A Taste of Desire

chapter 25



Thomas didn’t feel the cold. The heat of his blood warmed him against the biting wind sending his hair flying about his head in a whirlwind. He walked with no destination in mind; he just knew he needed to walk off the corrosive anger inside him, the primitive urge to do his boyhood friend bodily harm.

He shouldn’t have allowed Cartwright to rile him. But in matters concerning Amelia, he was like a dog in a manger. And he bloody well hated that Cartwright had challenged him with the truth.

Rounding the hedgerows along the side of the manor house, a gust of bone-chilling wind finally penetrated his anger. To be out in this weather without a coat proved just how foolhardy he was acting. If he possessed one iota of sense, he’d go back. But as it stood, freezing seemed a better alternative than going back to face Missy, Rutherford, Cartwright … and, dear Lord, Amelia. He might as well have branded her with a KEEP OFF MY PROPERTY sign, sodding imbecile that he was.

Approaching footsteps sounded behind him. Thomas shot a glance over his shoulder. Rutherford. Blast. The last thing he wanted was company—even that of the well-meaning variety. He wanted to be alone. Then an involuntary shiver shook him as the cold crept under his shirt collar. Although he wouldn’t refuse the coat his friend was carrying.

Without saying a word, Rutherford reached his side and offered him the coat. Thomas paused to pull it on, gratified to have the thick garment to defend against the winter elements. He then continued on his way to nowhere in particular.

Rutherford fell in step beside him. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” he asked quietly.

They walked a good half a minute in silence, their breath creating icy smoke trails in the air.

“It’s nothing,” Thomas finally replied. Even if he had the desire to do so, how did he explain himself?

“Has it to do with Lady Amelia?” Rutherford regarded his profile.

Thomas refused to look at him, his pace steady as their footprints disturbed the white tranquility of the newly fallen snow. “This is between me and Cartwright. Leave the matter alone,” he said crisply.

Shoving his hands deep in his coat pockets, Rutherford stared at the ground. “I can certainly understand why you wanted to refuse Harry—Lady Amelia looks to be quite a handful. I bet she’s even more petulant and spoiled than you’d thought.”

Thomas shot his friend a sharp look of censure as something inside him instinctively protested his friend’s unwarranted criticism of her. “I would hardly call her petulant or spoiled.”

“But you did. The last time you were here. I believe you also referred to her as rude and insolent.” The earl innocently returned his gaze.

And so he had. But that didn’t give Rutherford the right to malign her character. Bloody hell, the man didn’t even know her.

“She’s not all that bad,” he grumbled, somewhat annoyed at himself for his own defense of her.

A wry smile tipped the corners of Rutherford’s mouth. “Well, she is very beautiful,” he conceded.

“My mother and sisters are extremely fond of her. And she is as intelligent as she is beautiful.”

A choked sound came from the earl, before he quickly cleared his throat. “Really? She sounds like a veritable goddess.” Another choked sound emerged as Rutherford’s shoulders began to shake in swells of amusement.

Good God, the bloody man was laughing at him. “Christ, if I’m going to have to deal with you too, I’ll bloody well go back to Devon.” Thomas pivoted abruptly to start toward the front.

“You’re in love with the woman. Why can’t you just admit it?”

It was Rutherford’s words that caused him to halt, not the restraining hand he placed on his coat sleeve. Thomas slowly turned to face him, feeling as if he’d been struck in the head by a heavy instrument, numb from the bluntness of the question and the starkness of that word. Love.

“I ran from Missy for four years, and where did it get me? Bound to her for life—and happier than I ever thought possible. There’s something to be said for beautiful, stubborn, willful, infuriating females. They can prove to be downright irresistible.” As it always did at the mention of his wife, love lit Rutherford’s eyes and softened his features.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what his friend was angling at. “Please don’t compare your relationship with my sister to mine and Amelia’s. I wouldn’t even term what the lady and I have as a relationship, unless incessant fighting classifies it as such.” And passion with enough fire to reduce a thousand forests to ashes.

Their unplanned trek had left them at the back of the house, next to a final line of hedgerows before the land gave way to gently rolling hills blanketed in shimmering white. Thomas fixed his gaze on a patch of clouds hanging incongruously in an otherwise crystal blue sky.

“Whatever is going on between you two must be strong if it has you like this.” And they both knew that this was him acting the fool over that slip of a woman.

