A Taste of Desire

by Beverley Kendall

  “She’s asleep,” Thomas replied curtly. “Dr. Lawson says it’s nothing more than a stomach ailment which should clear up in a few days.”

  “I see.” Cartwright dragged out the latter word as if he saw too damn much. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me what the devil is wrong with you? You’re carrying on as if I intend to ravish the girl. Give me some credit for possessing some kind of tact. If that’s what I had in mind, I’d at least wait until she wasn’t burning up with a fever.”

  “I’m glad you can joke at a time like this.” Of late, Thomas found very little amusing about his friend’s sense of humor.

  “Do I appear to be amused? I assure you, I’m perfectly serious.” Cartwright said, his countenance lacking his trademark dry half smile.

  Some emotion in him—one Thomas dare not identify—bubbled to the surface in molten fury. “You will leave her the hell alone, is that understood? She’s not to be trifled with. She is my concern, and I will deal with her.”

  “I thought you could barely tolerate her. I’d think you’d be relieved to have me take her off your hands for any amount of time.”

  A slew of curse words sprang instantly to his lips, but Thomas bit them back with a violent oath. “Go to bloody hell.”

  “Why, in need of company?” came Cartwright’s rapid-fire response, his mouth quirking at the corners in a manner that had Thomas glancing around for something to bludgeon him with.

  He eyed the thick crystal decanter of brandy. How unfortunate it was one of his mother’s favorite pieces. He had to content himself with silently counting to ten as he fought to retain the last vestiges of his control. “I’m glad you continue to find humor in this situation.”

  “Lady Amelia ailing I don’t find the slightest bit amusing. You, however …” Cartwright’s voice trailed off as if he needn’t say more, his omission an indictment of Thomas. “And truly, Armstrong, this cavemanlike behavior toward a girl you claim no fondness for.”

  Neatly boxed and gift-wrapped, his friend placed the argument before him tied with a bow. Juxtaposed, even Thomas could see his words and recent actions lay in sharp and damning contrast.

  “Regardless of how I feel about her, she is a guest in my home and under my care.”

  “Good God, man, you practically ripped her from my arms. I think that’s taking your role a tad bit too far, wouldn’t you say?”

  When Cartwright became fixated on a notion, he refused to let go, which meant Thomas would have to accomplish the task for him. “I am going to the study. I will see you at supper.”

  As it was only nine in the morning and supper wouldn’t be served until eight that evening, Thomas’s message rang as clear as it was loud in the echoing silence that followed him as he exited the room.

  At first, Amelia didn’t know what had awakened her. Her chamber was dark and silent. She felt hot and cold all at the same time. After several seconds, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She perceived the presence just before she heard the movement at her side.

  Her head snapped in the direction of the sound. A startled cry escaped her dry lips when she spotted a form reposed in the chair at her bedside. For an instant, she hovered between confusion and terror before recognition set in.

  Thomas.

  His head rested against the cushion of burgundy brocade, and the deep, rhythmic whisper of his breath indicated he was asleep.

  Her fevered mind tried to rationalize his presence there but couldn’t quite make the enormous leap as to what it signified. She could only lower her head back onto her pillow and watch him silently, her gaze drifting along the shadowed planes of his face. There was a certain vulnerability in his restful state that made him appear younger. Tender even.

  No more than a minute passed before he moved and slowly raised his head. Had he sensed her watching him? Suddenly, he bolted up straight in his seat, his form alert and his green eyes glittering bright in the sooty night as he focused on her. “Is something wrong? Should I call for the physician?” he asked in a tone that didn’t convey he’d been asleep only moments before.

  Weakly, Amelia shook her head, now aware of a parched feeling in her mouth. “I would appreciate some water.” Her words were whisper soft and her voice hoarse.

  He was out of the chair and at the dresser before she could fully comprehend he’d gone. Soon, light suffused the chamber in a dim glow, and the slosh of water filled the air. Thomas returned to her side with a glass in one hand and a candle in the other. He set the candle on the night table by the bed. Awash in candlelight, Amelia could now see the fatigue on his face. His fatigue did not, however, detract from his masculine allure. Even in her illness, she clearly saw that and felt the inexorable pull of his appeal.

