A Taste of Desire

chapter 11



“Ah, Lady Amelia, so good of you to join us,” Lady Armstrong said upon Amelia’s entry into the dining room at precisely two minutes to eight that evening.

The viscountess, resplendent in a double-skirted gown edged with velvet vandykes, stood beside two women—well, the younger female might not be considered a woman just yet.

“Good evening, Lady Armstrong,” Amelia replied.

“Please, allow me to introduce you to my dear friend, Mrs. Eleanor Roland, and her daughter Dorothy. Eleanor, Dorothy, may I present Lady Amelia Bertram. She will be our guest while her father is out of the country.”

Mrs. Roland was a tall, stocky woman with dark, graying hair suffering from too much pomade, her face, too much powder. The latter, undoubtedly, to hide the pockmarks riddling her cheeks, forehead, and chin. Despite her size, she gave the illusion of a woman three stone lighter. Donned in a dark blue dinner dress, she’d opted for fabric that draped her figure instead of trying to squeeze her body into something that idealized the feminine shape as many ladies of grander proportions were wont to do.

The daughter was the antithesis of the mother, possessing a shock of curly red hair the texture of which made humidity its natural enemy. Small and slight, she spoke in monosyllables, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Lady Amelia, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Roland said politely, but her voice lacked sufficient warmth to declare it a friendly greeting. But then, women rarely welcomed her with open arms.

“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Roland, Miss Roland.” Amelia gave each a nod.

Mrs. Roland appeared preoccupied, her attention focused elsewhere. Amelia followed the woman’s gaze straight to the hooded stare of the viscount.

Since her ar rival, she’d done her best to ignore him, conscious that he stood only feet away in front of the mahogany cabinet, watching her, making her feel as if he could see through her tulle silk gown and cotton undergarments straight to the bare flesh below. Amelia quickly averted her gaze.

“And I believe you have met my daughters.” Lady Armstrong gestured to where they stood by their brother, both dressed in pretty lace-trimmed frocks.

“Yes, ma’am, earlier this evening.”

Amelia certainly would not divulge under what circumstances she became acquainted with the youngest. Emily, three years older than Sarah’s fifteen years, Amelia had met as she’d returned to her chambers after leaving the study. Though not inclined to her sister’s chattiness, Emily had been welcoming and kind. And like her brother and sister, she had inherited the viscountess’s green eyes, golden hair, and good looks.

With the introductions completed, they took their places at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth. In proportion to all the other furniture in the room, it was solid and large.

To Amelia’s chagrin, she was seated to the left of the viscount, who sat at the head with the viscountess on his right. She would have preferred the opposite end of the table.

The entry of the footmen bearing silver trays, laden with food tasty enough to tempt even the most particular palette, diverted her attention.

Within minutes, bowls and dishes were filled, red wine in every glass.

“And how did you enjoy the Season?” Lord Armstrong asked, addressing Miss Roland after the footmen had taken up their post at the back of the room and everyone was intent upon the first course.

Miss Roland stilled, her spoon poised near her lips. She quickly lowered it into her bowl of turtle soup.

“Do tell his lordship how you enjoyed your Season,” Mrs. Roland prodded, impatience edging her tone when her daughter didn’t offer up an immediate reply.

“If I were prettier then I’m certain I would have attracted more suitors … well, at least one suitor.” Miss Roland let out a heavy sigh. “I fear I shall end up disappointing Mama.”

Amelia nearly choked on her wine. Honesty among the aristocracy was usually harder to find than a lady with an eighteen-inch waist—without stays—and looked upon with just as much skepticism, envy, or lecherous delight. But no one could doubt Miss Roland’s sincerity. Not with the droop of her narrow shoulders and the forlorn look in her hazel eyes.

A swift glance around the table gave testament to the fact. Though Mrs. Roland looked mortified, every member of the Armstrong family observed her as if they’d just witnessed a puppy being kicked.

However, it was Lord Armstrong who galloped in on his white horse in full knight armor, polished and glistening.

“You’re much more than pretty. And if the gentlemen of the ton can’t see your other wonderful qualities, they don’t deserve you.”

Miss Roland lifted her gaze from her plate to regard him. If he’d told her she was Aphrodite immortalized, she couldn’t have looked more dubious. “I can’t imagine anything better than being pretty enough to attract a gentleman.”