“This is Cartwright’s doing.” Thomas growled and jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

Rutherford chuckled dryly. “Well, he does like to have his fun.”

“Has it come to your attention that this fun he’s intent on having is at my expense? Who the hell told you to invite him for Christmas anyhow?” Thomas slanted him an accusatory look.

“You know damn well I haven’t any say in these matters. Moreover, your sister adores the man.”

Yes, Cartwright held a special place in Missy’s soft heart. Lord, she had known him before she could crawl.

“So will you now admit you’re in love with Lady Amelia?”

Thomas gaze snapped to his friend, his mouth poised to issue a forceful denial. But the commiserate expression on Rutherford’s face stopped him cold. Although the words died in his throat, the very essence of who he was as a man begged him to bluster and prevaricate something—anything that would give him the appearance of being immune to the debilitating emotion.

As if sensing his turmoil, Rutherford gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “If it’s at all comforting, admitting it to yourself is the hardest part. After that it’s just the matter of setting a wedding date and showing up at the church.”

Marriage to Amelia? A dull ache started in Thomas’s chest. He swallowed hard. “I would be a complete fool to even consider her for my wife.”

Rutherford’s lips quirked. “Perhaps not a complete fool.”

Thomas’s toes were growing numb from the cold and so too was his mind, for he wasn’t just contemplating marrying Amelia, he was all but resigned to it. What else is a fairly honorable man supposed to do when he takes a lady’s virginity? So what if the incident had taken place weeks before? He thought himself fairly honorable. She was already his, but marriage would legalize the union. Suddenly, what felt like a heavy weight fell from his shoulders. He wouldn’t concede it was love, but he felt the emotion was strong enough to sustain a marriage.

“Well, let’s see if the lady will have me.” Thomas turned and started back toward the house.

From behind him, he heard Rutherford mutter, “I have the distinct feeling she already has.”


After the door closed behind the earl, Amelia regarded Lord Alex, who appeared the very picture of guilelessness. But she knew quite well that if wickedness were a virtue, he’d by far be considered the most virtuous person there.

Missy peered up at him, a frown fixed on her beautiful face. “And just what, pray tell, is that smile all about? What did you do to my brother?” The countess punctuated her question by jabbing him in the shoulder—hard. He responded with an exaggerated wince. Missy possessed the litheness of a dancer and she was a half-foot shorter than Alex, but Amelia had no doubt she was more than up to the task of browbeating him silly.

“I didn’t do anything,” he protested, all mock innocence. “Your brother really needs to try to control that temper of his.”

“He could freeze to death out there.” Another jab of Missy’s finger to his chest was followed by another unconvincing wince.

“You saw for yourself—Rutherford is bringing him an overcoat,” he reasoned, still smiling.

The countess rolled her eyes. “You are impossible,” she said, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Just don’t come complaining to me when Thomas beats you black and blue.” With a sharp turn on her heel, she dismissed him as one would an exasperating younger sibling. “Come, Amelia, let us go and eat so that Alex can determine the best way to bring down swelling without a poultice.”

If his fate involved a sound trouncing, as the countess inferred, the man in question didn’t look the least bit concerned. He acknowledged their departure with an overly deferential bow and a playful glimmer in his grey eyes.

The countess led Amelia down the hall, hooking their arms at the elbows like longtime friends while grousing about what an unapologetic rapscallion Lord Alex had become. Amelia, who was little more than a novice at sharing this kind of intimacy with a female contemporary, permitted it, somewhat taken aback and too polite to react differently.

A short time later, they entered the breakfast room. Candles lit the room as only weak rays of sunlight streamed through three large windows.

“Please help yourself. We’re generally only formal for supper,” Missy invited her, angling her chin toward the sideboard, which was currently home to silver-covered platters of varying sizes. Amelia’s stomach gave a celebratory lurch, growling at the bombardment of pleasant smells assailing her nostrils.

The countess laughed. “I told my brother someone should have awoken you last night, but he insisted you needed your rest more.”

Amelia didn’t know quite how best to respond. Though the countess made the statement without any apparent innuendo, his actions came across almost … protective. “I was quite tired,” she said, busily piling her plate with crumpets, poached eggs, bacon, and oven-warmed bread. Hunger should not suffer the pretense of female delicacy.