  Instead of handing her the glass, Thomas sat on the edge of the bed. She started when he gently slid his hand beneath her head and lifted it up. “Here, drink,” he said, tipping the glass to her mouth.

  Amelia automatically parted her lips at his softly spoken command. The water was neither cold nor warm, but it felt like heaven sliding down her throat. She drank the glass’s entire contents before slumping back onto the pillows. Thomas didn’t remove his hand immediately. She felt the pressure of his palm, the weight of every finger with a keenness that had her skin tingling—a sensation not caused by her fever or body aches.

  “Would you like me to get you anything else?” He stared at her with a quiet, disturbing intensity.

  “No, I’m feeling much better now.”

  “Your stomach is no longer paining you?” He removed his hand from beneath her head. Amelia felt the loss like a flower would miss the warmth of the sun on a frigidly cold winter day. But she wasn’t to be bereft of his touch for long. He placed the back of his hand against her forehead. “Hmm, while you’re not as hot as before, you’re still a little warm. But I am glad to see you’ve improved.”

  Perhaps tomorrow, she would tell herself her weakened state had left her vulnerable to a bedside manner every physician should endeavor to emulate. But it wasn’t tomorrow, it was tonight, and her pulse pounded erratically. His nearness, the masculine scent emanating from his very pores, had her dragging in air as if it were a scarce element of nature.

  “Yes, my—my stomach is much improved,” she said, her voice above a bare whisper. Her throat was no longer dry and she wasn’t feeling as poorly as she had been earlier, but it appeared she now suffered a different sort of sickness—one that could be every bit as dangerous to her as another bout with scarlet fever. Thomas Armstrong.

  He removed his hand from her forehead, and he asked, “Are you certain? You look somewhat distressed. Are you not comfortable?” His hooded gaze skimmed the length of her body outlined beneath the counterpane and bed sheets. Amelia didn’t think she could have been more conscious of her body had she laid there naked.

  “I am fine. I’m sure I just need some more rest.” And I need you to leave so that I may regain my senses … my sanity.

  “Then I will leave you now.” At the softly spoken words, Thomas stood, the wood of the bed frame creaking faintly at the removal of his weight. His face was immediately cast in shadow, the candle’s light illuminating the dark blond bristle of his jaw.

  “I will see you in the morning.” His gaze seemed to linger on her before he turned and quit the chamber, closing the door softly behind him.

  Don’t go, hovered on her lips long after he’d gone.

  Chapter 20

  Thomas was relieved Amelia’s fever lasted only twenty-four hours. But, despite its brevity, he instructed her to remain in bed until he determined she was fully recovered. She could fret and moan about it all she wanted—which she did. His position didn’t waver.

  In addition to her maid, who cosseted her like a newborn, Thomas instructed two of his servants to cater to Amelia’s every need and ensure her every comfort. He himself, made it his duty to check on her twice during the day—visits he limited to the times he knew she was asleep.

  By the third day
of her confinement, and much to Thomas’s satisfaction, she did appear restored to full health. Only then did he finally grant her leave to venture beyond her bedchamber walls. And he, like a drunkard resisting the silent call of a bottle of alcohol, spent the better part of the day down at the stables with his latest purchase, a majestic grey thoroughbred.

  That evening, she presented herself at the dining hall looking vibrant and fetching in a lavender dress and a neckline whose appeal lay in what remained hidden rather than what it revealed. Thomas had to physically steel himself from going to her and touching her, as he mentally stripped her down to bare skin and pink nipples.

  Cartwright, who should have departed Devon the day before but had insisted on staying until he was certain of Amelia’s full recovery, brightened noticeably at her appearance. Thomas scowled, and his annoyance with his friend sparked anew.

  “Good evening, Miss Foxworth. My lords. I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.” She sent them a warm, all-encompassing smile.

