A Taste of Desire

chapter 15



The trip to London was uneventful. Their arrival at the viscountess’s residence in Mayfair occurred at precisely two o’clock in the afternoon. And as Amelia should have expected, her argument with Thomas occurred an hour later, five minutes after the viscountess and her daughters exited the townhouse.

Amelia faced him across the expanse of his mother’s drawing room. As if by tacit agreement, they both now gave one another a wide berth when circumstances demanded they be in each other’s company.

“Your mother invited me to go with her and your sisters. I should like to have gone.”

“Your father didn’t send you to me so you could traipse about enjoying the pleasures of the city.”

“So I shall be denied a shopping excursion on Bond Street? I’m in need of some personal items. What do you expect me to do?”

“Make a list, and I’ll have someone procure them for you.”

Amelia silently counted to five, resisting the urge to bash him with one of the candelabras on the fireplace mantel. “So I’m to be kept a prisoner in this house?”

“Well, let’s see. You’re confined to this house until we depart on Sunday. Yes, I’d say that’s an accurate assessment of the situation.”

He didn’t smile, and the firm set of Thomas’s jaw, the cool directness of his gaze, told her that on this, he would not grant her even the slightest bit of latitude. Just how she was to get word to Lord Clayborough of her arrival in town was growing to be a task of monumental proportions.

“If you will ready that list …”

Amelia glared at him, tight-lipped and angry. And not solely angry over his obstinacy in the current matter but at his treatment of her. When he spoke to her—as infrequent as that had been in the last several days—he did so in clipped tones to the exclusivity of instructing her on her duties. No doubt she could have paraded about the place naked for all the notice he’d taken of her. And despite repeated reminders to herself that this is what she wanted, at times her words seemed a hollow resonance of a fervent, ill-fated prayer. She wished it didn’t bother her, but the sad fact was, it did.

“Don’t bother. I shall take care of it myself,” she snapped before turning on her heels and exiting the drawing room.

The sharp click of her heels echoed loudly on the planked floors of the hallway. As she spun to take the stairs to the first floor, reflexively she darted a glance back at the drawing room entrance to find Thomas watching her. He acknowledged her regard with a slight bow, his gaze steady, his features inscrutable.

Amelia raced up the stairs, her heart beating in tandem with her footsteps.


Unlike many of the more accomplished ladies of the ton, Amelia hadn’t an ear for music, couldn’t carry a note any further than she could a piano, and would surely bleed to death if she attempted another needlepoint sampler. But she did enjoy reading, fiction novels being her greatest indulgence. So it would stand to reason she’d be drawn to the library. The works of the most esteemed and prolific authors graced the viscountess’s bookshelves. The room was a librarian’s dream, and where she found herself an hour later.

She ran her finger down the spine of The Taming of the Shrew and debated whether she’d rather a Shakespearean farce or something tragic and romantic like Jane Eyre.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startled Amelia from her reverie, causing her head to swivel sharply in the direction of the door. Framed at the threshold was the tall—very tall—footman, Jones, if she remembered his name correctly.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but his lordship begs your presence in the morning room.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she couldn’t quell the frisson of anticipation that shot through her. She gave a brief nod. “Please tell his lordship I will be there in a moment.”

“Yes ma’am.” With a stiff bow, he departed.

Thomas hadn’t gone? She’d thought he’d left an hour ago. The viscountess had told her he would be staying at his bachelor’s residence. But he was still here. And he wished to see her.

Amelia would have gone there directly if the immediacy of her response didn’t make her appear too eager and willing to bend to his will. Let him cool his heels. He couldn’t have everything to his liking. Ten minutes seemed an appropriate amount of time to make him wait.

Nine minutes later, she breeched the morning room threshold, halting abruptly at the sight of Camille Foxworth conversing with Thomas.

Leave him alone, he’s mine. Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of the woman’s presence there that stirred such a primitive reaction in her. Inhaling deeply, she ignored the voice and proceeded toward the pair.

“Ah, here she is, Camille,” Thomas said, turning his attention to Amelia.

Despite his easy manner, Amelia felt she’d interrupted a private conversation, which made her as belligerent as a child who’d had her toy taken away long before she had finished playing with it.