After their plates were duly filled, the women took them to the linen-covered table, where the attending footman—a tall, sturdy young man with a shock of red hair—seated them. When he reached for the teapot, Lady Windmere lightly batted his hand away. “We are fine, Stevens. Please go and ensure Lord Alex has no hot water for his shower bath.” She proceeded to pour two cups of tea before glancing at Amelia. “A cold one will do him good.”

As though that kind of order were commonplace, Stevens gave a brisk nod and bowed out of the room.

The countess let out a soft chuckle at Amelia’s raised brow and wide-eyed stare. “As fitting a punishment as that would be, Stevens has known me long enough to know that I am not serious.”

Beauty and a sense of humor. In the past, Amelia wouldn’t have thought the two traits together admirable in a female. Usually, it was the lack of the former that necessitated the latter.

They commenced eating, Amelia digging into her food with zeal. After a minute of companionable chewing, Lady Windmere said, “Would you like to tell me what caused that display out in the foyer? Is something going on between you and Alex?”

“N-No!”

“Between you and my brother then?” she asked pleasantly, picking up her teacup to take a sip.

Given the previous question, the second one shouldn’t have surprised Amelia at all—but it did. It so discomfited her, her mouth couldn’t form a denial. “Um—”

“You find me terribly forward, don’t you? Ask my husband, it’s a terrible personal flaw of mine.” But there was no embarrassment or apology in the countess’s admission.

Amelia slowed the chewing of her buttered scone to give her time to collect her thoughts. How did one articulate to the man’s sister the complexities of their relationship? He’s taken me to bed, where we had scorching, passionate sex, but still we don’t exactly get along. Somehow that just didn’t seem a wise thing to say. At least not at the breakfast table.

“Lord Alex has been kind to me. He is my friend—or at least I believe he holds me in that light.” There, it was much easier to start with the initial question. The relationship she understood. She knew that whatever Lord Alex was playing at, he had no interest in her as a prospective wife, or even a conquest. But it seemed it would take the return of Christ to convince Thomas of that.

“And my brother? Why were we about to witness a brawl in my foyer?”

“I believe Lord Alex just enjoys provoking Thomas.” Which was as apparent as a trunk on an elephant.

The countess’s mouth curved in a secretive smile as she took another drink of tea. “Alex can be provoking, period. Although, only those close to him are aware of that fact. But rarely can he get a rise out of Thomas. They have known each other too long. But I wonder how long you will try to avoid my question about you and my brother.” She flashed Amelia a guileless smile before popping a forkful of ham in her mouth.

The woman was absolutely relentless—an Armstrong trait, it would appear. “There is nothing between me and Thom-Lord Armstrong.”

The countess’s eyebrows rose innocently at her slip.

Amelia continued. “He and my father are very close. On the other hand, he and I don’t particularly get along, but we will make an effort during our visit.”

If Amelia expected the countess to lay the whole thing to rest, she would have been well advised not to hold her breath. A full-bodied laugh burst from Lady Windmere’s throat. She laughed and laughed. And the longer she laughed, the more disgruntled Amelia grew. Lord, she hadn’t said anything that amusing.

“Oh dear,” the countess said, her slender shoulders still shaking as she wiped a tear from her eye. “For a moment, I thought you actually expected me to believe the two of you have no feelings for each other.” She gave one final hiccupping laugh, her expression slowly sobering. Then her mouth formed a circle. “Oh,” the countess breathed, “you do expect me to believe that drivel.”

Amelia blanched. Some thought she had cheek, but it appeared the countess was looking to best her in that arena. Suddenly, she felt quite put upon and defensive. But she was not about to go off, all half-cocked, as she would have done in the past. Instead, she plucked the serviette from her lap, and touched it to the corners of her mouth, the small action giving her a measure of composure.

“I’m not certain I know entirely what you mean by that,” Amelia said. Normally situations such as this would have called for a swift and cutting response. Unfortunately, she could think of nothing else to say.

The countess’s slate-blue eyes softened, her expression becoming contrite. “Amelia, I didn’t mean to disconcert you.”

Amelia shook her head numbly, trying to ignore the look the countess wore. It was that you-poor-girl-you-are-fooling-yourself expression she knew so well because she’d worn it herself and directed it at many deluded females.

Turning her attention back to her food, the countess popped the last piece of marmalade-laden bread in her mouth. Once finished, she washed it down with the remainder of her tea. Amelia followed suit, her near-empty stomach demanding she try to consume as much as she could.