In response, he placed his utensils down, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a serviette and gave Miss Roland a measured look. Obviously a man so filled with his own self-importance, he expected Miss Roland to accept his every word as fact.

“I really must disagree. I’ve met my share of beauties who would have made a tour of duty seem like a picnic. Without divulging the name of a certain lady of the ton, I will tell you a story about my introduction to her the year past.”

The ting of utensils against the white porcelain plates halted. All eyes were riveted on the viscount, who needed only his crown to claim his position as the noble prince. The hairs on Amelia’s nape reared up as her unease began its ascent.

“She was quite beautiful. I would say almost as handsome as—” He paused as if in search of the right comparison. His gaze found hers. “Lady Amelia, I would wager. Certainly a stunning beauty by all accounts.”

All eyes in the room fell on her. She quickly gave her bowl of vermicelli soup her undivided attention. Her cheeks warmed with every extended moment of silence.

Amelia wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d intended to pay her a compliment. With this grand show in front of his rapt audience, she was certain he planned to make her the moral example of his little tale.

“Well, this young lady,”—he stressed the last word as if the term in regard to said “lady”—her—was suspect—”and I had no prior acquaintance. I won’t offend your sensibilities with the particulars of what she said to me during our introduction. Needless to say, it was the sort of thing you’d find in the gossip rags. Groundless, unfounded rumors maligning my character.”

“You mean there is a woman alive who can resist your charms?” the viscountess asked, the grave sincerity in her tone contrary to the amusement in her eyes.

At their mother’s remark, Sarah and Emily, who had been trying to stifle their laughter by covering their mouths with serviettes, abandoned all efforts to remain poker-faced and let out a torrent of girlish giggles.

“Abominable behavior,” Mrs. Roland exclaimed with a disapproving sniff, her back visibly stiffening, pushing back her plump shoulders. “Some of the young ladies these days are lacking in good breeding.” Turning her regard from the viscount, she beamed a smile at her daughter. “Now Dorothy here has what anyone would consider exemplary manners. Don’t you, dear?”

“But what good does all that do me? Manners alone won’t find me a husband. Gentlemen prefer pretty wives,” Miss Roland muttered, her gaze downcast.

The viscountess and Mrs. Roland looked primed to voice their replies. However, it was again Lord Armstrong who prevailed. “An intelligent man prefers much more desirable qualities in a wife. Qualities such as kindness, humility, warmth, and a good character. A beautiful wife who is disagreeable is hardly the sort of woman a man wants to remain chained to for the rest of his life.”

In a move that held all the innocence of a highwayman telling the magistrate he’d merely stopped the carriage for a ride while touting a gun and a mask, he shifted his gaze to her. “Don’t you agree, Lady Amelia?”

Just what was his game, to embarrass her? Didn’t he know one had to actually care for that to work? Besides, she hadn’t said anything that hadn’t been the unvarnished truth.

“Certainly, if in fact the lady in question was truly disagreeable. I, for one, did not witness the incident so I have no knowledge as to the circumstances under which the lady, um, insulted you, as you say. And as you haven’t enlightened us on exactly what she said, it would be unseemly of me to offer my opinion.”

“You have my assurances that this lady was indeed insulting.” The intensity of his regard could have seared a hole through her.

“Well, before I condemn the woman, I would have to hear her account of the events. As you know, there are always two sides to a story.” With that pert statement, Amelia spooned some soup into her mouth.

Silence befell the table. Amelia pretended to be oblivious to the gazes darting between her and the viscount.

“It’s good to know that you, Thomas, a gentleman of good taste and judgment, appreciates the finer, less obvious qualities in a woman.” Mrs. Roland endowed him with the smile of a woman who was closing in on her prey.

Then it all made perfect sense—touting her daughter’s exceptional manners, singing her praises to Lord Armstrong. Mrs. Roland wanted the viscount for her daughter, which would be the equivalent of teaming Little Red Riding Hood with the wolf.

But that being said, Amelia felt duty bound to aid in such a worthwhile endeavor. Let’s see how he likes having the tables turned on him.

“Yes, Lord Armstrong is truly remarkable in that respect. I’m quite certain he too is in search of a woman exactly like Miss Roland. But wait, if Miss Roland is willing, I daresay he won’t have to look very far.” Amelia sent the aforementioned parties a look of pure guilelessness.