He wore the first smile she’d seen in days, she noted with some rancor. Apparently, Miss Foxworth brought out the bonhomie in him.

“Lady Amelia Bertram, I would like to introduce you to Miss Camille Foxworth.”

Amelia forced her limbs and the muscles in her face to relax. When she was able to wade her way through her pique, a sobering question reared in her head. What is she doing here? Then a horrifying thought struck her with the same force of Lord Stanley coming down on her toes during an energetic polka dance—he was eighteen stone if he was an ounce—surely Thomas didn’t intend for her …? No, the idea was preposterous.

Miss Foxworth smiled and executed an elegant curtsey. “Good day, Lady Amelia. I believe we were introduced on another occasion. The Randall ball earlier in the Season.”

Lest she wished to appear lacking in the basic societal niceties, Amelia acknowledged the woman with a dip of her head, endeavoring to keep her emotions from her expression. She received a sharp look of censure from Thomas for her efforts.

“Yes, I do recall,” she replied, her voice having acquired a thin layer of ice.

Amelia ignored another one of his hard stares.

“Miss Foxworth has agreed to be your chaperone while my mother is away.” Thomas’s features instantly softened when he turned his regard to Miss Foxworth—who stared up at him as if he were a deity, and she his worshipping subject.

In turn, Amelia stared at the woman, her horrifying suspicion confirmed. She took in her thin figure in a dress more appropriate for an elderly matron, and her eyes, blue beacons amid a ghostly complexion, and became inexplicably angry.

“Is that so, indeed? I would assume that Miss Foxworth would have infinitely better things to do than to take on such a task.” Amelia paused in an effort to stem the words and the rise of bitterness within her. But it was to no avail. The desire—the need—to cut the woman down to an insignificant, paltry existence was such that she’d never experienced before. “But then again, I imagine being a single woman with no marriage prospects might leave you with quite a bit of time on your hands.”

Once the final word ended the most egregious statement to ever pass her lips, Amelia would have given anything to take back the insult. She cursed whatever it was that had taken over her, turning her tongue into a vehicle of insolence of the worst sort. But her wave of contriteness came too late.

Thomas’s breath escaped in a hiss, but Miss Foxworth’s only reaction was a brief gaze downward as if to hide the effect of her words.

Amelia willed the floor to open up and envelop her whole. Miss Foxworth had never personally done anything to her. Her only crime appeared to be her association with the viscount and her apparent adoration of him. And since Amelia managed to rub along quite well with the viscountess and her daughters, surely she didn’t consider even that a crime.

“As you can see, Lady Amelia has not yet learned the manners of polite society,” Thomas said through clenched teeth. He gave the woman an apologetic half smile. “If you will please excuse us, Camille, I would like a word with Lady Amelia in private. I’ll call for you once I’m finished here.”

Miss Foxworth nodded slowly, and with her gaze chasing the area rugs and the parquet floors, she quietly exited. The soft click of the door closing echoed her departure.

Thomas’s handsome face could have been carved from stone. Amelia didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes when she spoke, but she was defensive nonetheless.

“I know in its entirety what you’re going to say, so please spare me the lecture. I’m quite aware that what I said—”

His hand shot out and grasped her forearm, his grip unyielding. With a jerk of his hand, he brought her inches away from his rigid form. He had only a six-inch advantage in height but seemed to tower more than that above her. “Don’t you ever insult my guest in my presence,” he said, his voice a grated whisper. He was furious. He was red-faced. He looked as if he would happily throttle her within an inch of her life.

Had she not come from sterner stock, she might have recoiled in the face of the kind of ire that undoubtedly had many men shrinking in their own shadows. She winced as fear crept inexorably to settle in her bones.

He immediately loosened his grip but did not release her. Amelia made no move to further extricate herself from his hold.

“Why did you choose her of all women, for heaven’s sake? Is your ego so grand you must have someone fawning over you night and day?” There, she’d laid bare the crux of her objection.

Thomas didn’t reply at first; he drew back and stared at her, his anger now replaced by something cryptic and unnerving to behold. “What exactly do you believe I intend to do with her?”