“My brother has been known for his temper, but that was in the past.” The countess fixed her utensils on her plate to signal her completion of her meal. “The last time I’ve seen him so close to violence was with James.” Her eyes lit at the mention of her husband’s name. A soft wispy sigh fluttered past her lips. “But that was to be expected as Thomas had just learned he’d compromised me.”

Amelia blinked back another wave of surprise at the latest revelation. For a brief moment, she wondered if the countess had said it for shock value, but the frankness of her regard told her differently as she appeared amused by the memory.

“Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—my determination to have James as my husband was a thing to be seen. I was in love, and terribly naïve. But as you can see, it all worked out for the best, for I couldn’t be happier with my life.” Her smile displayed pearly white teeth, and a woman more than content with her lot in life.

“But getting back to the point I am trying to make. I think I’ve known since your introduction last year, you would play a significant role in his life.” Amelia opened her mouth to speak, but the countess held up her hand to halt the words before she could issue them. “And when I heard word of what happened at Lady Stanton’s ball back in August, I was certain of it. Your reaction to him is too volatile. And instead of dismissing you out of hand as Thomas does with most women he doesn’t care for, he allows you to get under his skin. I have never seen my brother allow a woman to get under his skin. Quite the opposite in fact.”

Amelia sat mute in her chair, trying to quell a rising tide of fear. Lord, how exposed she felt. What response did she give to this woman who—much like her brother—seemed to be able to see right through her and would no doubt scoff at her every denial and any defense she chose to mount?

“Are you in love with my brother?”

Months ago the question would have catapulted her into peals of laughter at its absurdity. Or perhaps had her elegant little nose turned up in affront at the sheer audacity of it. But months had passed. Time enough to lose her heart. Amelia didn’t laugh. Instead she sat wide-eyed and stricken. Swallowing became a special process only performed by those possessing the coordination to do so. Or those who hadn’t that same lost organ blocking the passage of her throat.

No. No. No. I don’t love him. More important, I don’t want to love him. But as loudly as the words reverberated within her, she could not get her mouth to cooperate and speak them. Why?

I can’t love him, her mind continued to wail. I will never be in control with him. Amelia blinked and swallowed hard, the revelation hitting her harder than gale-force winds.

“I see I’ve discomfited you,” the countess said. “I won’t continue to press you. Perhaps you yourself haven’t realized it as yet. So now you’ll have to think about what I’ve said.” Patting her hand solicitously, she said, “Since we are finished with our meal, would you like to go up to the nursery and meet my twins?”

“I would love to meet your children,” Amelia said, desperate to latch on to another topic of discussion, willing and ready to throw herself into any activity that didn’t require her to see, think, feel, or speak about Thomas.

The countess gathered her skirts and came gracefully to her feet. “Then come with me.”

Amelia spent the remainder of the day with Missy—as she had been instructed to call her when she’d slipped and addressed her as Lady Windmere. The countess claimed the title made her feel ancient coming from a woman her age.

They spent many hours with Jason and Jessica, the four-month-old twins. Sadly, Amelia’s life hadn’t given her many opportunities to be around children, much less babies. But, as she’d always believed, she took to them with the ease of a mother destined to care for her own. She adored everything about them: their rosy cheeks, their chubby little bodies, their gummy smiles, and their innocent neediness. She could have cuddled the babies for hours more had Jason not fallen asleep in her arms. It was at that point she and Missy placed both babies back in their cribs for their naps.

Missy then introduced her to the earl’s sixteen-year-old twin sisters (twins appeared to be aplenty in the Rutherford household), Catherine and Charlotte. The girls were strikingly lovely. Exotic was the word that came instantly to mind as the only way to describe them with their honey-gold tresses and sun-kissed complexions. Their eyes were the same iridescent blue of their brother’s with the same large, dark pupils. Amelia could see their coming out would set the gentlemen of the ton anxiously on their toes.

The sisters greeted her with an initial reserve, all finishing-school politeness and deference. But during afternoon tea, they lost much of that reserve, their liveliness bubbling to the surface.

While sipping her hot cocoa, Catherine revealed another aspect of her character when she cheerfully informed Amelia, she and her sister were in fact the earl’s half sisters, the by-blows of the dearly departed fifth Earl of Windmere. The girl enjoyed a salacious tale. Once learning of their existence the year before, their brother, a saint to rival all biblical saints, had promptly taken them in. Their lives hadn’t been the same since, Catherine concluded with a smile. Amelia expressed the desired surprise, although she’d heard varieties of the same tale through the grapevine some time ago.

