“You still have not answered my question.”
Removing her hand from his grasp, she began playfully tugging at the hairs on his chest. “You present a challenge, and women love a challenge. Secretly, women would love to bring a man like you to heel.” She placed a kiss on his chest. Turning her face, she rubbed her cheek against the mat of hair, her gesture like that of a needy cat. “And women love being conquered. Especially by a man who knows just how to bring her to pleasure.”
Another kiss landed on his abdomen. “You, my dear man, know exactly how to do that. To add to that, you’re very generous. None of my previous protectors ever cared about such things as birthdays and holidays.”
Thomas knew she referred to the ruby pendant he’d given her for her birthday several weeks back.
“How utterly thoughtful you can be when you want.”
And thoughtless when he wanted, but he knew that complaint would go unsaid—at least for the evening.
But would such qualities be enough for a cold fish like Lady Amelia Bertram? He had never tried—in all actuality, he’d never had to try—to seduce any woman. In England, young, rich, and passably attractive (he could humbly claim to be at least that) gentlemen of the ton were pounced upon with the same speed and determination as one would an upended barrel of guineas in the midst of Covent Garden Market. He had certainly never faced the prospect of having to exert the full force of his charm on any female with a disposition like that of Lady Amelia.
“Why do you ask?” Grace inquired, her hand inching down his chest to where the hair arrowed, then thickened.
“Perhaps I’m wondering if more than my money keeps you here.” This time he allowed her fingers to wrap around him and work his stiffening rod with long, firm strokes. Quickening pleasure pooled under the smooth glide of her talented hand.
Grace slid down the length of his body, taking his shaft into her mouth and twirling her tongue eagerly around the sensitive tip. Seconds later, she lifted her head and regarded him through passion-drugged eyes. Her mouth curved into a seductive smile, as her hand continued to work his turgid length. “This is what keeps me here.”
Parting her lips, she took him deep into her mouth. With a low groan, Thomas threw his head back, all coherent thoughts having fled from his mind.
Chapter 8
Amelia might have bargained her soul to the devil himself to halt her departure from Westbury entirely, had she not feared the eternal fires of damnation. Though, in actuality, sharing a roof with the viscount would be its own form of damnation on earth.
However, no amount of praying or wishing could deter her father from his course. The month following her return to their country estate, he dispatched her from Fountain Crest with the rapidity and sanguine relief one would a guest who’d stayed months too long.
A broken axle interrupted their journey to Devon. Then they—she, Hélène, and George, her father’s trusted manservant—missed their connecting train to Torbay, causing them a day’s delay. A delay that vexed George mightily but a respite she welcomed. By luncheon time the next day, Amelia had arrived at her destination, her spirits having worsened with every mile that had brought her closer to imprisonment. Closer to her gaoler. Thankfully, it was his mother, and not he, who awaited her under the vaulted ceiling of the grand foyer of Stoneridge Hall.
After her father’s initial introduction to the viscountess years back, he’d claimed her one of the most elegant women he’d ever met. Given such singular praise, Amelia expected to find a woman of unparalleled beauty. In that, the viscountess did not fall short.
Above average in height, Amelia was accustomed to peering down at most females and standing eye-to-eye with half the gentlemen of her acquaintance. The viscountess, however, topped her by an inch or so, her slim figure wrapped in a burgundy gown of fine merino wool. Her complexion, creamy and unblemished, had done well in weathering the wrinkling and dulling of age that had wreaked havoc with many of the fading beauties of the ton.
“Lady Amelia, welcome. I’m relieved to see you have arrived safely. Your father sent word expressly notifying us of your delay. I pray things went better this morning.”
At the offering of a smile of such genuine kindness, Amelia’s heart sank. How easier this whole ordeal would be if the viscountess was as arrogant and disagreeable as her son. But her manner, her tone, the warmth of her green eyes indicated quite the opposite.