“I don’t particularly care what you do with her. I just have no desire to be party to whatever it is.”

Releasing her arm, he took a step back. Amelia relished the breathing room. She didn’t like the fact that when she stood so close to him her mind muddled and every nerve ending stood at attention.

He continued to observe her closely, his dark gold lashes fanning the tops of his cheekbones. “Good God, I do believe you’re jealous.” Awe threaded the softly spoken words. If he had been Petruchio reveling in Kate’s obedience, Thomas could not have looked more satisfied.

Amelia sputtered a laugh before finding her voice. “You couldn’t be farther from the truth. But I’m certain the notion does wonders for your bloated ego.”

“Oh no? Well, you give a very good impression of it.” His eyebrow inched up. “What have you against Miss Foxworth? Why should it bother you if she is—as you quaintly put it—fawning all over me?”

“That is not what bothers me about the situation. I simply have no desire to be used.”

“And pray tell, how exactly are you being used?”

“Well, to-to-to—” Dear Lord, she was sputtering again.

He looked at her as if he could read her mind and delighted in what he found there. “If you are worried that there is something going on between Miss Foxworth and I, let me put your fears to rest in that regard.”

“I don’t care—”

It required only two steps, and he stood inches from her, his masculine scent enveloping her in a sensual prison. He pressed his forefinger gently to her lips, stilling her words. “You might be the most vexing woman I’ve ever met, but the one thing I’d begun to admire about you was your candor. Don’t spoil it now,” he murmured.

Staring up at him, Amelia wasn’t certain what kept her mute, his audacity or his finger on her lips.

“Now,” he continued, as casual as you please, “If you’re going to pitch a jealous fit, at least have just cause. Case in point, the appointment I have this evening.”

“No doubt a bed romp with your wretched mistress.” Abruptly, she stepped back and swatted at his hand.

His hand fell to his side. “Why should you care who I sleep with, mistress or otherwise?”

It was only at his softly spoken question that Amelia realized she must have given a voice to her thoughts. Heat flooded her from head to toe as she wished she could snatch back those renegade words.

“I don’t care who you bed,” she said coldly.

Thomas threw back his head and emitted a dry laugh. She suppressed the overwhelming urge to slap him clear into oblivion.

“So you say. However, I’m getting the distinct impression you care more than you like or will ever admit.”

“Believe what you choose.” Avoiding his gaze—the knowing glint in his green eyes—Amelia turned sharply and stalked from the room with the sound of his laughter, a taunting trail behind her.


Thomas glanced around Grace’s parlor and wondered again what he was doing there.

The idea of an uncomplicated evening of sexual release had been foremost in his thoughts when he’d set out from his townhouse. More than a month had passed with nothing but his hand to relieve his sexual urges. He should be fairly frothing at the mouth in anticipation of an encounter with Grace. He wasn’t. And he dare not examine the reason why.

“Darling.”

Thomas started, and then turned at the soft lilting exclamation. Grace swept into the room, her hands outstretched. She wore a silky robe over an equally silky, pale pink confection of lingerie, which skimmed her lush figure. Before he could respond, she enfolded him into her arms, her neck angled back for her kiss.

Thomas pressed an obligatory kiss on painted red lips and then hastily extricated himself from the embrace and the overly sweet scent of her perfume. The pleasure on her face dimmed. She quickly offered him a smile too bright, too wide-eyed to be genuine. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to town,” she scolded lightly, trailing her hand up his arm.

Her touch failed to elicit the normal rush of desire. At that moment Thomas knew what he had to do and couldn’t help an inward cringe.

Thomas caught her hand with his, and drew her down to the chintz, floral sofa. “Come, we must talk.”

Grace subsided without a demur, her nightwear pulling taut over womanly hips and thighs, but her hazel eyes held a glimmer of unease. “You want to talk before we retire to the bedchamber?” Again her smile appeared forced.

“I’m not here for that. I’ve come to tell you I’m ending our arrangement,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, while retaining his hold on her hand.

The force of the slap caught him unawares, causing a stinging pain in his left cheek. That was when he wished he’d captured both hands.