The crystal chandelier soaring above them was lit by at least four dozen candles. There were gas-lit wall sconces and two candelabras on the dining table. Mrs. Roland’s smile shone brighter than the light of all combined. Everyone else remained mute.

“I must say—”

“How good of you to offer your matchmaking services, Lady Amelia,” Lord Armstrong cut in before Mrs. Roland could finish. “However, I’ve known Dorothy since she was a child—a babe really. I look upon her as I do my own sisters, and I’m sure she feels the same.”

The viscountess gave a faint smile, appearing relieved her son had handled the delicate matter so tactfully. His sisters exchanged a look Amelia couldn’t decipher. Miss Roland slowly nodded her agreement to his assessment of their relationship. But poor Mrs. Roland sat motionless in her chair, rendered mute by his gentle yet unequivocal refusal to entertain a match with her daughter.

Suddenly, Amelia was contrite. In her zeal to embarrass Lord Armstrong, she’d included others in her wide-reaching net. Blast it all. It was he who had started all of this with his “The beauty who is an utter shrew” tale. And because of that, Mrs. Roland now bore the pained expression of dashed hopes and misspent dreams.

“Well, if not the viscount, a far luckier gentleman will have the privilege of taking Miss Roland as his wife,” Amelia said, in an attempt to temper the—albeit gentle—rejection.

The girl, seventeen if she was a day, still had a couple years more to add some flesh to her figure. The men would come calling then, for her complexion was clear and her features quite regular. Though she might never be considered a rose, she certainly wasn’t the least bit objectionable. With the appropriate dowry, she’d fair well in the marriage mart.

“Do you really think so?” Miss Roland asked, a faint note of hope in her voice.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. You are only, what seventeen, eighteen?” Sixteen?

“Seventeen.”

“I was quite a fright at that age.” An out-and-out lie, but Miss Roland would never know that. The viscount knew; his eyes told her so. But he said not a word, merely watched her in contemplative silence.

“I don’t believe that for a second. I thought…” Sarah trailed off at the quelling glare from her sister.

“You can ask anyone.” There was no one to ask, save some of the servants. Cloistered at their country estate with only one friend to speak of, Amelia hadn’t been seen by anyone in society until the past year.

Miss Roland regarded her with an expression close to awe. As if she could barely believe the transformation that had turned a fright into the female who now sat opposite her.

“And look at me now, finished my second Season with no marriage prospects as yet.” Which was technically true if one asked her father. “You’re still very young and have many years to find a man worthy of your affections.”

“Yes, dear, plenty of time,” her mother echoed, having come out of her stupor of silence. “I’m certain next Season Thomas would be happy to introduce you to some of his friends. I believe Lord Alex is still unattached. And so very handsome.”

In the midst of taking a sip of his wine, a coughing fit seized the viscount. Amelia smiled and resumed eating.


Three courses and an hour and a half later, the women rose to retire to the drawing room for tea. Amelia politely demurred an invitation to join them. Indeed, it had been a long day, and she yearned for the privacy of her bedchamber.

“Lady Amelia, might I have a word with you before you retire?” Lord Armstrong called out from behind her as she proceeded to exit the dining room.

Amelia stopped, her belly knotting as the women disappeared beyond the doors and into the hall. Reluctantly, she turned to find him advancing toward her, only stopping when he stood close—too close. His scent, wholly masculine and provoking, assailed her nostrils in a rush. She stood quietly while he made a sweep of her body with those green eyes of his, her heart lurching in traitorous and maddening response.

Unsettled by his nearness but loath to betray her feelings, Amelia raised an eyebrow, fixing her expression into a cool mask of sufferance. “Can this not wait until the morning?”

“No. Come let us go to the study.” Without further explanation, he started toward the door. When he realized she hadn’t moved, he paused and shot a glance at her over his shoulder. “Do you require a written invitation?”

The sarcasm in his tone was just the thing she needed to tamp down her heightened senses, the hammering of her heart. The man was insufferable far above all his vaunted appeal.

“Fine,” she snapped, “but do be quick about it. I would like to get a proper night’s rest tonight. I do have to rise frightfully early in the morning, and the lord of the manor is a stickler for punctuality.” She lifted the weight of her three-tiered silk skirt and swept past him.