Amelia dipped in a stiff curtsey. It still wouldn’t be wise to grow fond of the woman, blood being all that it was. “Good afternoon, Lady Armstrong. Yes, I must admit we fared a great deal better today.”
“Wonderful. You had us quite worried. Thomas was—”
A scant second before Lady Armstrong broke off and shot a glance over her shoulder, the air became charged. Even before Amelia saw him appear in the stretch of hall in front of her, she’d perceived him. Like some malevolent being, his presence filled the surroundings, causing her senses to shift into high alert.
“Ah, Thomas, there you are. Just in time. Lady Amelia has only recently arrived.” It was clear by the softening of the viscountess’s expression, she loved her son in the blind, unstinting way only a mother could love her offspring.
I was loved like that once. Just as quickly as Amelia felt the pang of pain, she ruthlessly quashed all thoughts of her mother. To remember was to open up a well of hurt.
“So I see,” he drawled, closing the gap between them with unhurried strides and a lord-of-the-manor swagger. He appeared as if he’d just come from outside, attired in dark brown riding clothes with his thick mane windblown. Halting in front of her, he dropped at the waist in a bow. A most uncalled-for bit of gallantry, but one Amelia believed he’d performed purely for show.
“Welcome to Stoneridge Hall, Lady Amelia.”
“Lord Armstrong.” Amelia gave a stiff nod but managed to keep her tone neutral. It wouldn’t do to have her dislike of the viscount obvious to members of his family and household.
Perhaps to his mother, and Hélène and George, who hovered discreetly behind her, the smile the viscount bestowed upon her might appear gracious, but she knew better. His green eyes held a mocking glint, his expression, a sly look of satisfaction.
“I pray your travels today progressed without further mishap.”
Aware that Lady Armstrong watched their exchange with heightened interest as evidenced by her intent regard, Amelia inclined her head in a polite nod.
“Wonderful, then we best get you settled.” Turning to the viscountess, he asked, “Mother, which room did you have prepared for Lady Amelia?”
“The blue room, my dear.”
In brusque tones, he instructed the footmen, who had just hefted one of her larger trunks through the front door, to carry her things up to the designated bedchamber.
“And your chaperone … I believe it was Miss Crawford?” His gaze briefly strayed to Hélène and George.
“Unfortunately, Miss Crawford was forced to return to Yorkshire. Her mother is failing.” And Amelia’s father, the Marquess of Bradford, a man who had a sense of propriety rivaled only by the patronesses of the convent of Almack’s, had had no qualms in sending her off to the residence of a known rake without a chaperone.
Lord Armstrong elevated a brow. “Indeed? Your father failed to mention that bit of news in his communication. Am I then to presume this is your new chaperone?” he asked, directing his attention to Hélène, his expression dubious.
Given her maid’s youth, she hardly suited the role, but it was clear introductions were in order. Amelia motioned Hélène and George forward. “No, my lord, this is my maid, Hélène, and my father’s manservant, Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith acted as our escort, but he will be returning home posthaste.”
Son and mother greeted the servants amiably. Hélène and George responded with an exaggerated curtsey and a deep bow.
“Mother, why don’t you have someone show Lady Amelia’s maid to her chambers and have one of the footmen show Mr. Smith where he can
refresh himself before he departs. I need to speak to Lady Amelia about some important matters pertaining to her father.”
While Amelia’s stomach recoiled at his words, the viscountess was already going about the business of acceding to her son’s wishes.
“Come, we will go to the study.” With that, he started down the hall as if expecting she trot obediently along beside him. Amelia followed but at a sedate walk not a trot, stubbornly hanging back a distance.
As they traversed down the wide corridor, with nowhere else to focus her attention but at the back of his form, Amelia inspected her surroundings. Large framed oil portraits dominated the silken walls. On the opposite wall hung several glass topiary pieces and elaborate brass sconces. She found the décor elegant and understated, a fine representation of the viscountess herself.
