A Taste of Desire

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.”

The chestnut-haired beauty turned to her. The woman’s eyes, an arresting mixture of slate grey and blue, glowed in genuine welcome, and she looked positively radiant from her flushed face, right down to her festive hunter-green wool and satin gown. And if the countess had indeed given birth only months past, one would be hard pressed to tell, as her waist couldn’t be more than twenty inches.

“Lady Windmere.” Amelia dipped into a shallow curtsey. How could she ever forget the circumstances under which they’d met? And Amelia was certain the countess remembered the woman who had insulted her brother at their introduction. A brother of whom, she might add, the countess appeared intensely fond. Her actions then, coupled with the warmth of her reception now, shamed her. Unfortunately, it was one year too late for regrets.

The countess, however, would have nothing so formal. She took Amelia’s hands in hers and patted them with the familiarity of old friends.

Nonplussed, Amelia could think of little else to do but allow it. Not since Elizabeth had a woman her age touched her in kindness. If an indication existed that Lady Windmere wouldn’t hold her past behavior against her, this was it. This relieved Amelia to no end.

“Of course, I remember Lady Amelia.” The countess sidled an impish grin at her brother. “I’m so pleased you could join us for the holidays. This is so much better than tea, don’t you agree, Thomas?”

Thomas’s mouth tightened at her question. Amelia’s gaze darted between the siblings. Better than tea? “Pardon me?”

“After our introduction last year, I urged Thomas to invite you over for tea. But I think an entire fortnight is much better, wouldn’t you agree?” She gave Amelia a guileless sort of look and gave her hand a final pat before releasing it. “And please, none of this Lady Windmere nonsense. I am Missy to any friend of my brother’s.” She shot her brother a look of pure mischief.

Any friend of Thomas’s? She certainly was not his friend, she was his—Amelia halted, refusing to complete the thought. Their situation was too confusing and discomfiting to be mused about at the present time.

Amelia forced a smile. “I would be more than happy to dispense with the formality of titles.”

In response to her invitation, Missy appeared more than a little pleased. Thomas, on the other hand, raised his brow, clearly surprised by her willingness to do so. She had held a rather hard line with him. But why shouldn’t she? Just because the countess—Missy—was his sister. She’d far outgrown the stage when she’d hold a person’s association with him against them. She wasn’t nearly that petty … anymore.

“Thank God you’re finally here, Armstrong. I thought my wife would expire awaiting your arrival.”

Amelia started as the deep male voice sounded from behind her. Twisting on her heel, she took in a very handsome, tall dark-haired man casually attired in shirttails and black trousers. The Earl of Windmere. The only member of the dimpled trio she had yet to meet. Goodness, Thomas and his friends must have kept the females of London in a constant state of wanting. And undoubtedly still did.

The men greeted each other in the manner of longtime intimates. After they concluded the Englishman’s form of an embrace—a brisk handshake and some masculine shoulder slapping—Lord Windmere turned to her. He then exchanged a brief inscrutable look with Thomas. “And this must be the fair Lady Amelia.” He watched her with a teasing glimmer in his pale blue eyes. Beautiful eyes.

No one spoke in the ensuing silence. Amelia’s cheeks warmed. If tales of her verbal exploits hadn’t reached the earl’s ears through the gossip mill, then of course, Thomas would have eagerly informed him. She could well imagine how badly they’d bandied her name about.

“James, do behave. You’ll have Amelia believing you’re as impertinent as I am,” Missy admonished lightly. “Since my brother seems to have forgotten his manners, Amelia, may I introduce you to my husband, James, the sixth Earl of Windmere.”

“Lord Windmere,” she said, dipping in another curtsey.

The earl dropped at the waist in a formal bow and grasped her hand in his, raising it to his lips for a kiss. “The pleasure is mine,” he said, slowly relinquishing her hand.

“Come, Amelia. You must be perfectly exhausted from your travels.” Addressing the footman who stood by the double staircase behind them, several large portmanteaus at his feet, Missy said, “Stevens, please take Lady Amelia’s baggage to the pink guest chamber and my brother’s to the green.”

