A Taste of Desire (14 page)

Silence befell the table. Amelia pretended to be oblivious to the gazes darting between her and the viscount.

“It’s good to know that you, Thomas, a gentleman of good taste and judgment, appreciates the finer, less obvious qualities in a woman.” Mrs. Roland endowed him with the smile of a woman who was closing in on her prey.

Then it all made perfect sense—touting her daughter’s exceptional manners, singing her praises to Lord Armstrong. Mrs. Roland wanted the viscount for her daughter, which would be the equivalent of teaming Little Red Riding Hood with the wolf.

But that being said, Amelia felt duty bound to aid in such a worthwhile endeavor.
Let’s see how he likes having the tables turned on him.

“Yes, Lord Armstrong is truly remarkable in that respect. I’m quite certain he too is in search of a woman exactly like Miss Roland. But wait, if Miss Roland is willing, I daresay he won’t have to look very far.” Amelia sent the aforementioned parties a look of pure guilelessness.

The crystal chandelier soaring above them was lit by at least four dozen candles. There were gas-lit wall sconces and two candelabras on the dining table. Mrs. Roland’s smile shone brighter than the light of all combined. Everyone else remained mute.

“I must say—”

“How good of you to offer your matchmaking services, Lady Amelia,” Lord Armstrong cut in before Mrs. Roland could finish. “However, I’ve known Dorothy since she was a
child—a babe really. I look upon her as I do my own sisters, and I’m sure she feels the same.”

The viscountess gave a faint smile, appearing relieved her son had handled the delicate matter so tactfully. His sisters exchanged a look Amelia couldn’t decipher. Miss Roland slowly nodded her agreement to his assessment of their relationship. But poor Mrs. Roland sat motionless in her chair, rendered mute by his gentle yet unequivocal refusal to entertain a match with her daughter.

Suddenly, Amelia was contrite. In her zeal to embarrass Lord Armstrong, she’d included others in her wide-reaching net. Blast it all. It was he who had started all of this with his “The beauty who is an utter shrew” tale. And because of that, Mrs. Roland now bore the pained expression of dashed hopes and misspent dreams.

“Well, if not the viscount, a far luckier gentleman will have the privilege of taking Miss Roland as his wife,” Amelia said, in an attempt to temper the—albeit gentle—rejection.

The girl, seventeen if she was a day, still had a couple years more to add some flesh to her figure. The men would come calling then, for her complexion was clear and her features quite regular. Though she might never be considered a rose, she certainly wasn’t the least bit objectionable. With the appropriate dowry, she’d fair well in the marriage mart.

“Do you really think so?” Miss Roland asked, a faint note of hope in her voice.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. You are only, what seventeen, eighteen?”
Sixteen?

“Seventeen.”

“I was quite a fright at that age.” An out-and-out lie, but Miss Roland would never know that. The viscount knew; his eyes told her so. But he said not a word, merely watched her in contemplative silence.

“I don’t believe that for a second. I thought…” Sarah trailed off at the quelling glare from her sister.

“You can ask anyone.” There was no one to ask, save some of the servants. Cloistered at their country estate with only one friend to speak of, Amelia hadn’t been seen by anyone in society until the past year.

Miss Roland regarded her with an expression close to awe. As if she could barely believe the transformation that had turned a fright into the female who now sat opposite her.

“And look at me now, finished my second Season with no marriage prospects as yet.” Which was technically true if one asked her father. “You’re still very young and have many years to find a man worthy of your affections.”

“Yes, dear, plenty of time,” her mother echoed, having come out of her stupor of silence. “I’m certain next Season Thomas would be happy to introduce you to some of his friends. I believe Lord Alex is still unattached. And so very handsome.”

In the midst of taking a sip of his wine, a coughing fit seized the viscount. Amelia smiled and resumed eating.

Three courses and an hour and a half later, the women rose to retire to the drawing room for tea. Amelia politely demurred an invitation to join them. Indeed, it had been a long day, and she yearned for the privacy of her bedchamber.

“Lady Amelia, might I have a word with you before you retire?” Lord Armstrong called out from behind her as she proceeded to exit the dining room.

