“Lady Amelia?”
Amelia started at the sound of her name, quickly turning to view the pale, wisp of a woman hovering at the entrance of the drawing room. Speak—or in this instance think—of the devil and she was sure to appear.
Since Miss Foxworth’s arrival at Stoneridge Hall, she’d continued to follow Amelia’s advice, managing to unearth from her wardrobe brighter colored dresses more suitable to her complexion. Today, she wore a chartreuse dress with raglan sleeves and a full, billowing skirt.
“Is anything wrong? You’ve been so very quiet lately.” Miss Foxworth edged into the room and daintily sidestepped a rogue footstool.
Amelia summoned a small smile. “Nothing really. You’ve just caught me deep in thought.”
“Are you missing home?”
“Yes, perhaps a little.” At this point, lying was easier than a game of twenty questions … or the truth.
“May we sit? I would like to speak with you.” Miss Foxworth motioned to the dark blue sofa flanked by a balloon chair on her left.
Dear Lord, this all sounded quite ominous. Amelia took a seat in the balloon chair and tamped down any show of apprehension by busily arranging her skirts around her.
Miss Foxworth sat on the edge of the sofa with her hands clasped neatly on her lap, her expression earnest. “I would like to assure you that Lord Armstrong has no designs on me whatsoever.”
Amelia’s jaw went slack. Of all the things she had expected the woman to say, this hadn’t even made her mental list. “Pardon?”
Miss Foxworth studied her with sage eyes. “From the beginning, I’ve gotten the impression you don’t particularly care for my association with Lord Armstrong. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she added hastily, “I certainly don’t fault you for your reaction. I might be moved to act in a similar fashion for his affection. That is why I felt the need to assure you, he cares nothing for me—at least not in a romantic sense.”
Amelia choked out a laugh, endeavoring for a smooth recovery from the shock of the woman’s words—and the accuracy of her observation. “You are very much mistaken. Nothing could be further from the truth.” She then held her breath to see if a bolt of lightning should appear in the crystalline, blue, winter sky. After a minute pause without the scent of burning flesh, she continued. “And truly, it is none of my concern what the true nature of your relationship is with the viscount.”
Miss Foxworth now appeared puzzled. “So your grievance is with Lord Armstrong, not me?”
“No—I mean—yes—what I mean is my grievance is with no one. Lord Armstrong is free to associate with as many women as he pleases. It is not my concern.” Of all the characteristics Amelia would have attributed to Miss Foxworth, tenacity hadn’t been one of them.
“You see, we’ve been getting on nicely since our time in London. I just didn’t want—”
“Truly, Miss Foxworth, I don’t think it’s any of my—”
“Does your disapproval of him stem from what you said at the ball?”
Dear Lord, did the woman know when to stop?
“If that is the case, I must disabuse you of the notion that Lord Armstrong indiscriminately goes about town bedding any and every woman who happens to cross his path. That is your assumption, is it not?” Miss Foxworth appeared so utterly confident of what she spoke. As if Amelia were the sadly ignorant girl and it was she who was schooled and learned in the inner workings of human behavior. Amelia didn’t very much like the feeling.
“The man is hardly a saint, so if that’s what you hope to convince me of, please save your breath.”
Miss Foxworth nodded. “That is true. He isn’t a saint, but then show me a man who is. Lord Armstrong is kind, loyal, and generous beyond fault. Were you aware he gave my brother the money to buy his commission? He is also paying for the lease on our flat in town. He has been doing so since Marcus entered the military.” Her voice softened with emotion. “Thomas Armstrong has been a saint to Marcus and me, and we owe him a great deal.”
She gave a short self-deprecating laugh. “Don’t mistake me, it would be far too easy to fall in love with Lord Armstrong.” Miss Foxworth lowered her gaze to her lap where she stared at her intertwined fingers. “But for me that would be a foolish act. Although he likes me just fine, he is not interested in me like that. He would deny it, of course, for that’s the kind of gentleman he is, but to him I am merely Marcus’s rather unfortunate spinster sister who is in need of support while her brother is away fighting wars. And that is fine with me, you know.” She peered up at Amelia. “I would never do anything to damage our friendship.”
Why had Miss Foxworth told her all of this? Such outpourings were better reserved for broken dams and rain downfalls. She’d already said she had no interest in the nature of their relationship. But her heart did lighten and flutter in the most abominable fashion at what she’d just heard.
Despite the fact he would be spending the Christmas holiday at his sister’s home in Berkshire, Thomas allowed the servants to decorate the hall much in the same manner as his mother would have done. A Christmas tree was magnificently displayed in the morning room, its sturdy branches holding a ponderous amount of ornaments of bronze and silver. Against the backdrop of the night sky, candles lit the tree like a festive beacon in the bow-shaped window.
