel company; a deal that, if successful, would cut their operating costs by 20 percent.

  The viscountess placed the ivory horse back on the table. “Mr. Wendel has asked if I would allow him to escort me about town a time or two.”

  Knowing his friend, Thomas thought his mother’s estimate low. Wendel would likely charm his mother into as many outings as his schedule and hers would permit. Since Thomas had introduced them the year past, Wendel had taken an inordinate interest in the viscountess. And who could blame the man? Besides her obvious attribut
es, his mother could disarm a gentleman with just a smile. Lord, he’d seen it happen often enough, even when his father was alive.

  “Well, I’ve known of his interest for some time, but I must admit, I hadn’t thought it was reciprocated.”

  His mother’s blush deepened. She looked away briefly. After a pause, she said, “I am not admitting to an interest. However, if there were, would that be of concern to you?”

  “Why, because Wendel is not a peer?”

  The viscountess shook her head. “No, because he is your friend and business partner. And of course, there is the matter of your father.”

  “Mother, as much as I love and miss Father, I would hardly expect you to live your life like a nun.” Although, a part of him had expected just that. “And Derrick Wendel is a good man. There are few I admire more.”

  A relieved smile wreathed her face, taking ten years off her already youthful forty-eight years. Reaching up, she pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, the faint scent of gardenias tickling his nose. “And he’s very handsome too.”

  Thomas emitted a dry laugh and gave her slender hands a gentle squeeze.

  The viscountess withdrew her hands from his and then smoothed the folds of her voluminous skirt. She was every inch the lady of the manor again. “Now that the matter is arranged, I must go and settle the house accounts. And pray, do not dawdle over the letter to Miss Foxworth. Lady Amelia must have a chaperone before I depart.”

  After his mother had gone, Thomas returned to his desk, and his thoughts returned—as they did with increasing frequency—to Amelia.

  He didn’t want to admit that he was at all bothered by the new distance between them. While they might not have shared dark secrets or their innermost thoughts that day, he’d felt they’d reached a truce of sorts. Then she’d spoiled it with her firestorm of insults. It was obvious she saw him as the usurper of her father’s affections. What had brought her to such a ridiculous conclusion was beyond him. The marquess seemed to spend a great deal of time worrying over his daughter’s welfare. Over the years of their acquaintance, Harry had bent his ear on numerous occasions about what to do with her unruliness, as she appeared hell-bent on ruination. Amelia’s resentment of him was as well founded as the belief that the Earth was the center of the universe.

  Good Lord, what did she expect from her father? For him to cut all others from his life so she could have his undivided attention? From what he’d seen, Harry denied his daughter nothing. Not the horse that had cost what the average person could comfortably live on for three years. Not the conveyance, which was equipped with frills enough to impress royalty. And certainly not her wardrobe, which Harry had once admitted was in excess of fifteen hundred pounds per annum.

  While he berated himself for not being able to get the blasted woman from his thoughts, he snatched up the morning’s correspondence from his desk. His eye caught a flash of green. Thomas stilled and his agitation mounted. He swiftly removed the dark olive envelope from the stack of letters. The gold ducal seal glittered under the light of the gas lamp. Suddenly, he wasn’t agitated, he was in a blazing temper.

  Damn Louisa. Why couldn’t the blasted woman leave things as they were? One beautiful, selfish, manipulative female was all he could manage at one time. Even the task of responding to her to tell her to go to blazes was more contact than he wished to have with her.

  Thomas didn’t bother to read the letter—not this time—for it would only worsen his mood. Like her previous letter, this one saw its speedy demise at the hands of the flames roaring in the fireplace.

  Amelia heard the familiar fall of his footsteps approaching the study. Inhaling a deep breath, she mentally composed herself for the coming encounter.

  Her stomach took a little dip when she saw him. Fine, so he looked exceedingly well this morning dressed all in blue. He wasn’t the first handsome face she’d ever beheld. So why in heavens was her reaction to him so excessive, so embarrassingly visceral?

  He didn’t speak immediately when he entered but caught and held her gaze as he proceeded to her desk. Then he was standing at her side with only a couple of feet separating them. An inexplicable sense of panic washed over her that she did her best to tamp down.

  “Was there something else you required of me? I still have yet to complete the tasks from yesterday.” She spoke with a hauteur polished to perfection over time.

  “Friday morning we will be travelling to London with my mother and sisters.” The crease in his forehead and the tightness around his mouth indicated he was none too happy about the situation.

  “We? Am I to accompany you?”

