A Taste of Desire

chapter 16



There were no two ways around it; Amelia knew what she had to do. And if she did it now, she might be able to avoid awkwardness at supper.

With nothing to bolster her flagging courage but the deepest sense of remorse, she knocked on the bedchamber door and waited in dread.

The door was opened quickly. Camille Foxworth stood on the other side regarding her with eyes widened in shock—or perhaps it was horror. Amelia really couldn’t take issue with that. No doubt the poor woman believed she had come to divest her of her last shred of dignity. Finish the job, so to speak. Amelia could well understand why; her remark had been the veriest of insults.

“Lady Amelia, I-I—”

“Might I have a moment of your time, Miss Foxworth?”

“Yes—yes, of course.” She appeared flustered and not only a little nervous as she hastily moved aside to bid her entrance.

The bedchamber was on par with hers in décor as well as size: roomy, adequately heated, with solid, elegant furnishings and an exquisite canopied bed. Apparently, like hers, Miss Foxworth’s accommodations were more those of a guest than servant.

Quietly, Miss Foxworth closed the door before turning to face her. Amelia swallowed hard.

“Please allow me to apologize for my behavior this afternoon. I don’t know what prompted me to say something so unkind, so unwarranted. My rudeness was inexcusable and utterly reprehensible.” Amelia could barely stand to meet the woman’s gaze after she ended the contrite and rushed apology. Humble pie did not go down as easily as chocolate-dipped strawberries, nor did it come even remotely close to pleasing the palate.

For a moment Miss Foxworth stood motionless, her expression that of someone who’d received a hard knock on the head. Then she was fluttering her hands about and speaking quickly. “Lady Amelia, you needn’t apologize. Believe me, at my age and circumstance, I’ve heard much worse. All you did was speak the truth.”

Such self-deprecation. No one should be so inured to insults as to be resigned to them. Make light of them. A stab of shame hit her square in her conscience, one Amelia felt down to her bones.

“No.” Amelia said quite emphatically. “I have every need to apologize. What I said, how I acted, was beyond reproach. I remain more than a little ashamed of myself.”

Miss Foxworth smiled tentatively lighting up her blue eyes and accentuating cheekbones Amelia only now noticed were attractively high. It struck her then, that the woman wasn’t as nondescript as she’d first thought. Yes, her appearance certainly could be improved, and the first thing Amelia would suggest was a change in her wardrobe, which seemed to consist primarily of pale colors that did nothing for her pallid complexion.

“You have such lovely eyes and cheekbones.”

Miss Foxworth averted her head in a quick dismissal of the compliment, but her face turned the color of a ripe apricot. “Please, Lady Amelia, you do not have to—”

“I’m not saying so to make up for my behavior. Believe me, I’m not that kind.” Well, perhaps she was being a little kind, for she had much too appease for.

“I believe you’re kinder than you think.”

“And I believe there are others who would not agree with you,” Amelia answered with a little laugh. After a shared moment of amiable silence, her regard went to the bed, where a newspaper lay open atop the flowered counterpane. “I see I’ve interrupted you. I shall allow you to get back to your reading.”

Miss Foxworth glanced somewhat guiltily at the newspaper. “Oh, that is nothing but a gossip sheet. They say if one is to indulge in scandal, the preference is to have it on paper in black ink involving others.”

It appeared Camille Foxworth had a sense of humor. A surprise, given what Amelia had seen of her and the little she knew of her, but a welcome one nonetheless. “Yes, I suppose that’s the only way one would find it palatable. I hope the scandals are keeping you properly entertained.”

“Nothing terribly scandalous at the moment. However, the town is abuzz over the ball tomorrow evening.”

“And whose ball is that, pray tell?” Amelia asked more out of curiosity than anything else. After her last appearance at a ball, she wasn’t overly eager to attend another.

“Lady Forsham’s ball.”

Amelia stilled. Could it be the stars were aligning in her favor? Not only had she and her father received an invitation to the gala months before, but Lady Forsham was Lord Clayborough’s aunt. From his account, he and his aunt could have only been closer had she actually birthed him herself. Amelia had no doubt he’d be attending the ball.

“We should attend.” Amelia silently vowed she’d find a way, come hell or high water, though neither option was preferable.

After a perceptible pause, Miss Foxworth smiled as if caution should be preserved at all costs. “But, of course, you must have been invited. I will confer with Lord Armstrong when he returns. He might well be inclined to act as our escort.”