  Cartwright hastily came to his feet. Thomas belatedly followed. The effervescent glow about her that cast so many women in her shadow had unsettled him several moments too long.

  She laughed lightly. “Oh please, my lords, do not stand on ceremony on my behalf.” The second footman followed her dutifully to the table to seat her in the empty chair beside Cartwright.

  “I didn’t think you would be up to joining us for supper this evening,” Thomas said as he wondered what their reaction would be if he insisted she and Cartwright exchange places to have her sit at his elbow.

  After she settled in, he and Cartwright resumed their seats. “And as I told you this morning, I’m perfectly well. If you hadn’t been so stubborn, I would have been up and about yesterday.” She treated him to a teasing look, something she’d never done before.

  “I’m simply relieved to see you looking so well,” Camille said with a smile.

  Amelia smiled in return, and not the kind of smile generally reserved for Thomas. This one held no trace of ire or mockery, just pearl-white teeth shown in contrast against succulent pink lips. Thomas’s loins began a painful and pleasurable throb.

  “I’d say looking well is a vast understatement. In my opinion, Lady Amelia looks radiantly stunning. The picture of beauty, health, and prosperity.”

  Thomas shot a look at his friend. Radiantly stunning? Beauty, health, and prosperity? Good Lord, with only a little more wax, his friend could single-handedly seal all the envelopes in London. Just how bloody cozy had they become during their time together? It appeared it had been time enough to turn Cartwright into not only her protector but a doting suitor. Thomas was revolted by the thought.

  Amelia made a sound like the faded remnants of a full-bodied laugh. “Truly, Lord Alex, you gift me with far more admirable attributes than I deserve.”

  Thomas’s gaze darted to her. By God, was she actually falling prey to that balderdash? “Yes, don’t you think you’re plying it on rather thick?” Thomas said, unable to keep the sardonic note from his voice.

  Cartwright merely laughed. “I’m a second son. I haven’t the luxury of subtlety.”

  Amelia dipped her chin to hide a smile. Lord Alex was witty and charming beyond words. Thomas, on the other hand, looked anything but pleased. He wasn’t scowling—at least not anymore—but his face was set in such a mask that anything as beguiling as a smile would fall victim to a cold, hard death.

  If she claimed any intimate knowledge of him, she’d say his behavior held the green tinge of jealousy. But perhaps that was her exalted opinion of her own charms. He could very well have entirely different reasons for his surly disposition. Perhaps he didn’t think her good enough for his friend.

  Although, that notion certainly wouldn’t explain what he’d been doing slumbering in a chair at her bedside when she was ill. In the grip of her fever, she’d thought she’d dreamed him there. However, along with the cold light of day the next morning, she’d awoken to the lingering scent of bergamot in her bedchamber, proof she hadn’t conjured him up on the sliver of a wishful thought. Something inside her had melted with the knowledge, her opinion of him irrevocably changed. He wasn’t in every way like her father, as he’d actually come to her in her time of illness.

  Yes, perhaps he was jealous. And for him to succumb to that emotion, he had to care for her at least a little beyond their undeniable, potent physical attraction.

  While she and Thomas fell silent, Cartwright inquired politely to Miss Foxworth of her plans for Christmas, which was only a month away. Amelia had no special fondness for the holiday, at least not since her mother had died.

  “Today, I received a letter from my brother. He hopes to be home for Christmas this year.” Miss Foxworth did not so much as respond to Lord Alex as announce the news to the occupants of the table.

  “Foxworth finally coming home? Truly a reason to celebrate this year, eh Armstrong?” Lord Alex said, flicking a glance at Thomas before returning his attention to Miss Foxworth. “I can only imagine how eager you must be.”

  Miss Foxworth’s pale cheeks flushed to apricot as she bobbed her head in agreement, a stark longing flaring in her eyes. “It has been almost two years since I’ve seen him. I wonder how much he has changed. But certainly my biggest hope and prayer is that he come home safe and unharmed.” Her gaze then flew to the viscount’s expressionless face. “Lord Armstrong, I hoped perhaps you could spare me some time during Christmastide?”