  “Well, I certainly can’t leave you here by yourself,” he muttered, in a tone as dark as his mood.

  “As it’s clear the prospect is not pleasing to either of us, why must I go? Just what exactly do you think I’ll do while you’re gone? Abscond with your silver?” It was the most she’d said to him in a month.

  “No, however, I wouldn’t put it past you to run off with one of the servants,” he snapped.

  Amelia’s face burned at his snide inference to Joseph Cromwell, whose father owned two large textile factories. She endeavored to keep her pique from coming through in her voice. “I’d have thought by this time you would know my interest lies in the ranks of tradesmen and destitute aristocratic gentlemen. And certainly you of all people, my lord, should have nothing to say in regards to members of the working class. Not when I’ve heard you avail yourself to the services of women of a—dare I say—certain trade.”

  The tightness around his mouth eased as he chuckled softly. “Why so coy, Princess? You’ve already accused me of having been with every whore in London. But I think it’s time I disabused you of your erroneous assumption. Despite what you believe, I have never utilized the services of a whore.”

  Amelia barely contained her laugh.

  “Why would I pay for something I can get for free?”

  “Do you not keep a mistress? Do you not in fact have to pay for her patronage?”

  The viscount’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re not trying to compare a mistress to a common whore.”

  “No, not a common one, to be sure. Mistresses, I gather, have wealthier prospects and need only service one man during their contract. But I wager the price of all of those manners, sophistication, and beauty is steep indeed.”

  Lord Armstrong didn’t speak for several seconds, he just stared at her, his expression shuttered. “My, you seem to know quite a bit about mistresses. Considering the option for yourself?”

  He clearly meant to offend. Amelia refused to take the bait. “I might be young, but I’m not naïve. Though these things may be whispered about in society, they are hardly a secret.”

  With the casualness of a personal acquaintance, the viscount pushed the documents aside and sat down on the desk—her desk—one leg dangling a hairbreadth from her arm, the other firmly planted on the floor.

  “And the only thing more expensive than a mistress is a wife. But I could have had you without a mistress contract or a betrothal agreement and you’re not a woman of the streets, so what does that make you?” He spoke in a low, intimate voice, which made his question all the more outrageous.

  Amelia’s breath hitched, indignation bubbling to the surface. The movement caused her hand to brush the navy fabric of his trousers. She nearly bolted from the chair. But her pride kept her rooted to her seat. She’d responded to two of his kisses, and now he thought she’d lay the world at his feet?

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  He laughed, a husky sound that sent an unwanted shock of awareness through her. “Why, Princess, I do believe you’re trying to goad me.” He stared at her as if he’d discovered her every weakness and planned to exploit each one to his advantage. Suddenly, Amelia was afraid—terrified.

  “Prove it,” he whispered, a challenge lighting his eyes.

  “Pardon?” Flustered, Amelia blinked repeatedly.

  “Prove I can’t make you want
me.”

  “I-I don’t have to prove any such thing.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Oh, I’m not so certain of that.” Then his hand was cupping the base of her neck and easing her closer as he lowered his head.

  She could have easily broken free of his hold and ended the madness right then. There’d be no need for endless recriminations afterward. But she did no such thing. She just watched him as he drew ever closer, his eyes seductively intent on her. Never in her life had she been the focus of such heat. Never had she been so entranced by a man.

  Then she was free, his hand abruptly withdrawn. He levered himself to his feet, a satisfied smile curving the lips she’d so desperately wanted on hers. She stared up at him and saw her own stark look of horror reflected back in his eyes.

  “You see, I’m sure I could have already had you in a hundred different ways.” Thomas shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets because they shook. They shook with the urge to pull her into his arms, lower her onto the floor, and take her in at least one of those ways—the front, the side, from behind, he didn’t care how as long as he could assuage this hunger for her that had been practically eating him alive the past month.

  He turned away to hide his reaction, his bloody erection.

  “Why did you do that?” She sounded hoarse.

  Thomas half turned back to her, surprised at the question, the bluntness of it.

  “To prove a point,” he replied after a long moment of silence.

  She rose from her chair and started toward him.

  Thomas wanted to close his eyes against her allure but knew he couldn’t afford to betray any weakness. She’d use it against him and eat him alive.

  “Which was what?” she asked, her voice cooler, more composed.

  What the hell was he to say? To prove he was in control? Given his current feelings, fiction of such magnitude deserved its own stage.

  Before he could collect his thoughts enough to offer an articulate response, she was pressed against him, her slender hands on the nape of his neck tugging his head down.