Amelia reached the study in long, angry strides. He followed her in a moment later, his mouth curved at the corners into a semblance of a smile. Leisurely, he made his way to the opposite end of the room near the fireplace, stopping at the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

Determined to maintain her composure, Amelia waited quietly as he took a deep swallow, then turned and sauntered back to where she stood, still and rigid on the edge of the Oriental area rug.

“I returned to the study at quarter to seven to find you gone.” He spoke softly without a hint of emotion.

That was what all this was about? That she hadn’t been here when he returned? The man was impossible. “And your point?”

His jaw tightened. “Am I to understand that you completed your task in that brief time?”

“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me,” she said, jerking her head toward the cabinet. “You will find every document filed and in order. And you can check the box. You will find it empty.”

This time, Lord Armstrong tossed his drink back with a gulp. He was either thirsty or angry. She imagined it was the latter. A sweet sense of triumph flooded her.

When he lowered the glass from his lips, it was empty. Perhaps he had been thirsty after all. Amelia quelled the smile threatening her hard-fought stoicism.

“You were to work for an hour and a half,” he stated, rotating the glass in his hand.

“Your mandate to me was to complete my task. I achieved that. What did you expect me to do after I’d finished, sit at my desk and twiddle my thumbs?”

A mirthless laugh rumbled in his throat. “It appears then, I’ve greatly misjudged how effective and efficient you would be. I can see that if I’m to have you duly occupied, I’ll need to give you more work.”

The fleeting, sweet taste of victory turned acrid in her throat.

Without removing his gaze from her, he placed the empty glass on a nearby table. For what seemed like an interminable length of time, he stared at her, his eyes darkening to the color of cut emeralds of the flawless variety. “You really must learn to temper your words. Your mouth always seems to get you into trouble. Have you not learned that yet, Princess?”

Amelia swallowed at the huskiness of his tone, the sensual intent of his gaze. When his attention shifted to focus on her mouth, she took an instinctive step back. He instantly countered, coming even closer than before.

Lowering his head a fraction, he whispered, “It provokes a man in dangerous ways.”

His voice was seduction encased in velvet heat. Her gaze drifted to his mouth—his fuller lower lip. Amelia swallowed again and nervously ran her tongue over her bottom lip.

It happened so swiftly, she didn’t have a chance to blink. A light tug of his hand, and she was in his arms. There was nothing to stop peach silk from meeting sage wool; her breasts from crushing against the unyielding wall of his chest. Amelia stiffened, her heart a jackhammer in her chest as his head began an unhurried descent.

Move. Scream. Do anything except stand there like a ninny. But the languor stealing over her body turned her limbs as useless as a swimmer’s against a powerful undertow. Then his lips found hers, and the tide of feelings dragged her under.

Unlike the fumbling efforts of Lord Finley, the viscount did not try to pry her lips apart with brute force or the fervor of his passion. No, he managed that with seductive finesse, nipping then soothing her bottom lip until her lips parted with a tiny gasp. At her submission, he drove his fingers into the heavy weight of her hair, anchoring her head in his hands. Then he fit his mouth to hers.

Her knees buckled, and her hands clutched the silk lapels of his jacket. For a fleeting moment, she surfaced from the fog of passion, and thought about stopping or at the very least offering some resistance. The slow thrust of his tongue persuaded her otherwise, acting like a drug on her senses and turning her mind to mush. Amelia opened her mouth wider. She wanted more.

He let out a low groan and obliged her, his hand now at her hip pulling her closer until their lower bodies were flush. The strength of his arousal lay stiff and throbbing against her belly, the intimate contact sending a flood of warmth and embarrassing moisture to her center.

There had been times when she had overheard girls titter and engage in whispered discussions out of earshot of their chaperones. The subject of those discussions invariably involved men and such things as kissing, sometimes even fondling of an improper nature. Had they? Would they? How did it feel? Amelia would listen, silently pitying their naivety. In her experience, though limited it might have been, kissing did not have the power to move her physically or otherwise. Or so she had thought.

Never could she have been more wrong.

Then her hands were sifting through the golden locks of his hair, silky and thick between her fingers. Uncertain what she should do with her tongue, so bewildered by the torrents of pleasure coursing through her body, she’d been content to receive his passionate ministrations. Now she wanted to participate just as fully. She began with tentative probes, then wide sweeping forays of his mouth. Before long, their tongues tangled in wet demand, the kiss feeding a hunger of which she hadn’t known herself capable.