“Lord Armstrong informed me himself that he has other plans for the evening.” With his mistress. Not that it mattered to Amelia. It did not. But if the poor woman was foolish enough to be taken with him, a warning of this nature could save her in the long run.

“Then perhaps we shouldn’t—”

“And if we attend, I shall have my maid fix your hair. She is quite proficient with the tongs. I think curls will suit your face admirably. Of course, there is the matter of your gown.” Amelia gave her dress a critical stare. “I think a brighter color will go best with your complexion.”

A flicker of excitement sparked in Miss Foxworth’s eyes. There was nothing like flattery to bolster a woman’s self-image. And a handsome viscount to lead an innocent to scandalous behavior.

“I have a blue gown that will look divine on you. I can have Hélène take the hem up a few inches and take in the bodice, and it should fit you perfectly. We’ll also experiment with some cosmetics. A little color on your cheeks would be quite flattering. What do you think?” Amelia would simply overwhelm her with the tremendous possibilities to such an endeavor.

Thankfully, it worked, for Miss Foxworth appeared to have gone on the journey of her transformation with Amelia, her eyes shining with girlish excitement. And just like that, the matter of going to the ball without the viscount’s permission or escort ceased to be a concern.


The scent of perfume and candle wax hung heavy in the air. Certainly, Thomas had had to contend with worse smells in his lifetime, but tonight he felt practically suffocated by the cloying mixture. Or perhaps his sensitivity had more to do with just how much he had no desire to be there.

After only a few minutes at the ball, Lady Stanton, with her daughter in tow, had pounced upon him and Cartwright like an oversized cat sprigged in an elaborate headdress, claws drawn. She’d taken one look at his expression and wisely turned to Cartwright. Lord Alex, would you be so good as to take my dear Georgiana on a swirl about the room? Cartwright had acquiesced without a fuss. And he so often complained that he—being a second son and all—found himself being dragged off to the dance floor with such regularity. Stupid man. Escaping the clutches of ruthless, socially ambitious mothers was not for the faint of heart and certainly not for a man who strived to comport himself like a gentleman at all times—at least publicly. Cartwright was hardly the saintly pillar many thought him to be.

The only squared edges to be found in the circular ballroom were on the thick, grooved support columns running the periphery of the room. Thomas stood near the one closest to the door, scanning the guests with a dispassionate eye. The joviality around him didn’t entice him. He’d come for one singular purpose.

Thomas spotted said purpose a minute later amid a buzz of activity at the entrance. He checked his timepiece. Ten o’clock and fashionably late. He didn’t have to see Louisa to know it was she who had created the stir. Who else would have gentlemen effusively bowing like wooden toy soldiers, and women practically genuflecting, their crinolines colliding with every object and person within a fifteen-foot radius?

The object of their reverence—perched obscenely high on her self-appointed pedestal—glided into the room, much too imperial to walk like lesser mortals.

She was still beautiful, sheathed in a ball gown of ice blue silk and white lace, her hair a profusion of pearls weaved in between ringlets of blond curls. But he’d expected as much. Louisa possessed too much vanity to permit time to taint her God-given looks.

During their last encounter, his emotions had been in a state of upheaval, his pride in tatters. He was gratified to discover he could now observe her with a detachment only time and distance could bring.

Surrounded by some of her boot-scraping admirers, Louisa accepted their attentions with the due of a queen. In the midst of the gaggle of fawning peers, she shot an idle glance about, her smile masking bored sufferance—he now knew that pasty smile for what it was. Thomas angled himself in her direct line of vision. She would spot him soon enough.

As evidenced by the brief rounding of her eyes, she did so moments later. But her smile didn’t falter and their eye contact was brief. She calmly continued to nod imperious greetings to the guests surrounding her.

Motionless amid the swirling masses, Thomas was certain it would only be a matter of time. Before long, she lightly touched the gloved arm of Lady Forsham and with the tip of her chin, gestured in his direction. Within seconds, she and their hostess were making their way toward him.

The speed at which she’d separated herself from a group that included the ranks of the Earl of Radcliffe and the Marquess of Stratford brought Thomas no satisfaction. Once upon a time, he would have experienced a sense of triumph, of vindication. Currently, he felt nothing save the irritation that she’d succeeded in forcing him to seek her out.

They reached his side after several unsuccessful attempts by other guests to waylay them.

Lady Forsham reached out and lightly touched the sleeve of his jacket as she beamed a wide smile up at him. “Lord Armstrong, Her Grace has requested an introduction.”

“I daresay, I don’t believe we are in need of an official introduction. Her Grace and I met many years ago, did we not?”