“You wretched bastard.” Fury contorted her features, turning what he’d always thought was a comely visage into something not quite as comely. Not with her pupils dark pinpoints of rage and her red mouth drawn into a feline’s angry hiss.

She sprang to her feet and commenced raining blows all over his shoulders and arms.

The instinct of self-preservation surged to life and sent Thomas to his feet to capture the small hands before she managed to do any real damage. “Good God, Grace, get a hold of yourself.” He held her hands firmly while she tugged in vain to free them.

“A year I have saved myself for you. An entire year when I could have had any gentleman in London. They all wanted me, you know. Do you know how many men offered their protection? Men I turned down waiting for you, and you could barely see your way to call on me in the last three months.”

In an abrupt and unexpected move, she stopped struggling, her body going limp. She dropped back down onto the sofa. Thomas released her and quickly positioned himself on the other side of the center table opposite her, well out of her arm’s reach.

A violent shudder wracked her body as she covered her face with her hands and began a noisy sobbing.

Thomas could bear almost anything but a weeping, distraught female. And it had been at least three years since he’d had to endure such a scene. One of the reasons he had chosen Grace was because she’d not appeared the sort of female prone to crying fits. She’d handled herself with the kind of aplomb he admired and wanted in a mistress. With her, there’d be no histrionics. She’d keep to fulfilling his sexual needs and being the model escort when he desired one. Or so that’s what he’d thought. Four months into their arrangement she’d dispelled that assumption when she began to complain as the frequency of their meetings began to wane. From that point on, Thomas knew the clock on their arrangement was winding down. But obviously the end hadn’t come soon enough, he thought, rubbing his smarting cheek as he flexed his jaw.

“You’ve known from the start these sorts of arrangements are temporary,” he said, shifting on his feet. He watched her body heave as she inhaled and exhaled long, shuddering breaths.

At his words, her head jerked up, her hands dropped from her face, and he saw red swollen eyes and tear-stained, mottled cheeks. “It’s that woman, isn’t it? She’s demanded that you give me up, hasn’t she?”

Thomas’s thoughts flew immediately to Amelia. How could Grace possibly know about her? “What woman?” he asked sharply.

“The bloody Duchess of Bedford. The one who was here three weeks ago. Oh, she went on as if she’d mistakenly called on the wrong house. Said she thought a Mrs. Franklin lived here. But even after I told her there was no woman by that name around here, she didn’t leave. She started asking me questions about you. Were we acquainted? She told me how you and she had been close.” Grace stopped to swipe the tears from her cheeks. “I’m not stupid. I knew why she was here.”

Shocked but careful not to betray his alarm, Thomas stated calmly, “I’m not involved with the duchess nor do I desire to become so.” Never, ever again.

“You’re lying.” Her statement was bitterly accusing.

“Why on earth would I lie to you? You are not my lady wife. I have nothing to hide.” The letters were naught but a small nuisance. Her temerity, however, in calling on his mistress was a different matter altogether. One he intended to put a stop to immediately.

“You have had no discussions with her in regards to me?” Still disbelieving.

“I’ve had no contact with the woman in well over seven years. I was barely a man when we became acquainted.”

Faint hope flared in eyes still glassy from tears. “Then why—”

“But that changes nothing between us.” He sighed a long weary sigh. “I made no promises, Grace. You are acting as if I offered more than what we had. I did not.”

“Yes, just someone to scratch an itch when the need strikes you.” Tears choked her voice.

“That’s what a mistress is for.” Thomas didn’t want to sound callous, but in that she left him little choice.

“I’ve fallen in love with you.” She slowly rose to her feet, continuing to swipe at the tears rolling down her face.

Briefly, Thomas closed his eyes. As he’d feared, she imagined herself in love with him. He quickly consoled himself with the knowledge that in a few months time she’d imagine herself similarly in love with her next protector.

Miss Grace Howell, with all her worldly airs and invulnerability—or so that’s how he’d seen it when they’d first met—didn’t have what it took to be a good mistress. She too easily became emotionally entangled. What she needed was a husband, not a protector, which was something he should have seen from the onset. But this knowledge came one bruised heart too late.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He could think of little else to say.