Amelia stopped, her belly knotting as the women disappeared beyond the doors and into the hall. Reluctantly, she turned to find him advancing toward her, only stopping when he stood close—too close. His scent, wholly masculine and provoking, assailed her nostrils in a rush. She stood quietly while he made a sweep of her body with those green eyes of his, her heart lurching in traitorous and maddening response.

Unsettled by his nearness but loath to betray her feelings,
Amelia raised an eyebrow, fixing her expression into a cool mask of sufferance. “Can this not wait until the morning?”

“No. Come let us go to the study.” Without further explanation, he started toward the door. When he realized she hadn’t moved, he paused and shot a glance at her over his shoulder. “Do you require a written invitation?”

The sarcasm in his tone was just the thing she needed to tamp down her heightened senses, the hammering of her heart. The man was insufferable far above all his vaunted appeal.

“Fine,” she snapped, “but do be quick about it. I would like to get a proper night’s rest tonight. I do have to rise frightfully early in the morning, and the lord of the manor is a stickler for punctuality.” She lifted the weight of her three-tiered silk skirt and swept past him.

Amelia reached the study in long, angry strides. He followed her in a moment later, his mouth curved at the corners into a semblance of a smile. Leisurely, he made his way to the opposite end of the room near the fireplace, stopping at the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

Determined to maintain her composure, Amelia waited quietly as he took a deep swallow, then turned and sauntered back to where she stood, still and rigid on the edge of the Oriental area rug.

“I returned to the study at quarter to seven to find you gone.” He spoke softly without a hint of emotion.

That was what all this was about? That she hadn’t been here when he returned? The man was impossible. “And your point?”

His jaw tightened. “Am I to understand that you completed your task in that brief time?”

“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me,” she said, jerking her head toward the cabinet. “You will find every document filed and in order. And you can check the box. You will find it empty.”

This time, Lord Armstrong tossed his drink back with a
gulp. He was either thirsty or angry. She imagined it was the latter. A sweet sense of triumph flooded her.

When he lowered the glass from his lips, it was empty. Perhaps he had been thirsty after all. Amelia quelled the smile threatening her hard-fought stoicism.

“You were to work for an hour and a half,” he stated, rotating the glass in his hand.

“Your mandate to me was to complete my task. I achieved that. What did you expect me to do after I’d finished, sit at my desk and twiddle my thumbs?”

A mirthless laugh rumbled in his throat. “It appears then, I’ve greatly misjudged how effective and efficient you would be. I can see that if I’m to have you duly occupied, I’ll need to give you more work.”

The fleeting, sweet taste of victory turned acrid in her throat.

Without removing his gaze from her, he placed the empty glass on a nearby table. For what seemed like an interminable length of time, he stared at her, his eyes darkening to the color of cut emeralds of the flawless variety. “You really must learn to temper your words. Your mouth always seems to get you into trouble. Have you not learned that yet, Princess?”

Amelia swallowed at the huskiness of his tone, the sensual intent of his gaze. When his attention shifted to focus on her mouth, she took an instinctive step back. He instantly countered, coming even closer than before.

Lowering his head a fraction, he whispered, “It provokes a man in dangerous ways.”

His voice was seduction encased in velvet heat. Her gaze drifted to his mouth—his fuller lower lip. Amelia swallowed again and nervously ran her tongue over her bottom lip.

It happened so swiftly, she didn’t have a chance to blink. A light tug of his hand, and she was in his arms. There was nothing to stop peach silk from meeting sage wool; her breasts from crushing against the unyielding wall of his
chest. Amelia stiffened, her heart a jackhammer in her chest as his head began an unhurried descent.

Move. Scream. Do anything except stand there like a ninny.
But the languor stealing over her body turned her limbs as useless as a swimmer’s against a powerful undertow. Then his lips found hers, and the tide of feelings dragged her under.

Unlike the fumbling efforts of Lord Finley, the viscount did not try to pry her lips apart with brute force or the fervor of his passion. No, he managed that with seductive finesse, nipping then soothing her bottom lip until her lips parted with a tiny gasp. At her submission, he drove his fingers into the heavy weight of her hair, anchoring her head in his hands. Then he fit his mouth to hers.