Heat consumed her everywhere. She clenched her thighs, but the action failed to alleviate the ache in the place she burned the hottest. His hand trailed from her hip to the underside of her breast until he palmed the pebbled mound over her bodice.

That was what it took to bring her back to reality with a jarring thud. Appalled, she wrenched herself from his embrace, staggering back until she achieved enough distance from him to begin to gain control of her senses.

“Don’t,” she said weakly, her breaths ragged puffs of air. Dislodged from the security of the pins, her hair streamed past her shoulders and down her back. She imagined she looked the very picture of “the lady who doth protest too much.” She knew she felt it.

Contrarily, except for a faint blush staining his cheeks, the viscount appeared unaffected by their embrace, undoubtedly accustomed not only to kissing women senseless but to doing a great deal more. What they had shared was probably as commonplace to him as a peck on the cheek.

“Who’d have thought such heat existed under all that ice?” He adjusted his jacket as he spoke.

“Never, ever touch me again.” She ground out every word.

Lord Armstrong chuckled softly. “Are you sure? From my position, you seemed to be enjoying yourself thoroughly.”

Bastard!

“And what of you? Just this morning you claimed to be immune to my charms?” She wanted—needed—to wipe the mocking smile clean from his face.

“Oh, I am,” he replied softly. “But I believe I’ve just discovered the most efficient manner in which to deal with you.”

“It didn’t feel that way to me,” she snapped, remembering the hard ridge of his erection against her belly. How dare he try to make it appear as if she had been the only one affected, the only one who had lost her head for those heated moments.

The viscount gave a hearty laugh and gestured down to the front of his trousers. “You mean this?”

Shocked, Amelia blindly averted her gaze but could do little to halt another flood of heat from blistering her cheeks.

“I would hardly call this the barometer of good taste. Didn’t you know, these things have minds of their own? Sometimes it requires merely a comely face and a shapely figure. Discriminating these are not.”

Amelia wished she’d been born a big hulk of a man so she could pummel him senseless. But then if she were a man, she wouldn’t be in this position.

“If you refuse to keep your hands to yourself, I’ll be forced to take the matter in hand. And I guarantee you this, my lord, you will not like the outcome.” Her warning carried all the weight of a hummingbird, but at the moment, she did not care.

“And just what do you plan to do? Appeal to your father? If I compromised you, he would have us wed before the onset of winter. A prospect I’m certain neither of us desires.”

Of course, the blasted man was right. And nothing short of increasing his wealth threefold would please her father more. “Now I see why my father admires you so much. You and he are just the same.”

Thomas stiffened. It was clear in her tone that her statement wasn’t meant as a compliment. The creep of anger began to steal over him. His affront was for Harry not himself. Hadn’t the poor man endured enough because of her?

“I suggest you watch your tongue. Your father is one of the best men I’ve ever known.”

Amelia’s head jerked back, her eyes widening as if surprised by the vehemence of his response.

“Which isn’t saying much, I daresay. But as far as I’m concerned, the two of you suit each other well. You both care nothing for anyone else unless it’s to your financial or personal benefit. It’s a shame you weren’t my father’s son—how much simpler life would be for everyone involved.”

Thomas schooled his features. This spoilt brat dared to condescend to him. What did she know of money other than listing expenses in the credit and debit column? She’d never had to look his mother and three sisters in the eye and tell them not only hadn’t they money enough to keep up their properties but hardly enough for the barest necessities.

If she had people she considered friends—and that was very much in doubt—who ceased to have anything to do with her, it was because of her surly disposition, not because a lack of funds had suddenly deemed her unworthy of their company. Her father had saved his family from certain financial ruin.

“My heart goes out to your father. God help me should I have a daughter like you.” Contempt laced his every word.

Amelia’s body stiffened on a softly indrawn breath. A look of some indiscernible emotion flashed across her face as she stood motionless, her eyes unblinking.

“When he returns, I’ll be certain to give him your condolences. On the other hand, since you do see him more frequently than I, perhaps you can offer them yourself.” With that, she turned, lifted her skirts, and calmly exited the study.

Thomas made no attempt to stop her. Further conversation might just end in a full-scale war. Raking an unsteady hand through his hair, he slumped back to rest on the edge of the desk, a dull ache radiating in his chest.