Charlotte, on the other hand, seemed more concerned with Amelia’s association with Lord Alex. But she was subtle in her approach. A question and comment here and there. Had they met? Was she aware he’d arrived a day early from London? No, Amelia had not. How nice. Alex and Thomas had been ever so kind to them. Did she know Alex was quite brilliant at fixing things? She’d not met many men with eyes like his. Lovely in the empirical sense. The girl had the vocabulary of a literary scholar. Although she said nothing terribly forward, her feelings were obvious. But the poor girl hadn’t a chance. Her beauty, and even the promise of the diamond she would become in another year or so, couldn’t make up for her youth and innocence.

After tea was concluded, Amelia retired to her bedchamber to rest until supper. What else had she to do? Thomas had made himself scarce throughout the day since he’d stormed out of the house. Nearly the entire day she had waited and hoped to catch a glimpse of him, her breath hanging on every footfall she’d heard out in the hall and her heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. But it had never been him, only the servants going about their daily chores.

Missy had been kind enough not to call her on her frequent inattentiveness, merely watching her, a sympathetic smile playing on the corners of her lips as if she too had experienced the same uncertain, anxious, crippling course of love.

As Amelia lay on her bed, stripped down to her chemise and pantaloons, her gaze idly, almost sightlessly, traced the blue gauzy material of the canopy. She was in love with Thomas Armstrong. There, she had admitted it. And if this was not love, it was a petrifying facsimile of some other heartrending emotion.

Surely it was only love that could take one from the summit of the highest mountain to the depths of the deepest valley. It could only be love that had her uncertain as to whether she was right side up or upside down, and had her every sense screaming for a cessation to the excess of feelings: the yearning, the anger … the passion roiling constantly inside her.

Lord, she had never felt so much and with such intensity since … yes, since her mother’s death. Sometime after that—perhaps when she’d realized she’d lost not one but both parents—the numbness had claimed her. She had welcomed the numbness. She’d welcomed freedom from the pain that rent her heart at the thought of the mother she would never see again. She’d ceased to feel the pain, like tiny jagged knives into her skull, when her father’s eyes would look right through her, if he chose to look at her at all.

Shifting on her side, she tucked her hands to pillow her cheek and let out a ragged breath. Feeling again was exhilarating, like coming back to life. But it had its dangers, especially now that she’d given her heart to a man whose feelings she was unsure of. He could make passionate love to her one moment and the next treat her as if he’d gladly see the last of her. Her choice wouldn’t have made a whit of sense if she’d in fact had one. She’d be better off with the likes of Lord Clayborough: affable, courteous, and well-mannered. He would perch her high on some invisible pedestal and treat her like the vestal Virgin Mary. There would be no lustful passion, riotous kisses, or glorious lovemaking. With him she’d be safe from ever truly hurting again. But after a taste of the pulse beat of life, could she go back to having her emotions cocooned off for life? From life?

The question followed her into an uneasy sleep.


For the majority of the day Thomas had not been fit for company, his mood dark and brooding. After returning to the house with Rutherford, they had gone their separate ways, his friend more than likely gone to seek out his wife or children, or both. He had taken to his guest chambers, the need to be alone overwhelming.

Despite his intention, Thomas didn’t go there directly, his attention caught and held by the sounds of feminine laughter and baby noises. He followed the sounds to the nursery. He stood outside the gaily decorated room, watching the scene silently from the hall.

Amelia was cuddling his nephew, cooing and scattering tender kisses all over his face. She looked happy and … maternal, which was mildly surprising. He’d never thought of her in that light. As a mother. Earlier, when he’d resolved to marry her, he’d been thinking about the physical side of things, having full and unfettered access to her body. The prospect of children would merely have been an inevitable result of that unquenchable passion.

But seeing her like this made him realize his feelings ran much deeper than he’d thought. Deeper than the Pacific Ocean. He could see only her as the mother of his children. Not only because he wanted her in his bed, but because he wanted her forever in his life. And he’d been unfair to her. She deserved better than a tumble, no matter how pleasurably explosive an experience. She deserved to be courted properly, as any lady of her rank should be. Even more so because she was his.