Several years after her mother had died, her father had had Fountain Crest done over from top to bottom. All vestiges of her mother had been carted off and discarded much like the dated furniture and the heavy window coverings.
Lord Armstrong came to a stop in front of the double doors of what could only be the study. With a sweep of his hand and an inclination of his head, he said, “After you.”
Amelia swallowed and thrust thoughts of her mother from her mind. She preceded him into a room as wide as it was long.
“Please, do make yourself comfortable,” he said, striding across the room, giving a pointed look at several of the armchairs in front of the oversized mahogany desk.
“After sitting nearly two days straight I would rather stand.” Oftentimes sitting left one at a disadvantage, and with every passing minute, Amelia grew ever more certain that in dealing with Thomas Armstrong she’d require more than just her wits about her.
Thomas suppressed a smile. He’d expected nothing less than a refusal, but it was always good to test the boundaries.
“Then I hope you won’t mind if I do. Unlike you, I’m on my feet much of the day.” He took a seat behind his desk.
She watched him, her blue eyes the cold of the Russian tundra.
Far too many women tended to prattle on ad nauseum. But this one was an altogether different matter. Thomas continued. “I hope you’ll find your accommodations adequate.”
“Your concern for my comfort is—is touching, however, I assure you it is most unwarranted.”
Well, she certainly hadn’t lost her talent for biting sarcasm, Thomas mused. Perhaps she would prove to be as amusing as she was infuriating.
“I thought this would be a fine time to work out the details of your duties, which I might add have met with your father’s stamp of approval.”
“I don’t doubt that whatsoever,” she muttered under her breath. Thomas caught every word.
“Tell me, my lord, you say ‘work out the details.’ I assumed my punishment had already been set in stone. Am I to have a say in the matter?”
He let out a mild chuckle. Such a refreshing blend of churlish gentility. “Touché. I guess I should have said we need to discuss my expectations of you. But before we get into that, I would like for us to put our past differences aside. To that end, I hope you will address me as Thomas, or Armstrong if you prefer. Under the circumstances, I think it would be silly for us to stand on ceremony. By the same token, I’m sure you’ll permit me to address you as Amelia.”
“I can hardly prevent you from addressing me however you please, but under the circumstances, I prefer to keep my contact with you very much on ceremony,” she said coolly.
Thomas hoped she strained her neck from having her chin tipped so high. “I may address you as I please? Then I should choose something fitting, wouldn’t you agree?”
He relished the flash of anger that sparked in her eyes, darkened to a blue so deep he could barely make out the pupils.
“Several names do come to mind. However, I had best forgo those and settle with one equally suitable … Princess.”
She went ominously still and branded him with a look so feral, he was surprised his jugular remained intact. Then she drew in a breath, drawing his attention to the rise and fall of her breasts.
A shock of arousal hit with sudden force, causing his member to test the seams on the front closure of his trousers. Her breasts weren’t too big or inadequately small, but the size of a nice handful. He flexed his fingers. Yes, and they would be firm.
Good Lord, what was wrong with him? He didn’t even like the girl. When had his sexual appetite become so indiscriminating? Certainly he’d been in the presence of more agreeable women with breasts equal to hers without being accosted by a full-on cockstand.
Annoyed at his reaction, his voice took on a crisper tone. “I shall expect you to be in this study promptly at eight o’clock every morning. You will be assigned various duties, and each I shall expect you to complete without a demur.”
Her jaw clenched.
“As for your meals, I expect you to take them with my family.”
Her eyes grew wide, he imagined with both surprise and displeasure. “I am to work for you and take my meals with you? Is that done?”
Propping his elbows on the desk, Thomas angled his head to the side, a small smile playing over his lips. “No, but then I don’t have another member of the peerage in my, er, service.”
“Well, I prefer to take my meals in my chamber,” she said, as though she had a choice.