“Yes, milady.” Stevens hefted one of the portmanteaus in his hands and proceeded up the stairs.

“I’m sure you would like to get out of those clothes and take a nice warm bath,” Missy said, her gaze skimming over Amelia’s wrinkled claret-colored traveling suit with its simple lines and full sleeves.

Suddenly self-conscious of her appearance, Amelia tucked several stray hairs into her once pin-neat coiffure. Too much napping had dislodged one too many pins from her chignon. “Yes, as you can well imagine, it has been a tiring day.”

She certainly wouldn’t tell the countess how excruciating the journey had been due to her brother’s brooding presence. As much as she’d tried to ignore him, she had found her gaze frequently drifting back to him, only to hastily look away as soon as he turned his regard to her.

“Come then. Let me show you and your maid to the guest quarters. I’m sure the men have much to discuss.” Missy smiled at her brother and then cast her husband a look so blatantly adoring Amelia averted her gaze. The feeling of intruding on something rare and intimate washed her in a cloud of melancholy.

With a familiarity no woman, save Elizabeth, had ever shown her, Missy hooked an arm through hers and proceeded up the stairs to what would be her bedchamber for the next two weeks.


“So that’s the infamous Lady Amelia,” Rutherford commented dryly, his eyes sparked in appreciation. “While no woman can hold a candle to my wife, she is a beauty.”

Rutherford was as enamored of his wife as any man Thomas had ever seen, which was just as well for she suffered just as badly as he.

“I couldn’t very well leave her at Stoneridge Hall,” Thomas muttered.

Rutherford chuckled. “Is that what you convinced yourself?”

Before Thomas could offer a response in his defense, the door sounded. Another footman quickly appeared to answer the chimed summons. Everything within him stiffened at the sight of Cartwright breezing through the doorway, hat in hand.

His friend’s presence normally would have promised a good time filled with great conversation—raucous and intelligent alike—and the ease of a long-held friendship. Or so it had been until Cartwright’s last visit. What the hell was wrong with him? Years ago, they’d all promised each other nothing, especially a woman, would ever come between them. Especially since the incident with Louisa. Pushing aside his feelings, Thomas forced a smile. If it lacked in authenticity, so be it. He was at least making the effort to be cordial.

Cartwright stopped to hand the footman his hat and coat before advancing toward them. Upon his approach, Rutherford thrust out his hand in greeting. “Missy told me you weren’t going to arrive until tomorrow.”

The two men smiled and shook hands warmly. “I left early to avoid the crush, as every fool I know intends to take to the roads tomorrow. And damned if I’m not glad I did. I practically had the entire first-class section to myself.”

“Seems more deliberate on the part of the train riders than a matter of happenstance.” Uncertain of his reception, Thomas kept his greeting in keeping with the sarcastic manner in which they often joked.

Cartwright’s expression instantly sobered as he turned to eye him silently. The seconds on the longcase clock outside the drawing room ticked inordinately loud throughout the hall. Just as Thomas’s smile began to falter, Cartwright raised his eyebrow. “After the way you tossed me from your home, I wasn’t sure you were still speaking to me.”

Rutherford’s gaze darted between them, his expression bewildered. “Would one of you be kind enough to fill me in? It’s obvious I’m missing something.”

With his eyes trained on Thomas, Cartwright peeled off his gloves, one finger at a time, his movements unhurried. Extending his right hand to him, he said, “Nothing that bears repeating. Isn’t that right, Armstrong?”

Thomas grasped his friend’s cold hand in his, accepting the peace offering in the spirit in which it was given. “It’s already forgotten.”

“But—”

“Leave it alone, Rutherford. It was nothing.” Thomas used a tone that clearly conveyed he’d entertain no further discussion on the matter. The earl eyed them for a few seconds longer before snapping his mouth closed.