Instead of dissolving back into tears, she visibly collected herself and treated him to a hard glare.

“You are even more heartless than I was told. Does nothing affect you? Save your precious mother and sisters, is there not a woman you care enough about to feel anything for?”

A vision of Amelia pushed to the forefront of his thoughts, a place she tended to linger all too frequently in. He forcibly shoved it back. “I will ensure there is enough money in your account to keep you until you find a new situation. Three months should be adequate.” Three months should be more than plenty. In two weeks or less, the Earl of Chesterfield would snatch her up. He’d been waiting impatiently for Thomas to tire of her. Or so Grace had told him on more than one occasion.

“Keep your damn money.”

If he had handed her a bank draft, he could see her ripping it to pieces and crushing it under her rosette embellished slippers. As soon as he’d gone, she’d be on her knees frantically collecting every jagged scrap. Pride and anger would elicit the former reaction, practicality and logic the latter.

“I will put it in your account. Do with it as you will.” By then, her temper should have cooled.

Thomas exited her residence for the final time with the grim thought, Women are more trouble than they are worth.


Instead of an evening on silky linen sheets, Thomas sat in the small library at Cartwright’s residence on John’s Street. Each man cradled a glass of port in their hand and lounged in brocade armchairs in the respective colors of deep green and burgundy in front of a blazing marble fireplace.

“She pounced on me like a cat.” Thomas slanted a glance at his friend, feeling fatigued by the whole affair. “By tomorrow I’m sure to bear some of the scars of our encounter.”

A small mirror in the carriage had already revealed a faint bruise appearing near his jaw.

“Who the hell told you to do it in person?” Cartwright chastised, lifting his legs to rest his stockinged feet on the ottoman in front of him. “Some flowers and a note should have sufficed, or perhaps a little trinket.”

“Yes, well, it was not my intention to break it off when I set out.”

His remark drew a quirked brow from his friend, who tipped his glass back for a sip of the port. “Then why did you?” Cartwright asked, placing his drink on the redwood side table next to his chair.

Yes, why did he? Thomas had pondered that question often since he’d left Grace’s residence. He lifted his shoulders in a helpless sort of shrug. “I don’t know. I guess because I’d been getting bored with her and she was becoming too possessive. Too demanding of my time.”

“Yes, that does happen. But in your case, much sooner than usual. How long had it been with her? Six months? A year?”

“What does that matter? She’s over and done with. At present, my most pressing matter is that damn Louisa.”

“And just what has our fair duchess done now?” Cartwright asked dryly, his grey eyes alight with interest.

Thomas quickly recited what Grace had told him.

“To seek out your mistress, at her residence no less, was bold beyond words. And with her husband gone not even three months.” Cartwright tsked. “The passing years have changed her. I don’t believe she’d have attempted anything so blatant when we made her acquaintance. Although, there was the incident with Rutherford….”

Yes, the incident.

Thomas had been foolish enough to believe Louisa when she’d said she loved him and claimed she’d marry him without a shilling to his name. At that time, his bank account contained little more than that.

He’d been completely taken with her blond beauty and coquettish innocence. But her veil of innocence came down with a mighty tug when he’d caught her pressing herself up against Rutherford at a ball Thomas hadn’t been expected to attend. At first, he’d stood there in shock, hidden behind the hedgerow in the garden. Then he’d waited in growing rage and watched to see just how far she intended to go.

Despite the fact that Rutherford had gently but firmly pried her hands from about his neck and left the scene shortly after, the incident had caused a small rift in their friendship. He’d confronted Rutherford the day after, but by the time he’d swallowed his pride enough to confront her, she was already betrothed to the Duke of Bedford.

Thomas had had to face the truth then. He, a young, penniless viscount with nothing but his name to recommend him, and his mother and younger sisters to care for, had been nothing more than a flattering diversion until she could worm a proposal from one of her two intended victims. Never mind that Thomas had meant to marry her.

“So how do you mean to handle the situation?” Cartwright continued.

“Well, I bloody well have to talk to the damn woman now, don’t I? She’s given me little choice, which I’m certain is exactly what she intended.” Thomas bowed his head and ran a weary hand over his face.