Louisa merely inclined her chin, a small smile on her lips as Lady Forsham’s gaze darted between them before a dawning look of comprehension altered her expression. “Then this is altogether truly delightful. I am certain you will want to reacquaint yourselves.”

At this point, Thomas thought she would have gone merrily on her way, but she did not. Instead, she remained rooted in place wearing an expectant look on her face. An awkward silence followed. Then, as if the countess finally realized they would hardly be inclined to renew their acquaintance with her standing in avid earshot, she executed a small curtsey before turning and disappearing into the throng of partygoers.

What followed her departure was a silence the width and breadth of the Andes. Louisa effectively bridged the silence, stepping closer, her mouth set in a moue. “Would it have wounded that accursed pride of yours to respond to even one of my letters? You, sir, are a fiend to put me in a position that I should be forced to take up pursuit. That is supposed to be the gentleman’s privilege.”

Thomas cocked his brow and retreated a step. So refreshingly forward. Good, it gave him leave to be just as forthright.

“And here I thought my lack of response would clearly indicate my disinterest. If I’d known you required I put it in writing, I would have done so immediately.”

She winced. A bit of a farce if he’d ever seen one—as if she’d taken an egregious hit. After their acquaintance had met its dramatic demise, he’d thought of her as the queen—or duchess as it were—of deception. That’s when he could think about her without the rage and the feeling of betrayal and humiliation.

“Perhaps you’d care to find somewhere more”—Louisa shot a glance around at the ebullient crowds—”private to talk. It’s much too noisy in here for us to carry on a proper conversation. I’ve much to tell you. Much I think you might wish to hear.”

Thomas deliberately took in their position by the colonnade and the potted plants, which offered as much privacy from the crush as they would get anywhere in the room. “This looks to be private enough for me to say what I must.” He paused a beat. “I want you to stop.”

Two faint lines appeared on her forehead as though the final word bitten out through his clenched jaw surprised her.

“Calling on my mistress was low even for you.”

Her brown eyes darkened at the insult.

“I want you to cease the letters.”

Her mouth tightened into a red, pouty line.

“I want you to cease the inquiries of my whereabouts. I believe I’ve made it plain that I have no desire to renew our acquaintance.”

She wrinkled her nose delicately, as if her nostrils had just been accosted by an objectionable scent.

“Have I made myself clear?”

A myriad of emotions expressed themselves in her eyes, her mouth, the angle of her chin and her form. Finally, she offered up a smile teetering on the fringes of irritation and exasperation. “It makes me wonder, Thomas, why you’re so angry with me after so many years. Such strong emotions may suggest that you still have feelings for me. Feelings possibly as strong as mine for you. I hear you’re still unwed.”

The only thing more staggering than her arrogance was her cheek. As if his marital state had anything to do with her. Thomas’s own sense of propriety—and the group of debutantes casting interested looks in his direction—prevented him from delivering her the dressing-down she deserved, but something in his expression must have conveyed his derision.

With the suddenness of a shift in the wind, her eyes went from a contrived woefulness to shards of ice. But that too was gone just as quickly, though her displeasure couldn’t be completely disguised. He knew the signs: the jawbone protruding slightly, the indrawn breath, and a quick flaring of her nostrils. Rejection could never be considered an aphrodisiac.

“I can’t help if your overwrought imaginings have you misconstruing my indifference for some sort of pent-up longing. I will, however, ask that you cease your pursuit. Now!” The last word was a growled command, brooking no opposition.

With that, Thomas gave a sharp bow, pivoted on his heel, and started toward the exit. He could see her in his mind’s eye, her eyes wide in disbelief and then quickly narrowing to slits. How dare he walk away from her, a duchess, the daughter of an earl? He had, the penniless viscount who wasn’t penniless anymore. But her pride wouldn’t permit her to pursue him so publicly. After all, she was all she’d ever aspired to be. A duchess, queen of the noble realm.

As he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, he could now take his leave of the place. There was just the matter of informing Cartwright of his departure. They’d come together so he could at least offer his friend transport home if he was inclined to leave now.

Thomas skirted the dance floor, evading a group of ladies who appeared ready to pounce on the next passing eligible male. As his gaze swept the room, a figure near the set of French doors leading to the terrace caught his attention. Although she stood a fair distance away and had her back to him, she possessed the kind of figure a man would have to be blind or a eunuch not to appreciate. And there was something familiar about the dark silken coif of curls pinned atop her head, and the set of her slender shoulders.

She angled her head. The view of her profile caused him to stop in mid-stride.