As far as Thomas was concerned, the incident was forgotten. “Will supper be served at eight?”

Rutherford gave a short nod.

“Good, then I think a bath and a change of clothes are in order. I will see you both then.” With a nod toward his friends, Thomas departed.

* * *



“What the hell was that about?” Rutherford asked the moment Armstrong disappeared up the stairs.

Cartwright gave his friend a feigned look of innocence. “Where is the lovely Lady Amelia?”

“She’s upstairs with Missy,” Rutherford replied automatically. Then a look of comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Is that what—or to be more precise—whom that exchange was about?”

Cartwright idly tapped his gloves against his trousered leg. “Let’s just say the most effective way to get to Armstrong is by showing an interest in Lady Amelia. You wouldn’t imagine the time I had of it. Just be prepared to defend yourself though. You know the man’s temper.”

Rutherford grimaced, no doubt remembering the pummeling Armstrong had given him last year when he’d discovered the earl had compromised Missy. A beating Alex would no sooner forget and one he had no desire to ever be on the receiving end of. He could very well have broken something trying to break the two up.

“Ah,” Rutherford whispered after a moment of silence. “I should have suspected as much. He has always been just a little too violently opposed to her. Too much a Shakespearean element to his protests.”

Cartwright barked out a laugh. “My thoughts precisely.”

“And something tells me you’re up to something.”

“Well, I have been known to be a risk taker, as you are aware. And what would Christmas season be without me to liven things up?”

“If you do anything to spoil mine and Missy’s first Christmas with our children, I’ll beat you to a pulp myself,” Rutherford said, but the ghost of a smile softened the sternness of his warning. There was probably no one more eager to see Armstrong squirm because of a female.

“Uncle Alex ruin Christmas for my favorite twins? Absolutely not,” he said, theatrically aggrieved. “I’m just going to have some fun with their dear Uncle Thomas. And I know you’ll enjoy watching the show.”

Rutherford conceded the point with a wry chuckle. “You mean the damn spectacle. You’re a daring man, Cartwright.”

Alex smiled. He’d been told that a time or two, though under considerably different circumstances. “I know.”


The countess had summoned one of the maids to escort Hélène to her sleeping quarters after she’d shown Amelia hers. When the three departed, Amelia properly surveyed the room. Included in the mahogany and enameled furnishings were a large canopied four-poster bed, a winged wardrobe with inset glass on the center door, and a chintz flowered armchair. The walls were covered in silk paper of embossed pink and gold flowers, and the ceiling was an elaborate bead and floral molding. Everything appeared comfortable and infinitely pleasing to the eye.

Amelia’s plans for the evening were simple enough: a hot bath, a short nap, and supper, in that order. But the moment her head touched the pillow, her plans collapsed under the weight of her fatigue. Her allotted hour-long nap ran unabated until a knock on the door pulled her from a dreamless sleep.

Two things registered immediately: the curtains were drawn, permitting in a profusion of wintery light. And this, of course, led to Amelia’s other very astute observation: it was morning. Morning!

She bolted up in bed just as Hélène entered the chamber.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Her maid’s tone brimmed with joie de vivre.

“Hélène, it’s morning.”

“Oui, mademoiselle.” Hélène replied as if Amelia hadn’t just stated the obvious.

“Why didn’t you wake me for supper?”

“Lord Armstrong told me to permit you to sleep.”

Did he indeed?

A half hour later Amelia was making her way down the stairs continuing to ponder Thomas’s motivation. Had his gesture been one of kindness, or had her exhaustion simply presented him with a way to avoid her company? She disliked not knowing. But more than ever she disliked that his reasons so concerned her.

As Amelia started toward the breakfast room, Lord Alex rounded the hallway and headed toward her.

He stopped in front of her, and dropped into a deep bow. “Good morning, Lady Amelia. You look lovely as always.” A roguish smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I was completely heartbroken to discover you wouldn’t be joining us for supper last evening.”