  Thomas seemed to snap to attention as if her question had jerked him from deep thoughts. “Forgive me. I’m afraid my mind was occupied with a business matter. Did you say your brother is due home?”

  “He expects to arrive back on English soil three days prior to Christmas. If you could spare me for three or four days that would—”

  “Three or four days? Absolutely not. You will remain with him as long as you wish. How long is he to remain in London?”

  “He wrote for two months—or that is the hope.” Camille turned to Amelia. “Marcus is the only family I have.”

  “Oh, no need to explain yourself to me. I think it’s wonderful that he should have such a devoted sister.” Oftentimes, when she was a child she’d craved a sibling.

  “Missy has invited us to spend Christmas with her and her family. However, I can see that would in no way compare to seeing your brother.”

  Amelia shot a wide-eyed look at Thomas. They would be spending Christmas with his sister? Why was it only now she was hearing of this?

  “Why, that’s wonderful. I want you to know that in my absence, I fully intended to find a replacement. But if you will be in Berkshire with your sister and Lord Windmere …” Miss Foxworth’s voice trailed off.

  “And as my mother and sisters will be back by the New Year, there will be no need for you to return. That should give you as much time as you please to spend with your brother.”

  “Yes, then it all works out perfectly.” Miss Foxworth’s gaze dropped to her plate but not before Amelia noted the faint yearning in her eyes. She wanted to return, that much Amelia could see. It was absurd, really ridiculous, as she’d never seen Thomas treat Miss Foxworth in anything but a brotherly manner, but in a moment of her own twinge of jealousy, she could hardly wait for the woman to leave.

  In an effort to veer from the unwanted feelings, Amelia shifted her attention to Lord Alex. “And you, my lord, how will you be celebrating Christmas?”

  Cartwright’s shoulders rose and fell negligently. “Not entirely certain. Perhaps I’ll take Lady Windmere up on her invitation.”

  “My sister’s invited you too?” Thomas heard the sharpness in his own voice and regretted it.

  “Actually, Rutherford mentioned it when he was in town on Parliament business.”

  Normally, Thomas would have welcomed the company of his friend during his stay at Rutherford Manor. He couldn’t count the number of times Cartwright had celebrated various holidays and celebrations with his family. He was, for all intents and purposes, a surroga
te member of the Armstrong clan, the two having met when they were young boys at Eton.

  But this Christmas was different. This Christmas Amelia would be there, and the thought of Cartwright and her spending that much time together, and in such close proximity, rankled more than it should. Thomas could summon only a stiff nod.

  Cartwright chuckled dryly. “You don’t look pleased. Am I no longer a welcome guest?” He placed his spoon in his soup bowl and edged it forward as an indication he was finished with that course.

  “Of course not,” Thomas snapped, angry with himself for making his displeasure so evident. Amelia was driving him crazy—completely mad. And that he should allow her to come between he and Cartwright was paramount to a betrayal of their twenty-year friendship. “I was just surprised since you said your father wanted you home for the holidays this year.” When the Duke of Hastings summoned his son, Cartwright usually abided, although always reluctantly due to their strained relationship.

  His friend’s silver eyes grew cool at the mention of his father. “Yes, well, as you know I have no desire to see the duke. Now or during the holidays,” he said in a tight voice.

  Thomas quickly changed the subject. The duke was the one person who could put the even-tempered Cartwright in a foul mood. This had been the case for at least ten years now. And Thomas had learned not to ask the reasons as to what had caused the rift.

  “Do you play cards, Lord Alex?” Amelia asked, ending the taut silence.

  Cartwright’s expression instantly eased. “Not for money, but I’ve a knack for vingt-et-un or blackjack, and I have been known to dabble in whist.”

  Thomas didn’t like the course of the conversation, nor did he like the sudden brightening of his friend’s mood as he lazily surveyed Amelia.

  “Don’t you think it best if you rested? You’ve only recently recovered,” Thomas objected.

  “My lord, I hardly think a game of cards will put my health in jeopardy,” Amelia replied with a laugh.