Damn her!

Someone bumped him from behind.

“I beg your pardon,” he said instantly, only giving the gentleman—Mr. Wright—an impatient glance. By the time he turned his attention back to the woman, the shifting masses now obscured his view.

Behind him, he could hear Mr. Wright launch into a profuse apology, for it was certainly his fault. Should he not have anticipated that his lordship would halt so abruptly in front of him? And if he hadn’t been in such a rush and following his lordship so closely, the unfortunate contact would not have occurred.

Thomas started toward the terrace, a maelstrom of fury propelling him forward as Mr. Wright’s ingratiating apology droned on behind him.


Thirty minutes after their arrival at the ball, Amelia watched as Mr. Glenville escorted her chaperone to the dance floor. In viewing the results of her and Hélène’s efforts, she conceded with more humility than conceit, that they had done a wonderful job in her transformation.

Miss Foxworth’s hair had been curled and strategically coiled about her face to accentuate her cheekbones and minimize her forehead, which Amelia had belatedly discovered upon closer inspection, was a fraction too long. She wore a rich blue taffeta gown with lace flounces, and the corset Amelia had chosen for her helped to create a cleavage out of modest-sized breasts, although the term modest in this instance might be an overly generous one. Miss Foxworth was almost unrecognizable, and looking very much improved. One could say she happily bordered on pretty.

And with Miss Foxworth now occupied, Amelia was free to search out Lord Clayborough. She knew he had to be in the crowd somewhere.

It took all of five minutes, in which time she refused three offers of refreshments, and four requests to dance. He was entering the ballroom through the doors leading to the terrace with a drink in his hand. Clad in a black jacket and trousers, and a white waistcoat and cravat, he moved with a sense of purpose in his strides.

She was practically on top of him when he finally noticed her. He could scarcely hide his shock, his mouth moving without the effect of sound. He quickly recovered his speech. “Why, Lady Amelia, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Devon.”

Amelia didn’t give an immediate response, instead she first steered them to a more private spot by the terrace doors. “Why have you not responded to my letters?” she demanded once they were safely out of earshot. There were too many women present who would like nothing better than to see her total ostracism from society. The cuts she’d received since her arrival told her some had not forgotten her last attendance at a ball.

The baron’s eyes widened in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “What letters? I’ve received no letters from you.”

“I’ve sent you three letters since I arrived in Devon. For over a month I’ve been awaiting your response.”

“Lady Amelia, I swear to you, I’ve received none of them.” The baron had a tendency to look away when he lied—as he had when he’d said he would marry her with or without her substantial dowry. His gaze was alarmingly direct.

Amelia was too piqued to find any solace in his assertion. “Would it behoove you to try to contact me? I did tell you I would write upon my father’s departure. As you well know, my father left the country over a month ago.”

Lord Clayborough could offer no response because he hadn’t thought of it. When he could have taken the initiative, he hadn’t done so. Amelia dearly hoped this did not speak of things to come. Now Thomas would have … She broke off the thought, for it didn’t bear completion.

“Well, in the future, you needn’t wait for me to contact you. You know precisely where I am. You own your own conveyance, and public transit is well within your means.” In other words, you can rescue me without an expressed written invitation.

A stricken look flashed across his face. “Yes, of course. I was just under the assumption that we—”

“Well, in the future, do not assume.” She didn’t mean to snap her reply, but she was beginning to draw comparisons between Lord Clayborough and the viscount and the baron was coming up wanting—which just wouldn’t do. Again, she did her best to quell further such thoughts. “But as I am in town, all of that may be a moot point.”

“Begging your pardon, Lady Amelia, but I have left Lord Barnaby waiting for me in the game room. If you’ll give me a moment, I must excuse myself from the game.”

The baron regarded her as if awaiting her permission to depart, which only succeeded in vexing her all the more. Nonetheless, she assented with an irritated nod. Lord Clayborough executed a polite bow and strode off, soon swallowed by the press of the crowd.

Conscious of some disapproving stares from certain matrons of the ton, Amelia stoically started toward the refreshment room. Narrowly focused on her destination, which was conveniently situated next to the game room, Amelia didn’t see the person bearing down on her until it was too late. They collided with unforgiving force. Masculine hands grasped her upper arms to steady her and remained long after she’d established her balance was sound.

“Beg my par—” A glance up caused the words to still in her throat and her heart to give a horrifying thud. Amelia had never seen an emerald burn, but as she viewed the green eyes staring down at her, she imagined it would look exactly like that.