Amelia laughed. Such effusiveness was hard to take seriously. “And certainly if I’d known you were here, neither illness nor a natural disaster would have prevented my attendance.”

“Well, thank heavens for that. Last night I thought I’d lost my touch.” His grey eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Will my company for breakfast suffice, or would that constitute a poor substitute?” she teased, something she found easy to do with him.

“If you’ll give me fifteen minutes to make myself presentable, I would be more than honored.” He motioned to his riding clothes and punctuated his tongue-in-cheek formality with a wink.

“I guess I can stave off hunger for that long, but not a moment longer,” Amelia replied, only half joking. After all, she hadn’t eaten since the afternoon snack the day before.

“Am I interrupting something?” A thread of steel ran through Thomas’s tone, giving its mildness a deceptive ring.

Amelia started and turned at the question. The blasted man needed a cowbell to alert her of his presence. He had stopped outside of the drawing room, his arms folded, his form taut, looking the very picture of the Archangel Gabriel, all golden, handsome … and entirely too forbidding. No man should look that good in precisely cut and stitched wool and cotton. And certainly not when it appeared he’d used his fingers instead of a comb to tame those silken locks. Why did he have to look so … so damnably appealing?

Lord Alex regarded his friend, looking, by all appearances, unperturbed. “Actually, I do believe you are. Is that not right, Lady Amelia?” He shot her a glance, his eyebrow raised in question.

Amelia did her circumspect best to quell a burst of laughter that bubbled to the surface. She gave a choked cough and offered no response.

Thomas’s glower grew as he eyed Lord Alex. After a pause, he regarded her. “You must be hungry. Allow me to escort you to breakfast.”

“Lady Amelia has just agreed to join me for breakfast as soon as I clean up.”

The only thing worse than two boys fighting over a toy, was two fully grown men treating a woman in the same manner. And currently, Thomas was the guilty party in this childish tug of war, although Lord Alex could easily be accused of his own bit of mischief making.

Amelia started to speak, as she should have some say in the matter. “I really—”

“Then we’ll make certain to chew slowly,” Thomas said, dismissing Cartwright with a turn of the head and motioning for Amelia to come to him.

No one moved and no one spoke during the deafening silence that followed. Amelia was simply too struck dumb to do anything, the situation simply too unbelievable to be real. Both men watched her, their expressions expectant.

Finally, Lord Alex turned to her. “The decision is yours. I would certainly understand if you chose to accompany Armstrong.”

Thomas’s intake of breath was audible, his anger visible for all to see. Two red slashes stained his cheekbones as his eyes turned into emerald chips. His chest rose and fell the way one did when striving to maintain control. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate his friend’s magnanimity; didn’t like that Lord Alex’s manner was a great deal more civilized than his.

“Amelia, please leave us. I need to speak with Cartwright … privately.” Thomas had his friend fixed in his gaze.

“Whatever you wish to say, I’m sure it can be said in front of Lady Amelia.” Lord Alex ruined what would have been a smooth retort when a smirk caught the corners of his mouth.

Once again, Amelia stood rooted in place, unable to make herself leave and miss the coming confrontation. Lord, you must be touched in the head. But not even that self-reproach made her go.

“I assure you, it cannot,” Thomas managed to utter despite his locked jaw and clenched teeth.

Thomas’s cavemanlike behavior caused a heady bit of excitement within her, which she valiantly tried to ignore. Her gaze darted uneasily between the two men. Lord Alex had an indolent look about him, currently braced against the balustrade, his feet crossed at his ankles, his arms across his chest.

“You look angry. Are you angry with me?” A perfectly legitimate observation and question if Lord Alex possessed the diseased brain of a half-wit.

Thomas’s eyes snapped and a growl rumbled in his throat. “You will leave Amelia alone.” Each word, distinct and precisely enunciated, exploded from his lips.

Amelia gasped. He had actually said it aloud. She experienced another heady rush. Thomas immediately stiffened and clamped his mouth shut. He’d said too much, but the effects of the blast reverberated throughout the hall, turning the air so dense it seemed to take on a solid form.