“Then perhaps you’d prefer to take your meals in the servants’ hall or in the steward’s room with your maid? And while we’re to ensure proper protocol is followed, I can also ask that a different chamber be readied for your occupation.” If she truly wanted to be treated like a servant, he had no qualms in obliging her.
Her eyes flared briefly, and for a moment Thomas thought she intended to respond. She said nothing and moved not an inch.
“I thought as much,” he said, satisfied. “Let us get one thing very clear before we begin on this course. I am not your father. I will not condone your antics with even a quarter of his tolerance. You will conduct yourself in a manner above reproach while you are under my care. Do we understand each other?”
The silence that followed was of the variety of an insult being thrown just before a brawl ensued. Thomas didn’t know whether to expect her accession or a dagger through his heart. Then as though a puppeteer controlled her actions, her head jerked in something resembling a nod.
Ah, sweet, divine acquiescence. A truly glorious, if somewhat painful, sight. He smiled and reclined back into his seat. “Then I see no reason that this experience should not be at the very least a tolerable one.”
“Will that be all?”
Her voice was cold, but the heightened color in her cheeks said she was hot. Hot with anger and capable of a blaze to rival the Great Fire of London. More than ever now, he was convinced her frosty exterior was merely a layer of ice only in need of the proper handling to bring about a spring thaw. He grew hard again at the thought and seriously considered bedding her for real.
Thomas continued to watch her, his eyes skimming the length of her lithe figure. Soon she began to shift beneath his gaze, her hands flittering over the folds of her skirt. He liked her off-kilter. He liked that she was trying desperately not to be the one to break the stare. Finally defeated, she looked away, her face pomegranate red.
“Yes, that is all.” Turning, he jerked the tasseled bell pull near his desk. “I will have one of the servants escort—”
He turned back in time to see the flutter of checkered brown skirts disappearing through the doorway, a light flowery scent left to linger in her wake.
Chapter 9
Amelia had run away from the hideous boarding school, but she’d never run from anyone. The pig on one of the tenants’ farms didn’t count because, of course, that was an animal, and a girl of twelve would certainly run from one the size of a—well very big pig.
She’d run from Thomas Armstrong. And just as quick as her legs could take her.
Finding a servant to show her to her bedchambe
rs had been the easy part of her escape. Now, secured in a room done in many varying shades of blue, Amelia slumped against the door, her heart racing out of control.
One moment she’d been vexed beyond comprehension and the next she’d stood fidgeting under his perusal, his green eyes glittering with a brilliant intensity. His look hadn’t held the scorn, annoyance, or gloating satisfaction she’d grown accustomed to from him. What it had held was something infinitely more dangerous, for it had had the power to unnerve her enough to forget herself. What remained back in that study was her poise, plain and simple.
Amelia gave her head a shake hard enough to cause a thick lock of hair to spill down her back. Pushing off the door, she crossed the room to the mahogany four-poster bed.
The viscount might be able to charm all the women of London, but his attractions were lost on her. She knew that with unshakable certainty. But her reaction to him was troubling. For over a year, she’d managed minimum contact with him. And it had been a mutual avoidance. On the rare occasions they’d both attended the same ball, no less than a league was sufficient distance enough to separate them.
However, the circumstances were quite different now. There would be no avoiding. And with every minute she remained in his company, it grew ever apparent this wasn’t just a man she should steer clear of but one that should have her running pell-mell in the opposite direction.
Passing the three trunks sitting at the foot of the bed, Amelia dispensed with her petticoats, kicking them onto the carpeted floor, and clambered onto the mattress.
It was clear the two days of travel had finally taken their toll. It hadn’t been him she’d been reacting to but the circumstances. Obviously, what she needed was some rest. Perhaps when she woke her world wouldn’t seem like it was whirling out of control and she’d be herself again.
Four hours of sleep taken at midafternoon should have left Amelia pleasantly rested. Instead, she awoke long after the sun had made its descent below the horizon, still weary, her head pulsing behind her eyes.
A Taste of Desire Page 7