Her knees buckled, and her hands clutched the silk lapels of his jacket. For a fleeting moment, she surfaced from the fog of passion, and thought about stopping or at the very least offering some resistance. The slow thrust of his tongue persuaded her otherwise, acting like a drug on her senses and turning her mind to mush. Amelia opened her mouth wider. She wanted more.

He let out a low groan and obliged her, his hand now at her hip pulling her closer until their lower bodies were flush. The strength of his arousal lay stiff and throbbing against her belly, the intimate contact sending a flood of warmth and embarrassing moisture to her center.

There had been times when she had overheard girls titter and engage in whispered discussions out of earshot of their chaperones. The subject of those discussions invariably involved men and such things as kissing, sometimes even fondling of an improper nature.
Had they? Would they? How did it feel?
Amelia would listen, silently pitying their naivety. In her experience, though limited it might have been, kissing did not have the power to move her physically or otherwise. Or so she had thought.

Never could she have been more wrong.

Then her hands were sifting through the golden locks of his hair, silky and thick between her fingers. Uncertain what she should do with her tongue, so bewildered by the torrents of pleasure coursing through her body, she’d been content to receive his passionate ministrations. Now she wanted to participate just as fully. She began with tentative probes, then wide sweeping forays of his mouth. Before long, their tongues tangled in wet demand, the kiss feeding a hunger of which she hadn’t known herself capable.

Heat consumed her everywhere. She clenched her thighs, but the action failed to alleviate the ache in the place she burned the hottest. His hand trailed from her hip to the underside of her breast until he palmed the pebbled mound over her bodice.

That was what it took to bring her back to reality with a jarring thud. Appalled, she wrenched herself from his embrace, staggering back until she achieved enough distance from him to begin to gain control of her senses.

“Don’t,” she said weakly, her breaths ragged puffs of air. Dislodged from the security of the pins, her hair streamed past her shoulders and down her back. She imagined she looked the very picture of “the lady who doth protest too much.” She knew she felt it.

Contrarily, except for a faint blush staining his cheeks, the viscount appeared unaffected by their embrace, undoubtedly accustomed not only to kissing women senseless but to doing a great deal more. What they had shared was probably as commonplace to him as a peck on the cheek.

“Who’d have thought such heat existed under all that ice?” He adjusted his jacket as he spoke.

“Never,
ever
touch me again.” She ground out every word.

Lord Armstrong chuckled softly. “Are you sure? From my position, you seemed to be enjoying yourself thoroughly.”

Bastard!

“And what of you? Just this morning you claimed to be
immune to my charms?” She wanted—needed—to wipe the mocking smile clean from his face.

“Oh, I am,” he replied softly. “But I believe I’ve just discovered the most efficient manner in which to deal with you.”

“It didn’t feel that way to me,” she snapped, remembering the hard ridge of his erection against her belly. How dare he try to make it appear as if she had been the only one affected, the only one who had lost her head for those heated moments.

The viscount gave a hearty laugh and gestured down to the front of his trousers. “You mean this?”

Shocked, Amelia blindly averted her gaze but could do little to halt another flood of heat from blistering her cheeks.

“I would hardly call this the barometer of good taste. Didn’t you know, these things have minds of their own? Sometimes it requires merely a comely face and a shapely figure. Discriminating these are not.”

Amelia wished she’d been born a big hulk of a man so she could pummel him senseless. But then if she were a man, she wouldn’t be in this position.

“If you refuse to keep your hands to yourself, I’ll be forced to take the matter in hand. And I guarantee you this, my lord, you will not like the outcome.” Her warning carried all the weight of a hummingbird, but at the moment, she did not care.

“And just what do you plan to do? Appeal to your father? If I compromised you, he would have us wed before the onset of winter. A prospect I’m certain neither of us desires.”

Of course, the blasted man was right. And nothing short of increasing his wealth threefold would please her father more. “Now I see why my father admires you so much. You and he are just the same.”