Cartwright’s laughter broke the silence. “If you’re staking a claim, I will gladly bow out. But if this is a case of ‘dog in the manger,’ I’ll have to object strenuously.”

Dog in the manger? She’d heard the phrase before and had always wondered at its meaning. She wished now she’d weathered the embarrassment and imposed upon someone to elucidate her.

Thomas’s expression hardened to granite. His eyes seemed to say, Staking a claim indeed! The bowels of hell would be knee-deep in snow first. However, what emerged from her mouth took him completely by surprise. “Bow out from what exactly? Is one mistress not enough for you?”

To this, Cartwright threw his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing under the bark of laughter loud and raucous.

Thomas scowled at her as if she’d somehow instigated the entire incident. But the glare he saved for his friend invoked an image of a coven of witches leaning over a boiling cauldron casting spells, its victim possessing silver-grey eyes and a dashing dimple in his chin.

“I’m the last person you want to toy with right now.” Thomas uttered the warning with such deathly sincerity, a rash of gooseflesh chased up the length of her arms.

Lord Alex, however, was not a man who cowed easily. His laugh subsided into a cant of rhythmic chuckles. “Whose intentions worry you more, mine or yours?”

In a blur of movement, Thomas had his friend by the jacket, his hands clutching a fistful of dark green wool and satin. Thomas breathed fire and brimstone while Lord Alex maintained the composure of a surgeon wielding a cutting knife.

“Mine don’t worry me one bit, as I have every intention of beating you to—”

“What on earth is going on down here?” A flurry of footsteps—those of the lord and lady of the house—descending the stairs accompanied the feminine voice raised in alarm.

“Thomas, what is the meaning of all this shouting?” the countess asked, halting at the foot of the staircase, her husband at her side. Her eyes rounded as she took in the scene before her: her brother clutching the shiny lapels of Lord Alex’s riding jacket.

“Cartwright.” His friend’s name growled from the earl like an expletive.

In response, Lord Alex spread his arms wide and held his palms up in supplication as he gave an innocent shrug. “You will take careful note of who is holding whom against their will.”

With that, Thomas abruptly released him and took an angry step back. Lord Alex made a grand show of straightening and smoothing his jacket.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” the countess demanded. She stood with her hands akimbo, the azure blue of her gown causing her eyes to flash more blue than grey.

“Go ahead, Armstrong, tell Missy why you came within inches of beating me to a pulp,” Lord Alex instructed in a smooth, unruffled tone.

“Cartwright.” Another warning from Lord Windmere.

Thomas stared back at his sister. Like an overworked motor, his breathing appeared subject to erratic fits and starts, until he seemed to get it under control.

Then there was just the silence. Everyone watched Thomas. With a scowl marring his handsome countenance, he watched them right back. “Oh, bloody hell,” he finally muttered. With one last withering look at Lord Alex, he started toward the front door. Before anyone could protest, he had disappeared through the doorway.

In a bemused state of wonder, Amelia turned to Lord Alex, who met her gaze with a sly wink. Though sinfully handsome, on their initial introduction he’d appeared as mild-mannered as a man of the cloth. But upon closer association, it was clear this man could chew her up and spit her out with such finesse she wouldn’t even feel the bites—a talent of only the truly dangerous. She was doubly glad he considered her a friend.

The earl approached Lord Alex on silent treads as the countess stared grim-faced after her brother. “I told you I won’t tolerate you spoiling Christmas. Fix this with Armstrong and fix it now. You can save your chicanery for when he’s visiting with your family.”

Amelia shared a bewildered look with the countess.

“Now I have to go out in the cold and fetch the man before he catches his death.” The earl turned from his friend, bellowed for someone named Randolph to fetch him two overcoats. Seconds later a bald man, short and muscled, appeared with two black wool greatcoats. The earl hurriedly shrugged one on and draped the other over his arm before departing the house, pulling the door closed with a resounding slam.