“Then you should come with me to Lady Forsham’s ball. I have it on good authority Her Grace has deigned to make an appearance.”

Thomas raised his head and eyed Cartwright skeptically. “You expect me to confront her at a ball? I don’t want to be more fodder for those damn gossip sheets.”

“Would you rather go to her home or worse yet, have her meet you at your residence? I would advise against being alone with her for any reason.”

Cartwright did raise a good point. No good could come of that. And the more thought he gave the idea of the ball, the better it was beginning to sound. Louisa was too aware of her position in society to create a scene in such a public venue.

“Very well, I will go, but don’t expect me to remain for the duration. As scintillating as I find these events, I have other duties to attend to. Since I had to retain a chaperone for Amelia and bring her into town with me, I’m forced to keep a close eye on her. I’m almost positive she’ll try to contact Clayborough, and while I’m confident Camille will be circumspect in her duties, I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

A burst of laughter came from Cartwright. “A positively seamless foray into the discussion of difficult females as I’ve ever heard. But truly, Armstrong, Miss Foxworth chaperoning Lady Amelia? Have you gone soft in the head? If things are that bad, perhaps I could be of assistance. I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her for you.” His grey eyes glinted appreciatively as he waggled black eyebrows.

Thomas didn’t find him the least bit amusing but nonetheless forced a smile under the vehement protest of his facial muscles. “Thank you, but I believe I can manage.”

Angling his head, Cartwright narrowed his gaze. “And by managing you mean …?”

Thomas abandoned his relaxed posture and came up straight in the chair. “What the hell do you think I mean?”

Cartwright held up his hand in mock surrender. “Whoa, no need to get yourself into a state over a simple question,” he said, laughing. “The last I heard, you intended the fair Lady Amelia receive her, er, comeuppance at your hands. She did, after all, question your sexual prowess. I’m merely inquiring how things are coming along on that front.”

Given his overwrought reaction to Cartwright’s teasing, Thomas could only imagine what his friend must be thinking. He forced a low chuckle from his throat, relaxed back into the chair, and offered Cartwright a dry smile before taking a deep swallow of his port.

After resting the etched glass on the table to his left, Thomas said, “I’ve come to see she isn’t even worth the bother.”

Cartwright barked a laugh, his eyes dancing. “That bad, eh? Well, I’m certain there are a number of ladies prime for whatever you had in mind for Lady Amelia. Though if you want a mistress who won’t become too attached, someone like Lady Amelia would suit you admirably.”

A dull suffusion of heat warmed Thomas’s face. He quickly shuttered his expression, hoping Cartwright would mistake the reddening for distaste and not guilt. “The one thing I do require from the women I take to my bed is that they don’t despise me. It would also be nice if I had some liking for them.”

After draining the last of his port, Cartwright lazily pushed to his feet and padded to his desk to pour himself another. Turning, he silently held up the crystal decanter to his friend. Thomas declined with a shake of his head.

“When are you returning to Devon?” Cartwright asked, as he made his way back to his chair.

“Sunday.”

“Perfect. I’ll need somewhere to go while the duke is in town. If I remain, he’ll expect to meet with me. I’d rather spend time in Newgate than see my father.”

Normally, Thomas would not have had an issue with his friend staying at Stoneridge Hall—he had been a frequent guest there since their youth—but this time … it just didn’t feel right. Couldn’t he avoid the duke without leaving town? Good Lord, his friend acted as if London wasn’t a big enough city for the two Cartwright men.

At his silence, Cartwright asked, “It won’t be a problem, will it?”

Thomas quickly shook his head. “No, no problem at all.” However, something inside him refuted the claim—loudly.

“Wonderful. It will also give me an opportunity to become better acquainted with Lady Amelia. Of the handful of times we’ve met, we’ve exchanged scarcely more than a polite greeting.” Cartwright appeared to be watching him closely for a reaction.

A thousand words of protest sprang to his lips. Thomas voiced not one word and flickered not one eyelash. “I’m certain she’ll be delighted for the company.”

On second thought, perhaps he could use that second drink.