But for all the outward signs of Christmas cheer, he was feeling anything but in the holiday spirit. The last three weeks had been the most tension-wrought he’d ever spent, Amelia being the source of his disquiet. Like a festering sore, she seemed to affect everything he did. His sleep—or lack thereof—could only be considered fitful at best. The guilt of taking her virginity couldn’t escape him. The unquenchable need to have her again had him keeping as far away from her as physically possible.
So many times he’d wanted to go to her and explain his reasons for taking her letters. But two things had always stopped him, the first being he could offer no acceptable excuse. He hadn’t had to take Harry’s suggestion that he monitor her correspondence. The second was that he could clearly see in her manner toward him that any kind of peace offering on his part would not be well received. She treated him like a pariah, and it was obvious she regretted giving him her innocence.
Raking a hand through his hair, he weaved his way between the side table and the settee, and dropped into the damask armchair facing the tree. He silently watched the flickering candles dance under the light of the crescent moon outside. He was too wide awake to take to his bed, and a book couldn’t distract him from the things he wanted to do more. Even a drink had done nothing to soothe his nerves or ease the tension in his muscles. No, nothing had worked the past week.
Thomas dropped his head back against the cushioned chair and closed his eyes. But Amelia’s beautiful face remained firmly implanted in his mind and thoughts.
In the tortured silence, he heard the rustle of cloth. Snapping his eyes open and jerking his head up, his gaze flew to the entrance. The unmistakable figure of the woman who now haunted his dreams by night and thoughts by day appeared, gliding into the room to stand in front of the Christmas tree. Flicking a glance at the longcase clock adjacent to the stone fireplace, Thomas was surprised to note it was much later than he first thought—fifteen minutes to eleven.
What was she still doing up? And good God, why hadn’t she the sense to don more than the blue, silky cover-up that draped her from her slender shoulders to the tip of her stockinged feet and had him aching like a man too long deprived of a woman’s touch.
Thomas shifted to rest his forearms on his splayed legs. She started at the movement before swiveling sharply. Her eyes widened when she spotted him tucked in the shadowed corner. Her hand flew to her throat.
“Oh Lord, I didn’t realize anyone else was up,” she said in a breathy voice. She immediately began to edge toward the entrance. “I was—was getting a book from the—the library, when I noticed the tree….” She trailed off with a gulp, her face flushing a becoming pink.
“D
on’t allow me to stop you from looking your fill.” In that moment, he decided it was time to end the standoff.
Amelia’s instincts urged her to leave immediately. But foolhardy she must be, for she halted at his words. Thomas looked too … masculine, his hands hanging between his muscled thighs, and his jaw shadowed from a day’s worth of growth. And his eyes, dark and vibrantly green, watched her from between lids lowered to half-mast. If any man should keep the aura surrounding him bottled to keep all the females of the world safe, it was Thomas Armstrong.
“I just wanted a closer look at the tr-tree,” she said, stuttering like a child who had just learned its way around its tongue.
Two craterlike dimples creased his bristled cheeks as a smile tipped the corners of his mouth. Lord, he was more beautiful than any fully grown male had a right to be. Amelia’s gaze skittered away in a show of keen interest in the garland decorating the fireplace mantel. She hated this new nervousness that struck her when around him.
“You are beginning to remind me of your father.” He made no attempt to keep the amusement from his voice, coming to his feet in one lithe, fluid motion.
Amelia’s gaze narrowed. What on earth did he mean? She was not at all like him—in any manner.
“You both have a tendency to stutter when you’re anxious.”
Her father was never anxious; therefore he never stuttered. And neither did she! At least she hadn’t done so until she’d met the viscount.
“I am not stuttering,” she managed to say without the embarrassment of stumbling over her words. “The air down here is quite chilly. I should have realized the servants would have already put out the fires.” She could think of nothing else to say so as to not appear completely ridiculous.
“Why are you so nervous?” With every word from his sensuous lips, he advanced a step. Self-preservation urged her to close her eyes and keep them shut.
“I—” Amelia was forced to stop when she realized she was about to do the very thing he’d just accused her of. She cleared her throat, and began to edge toward the entrance. “What you’re mistaking as nervousness is fatigue, as it’s late and I’m tired.” She tried for a bit of hauteur, but failed miserably as he drew closer, causing her throat to lock up and the last several words to trickle out low and breathless.
“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.
Chapter 24
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.”
A Taste of Desire Page 23
