A Taste of Desire (8 page)

Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors drew less horrified looks than the one that contorted Lord Clayborough’s paled visage.

“Good God, we’d no sooner marry than you’d find yourself in widow weeds.” His Adam’s apple gave a frantic bob. “Or at the very least, your father would have one of his hired brutes make a eunuch of me.”

The Marquess of Bradford would never resort to anything as base or illegal as murder or maiming. However, knowing the kind of contempt her father held for Lord Clayborough and all gentlemen he considered of his ilk—men of little financial means—he would in all likelihood send her off to a convent … for life. It wasn’t as if she was his heir. Now, if she had been born a male—

Breaking that particular train of thoughts—for they were tracks bound to nowhere—Amelia focused her attention once again on the matter at hand: the cause of the lines of strain etched into the planes of her would-be husband’s face and dark strands of hair plastered wetly to his forehead.

His mouth opened. Before he could continue with a litany of the excuses why what she’d suggested was not sound in its reason, she held up her hand to stay the words. “You are correct, of course. When it comes to the matter of his son-in-law, my father will not be threatened or coerced.” How splendid it should be the one time she’d welcome his disinterest.

Relief appeared to slither down the length of Lord Clayborough’s frame. It was there in the way his shoulders came
unhitched, loosening his rigid stance, and the resumption of color in his face.

“I am glad we are in agreement.” He smiled, but he still appeared a trifle uneasy.

“As we cannot marry immediately, you will have to come to Devon after my father has gone. By then I will be in residence at Lord Armstrong’s estate.”

The baron stumbled with his next step, but managed to remain upright. “Armstrong? You will be residing at Armstrong’s estate?”

Amelia shot him a sharp look. Had his voice just cracked upon uttering the viscount’s name? Surely he couldn’t be suffering from anything as preposterous as jealousy, for she’d not tolerate that sort of emotion in respect to her. It conveyed a possession no man would ever have of her. Not even her own husband.

“Yes, who else would you expect? In my father’s eyes, the man can do no wrong.”

Frowning, he raised his hand to his chin and began stroking the line of his jaw. “But Armstrong—”

“Oh please, I beg you, let us not discuss that odious man. It’s enough that I’m in this wretched situation. I’m well aware of the viscount’s reputation, but my father doesn’t appear to hold that against him. Men are allowed most liberties denied women.”

As if he feared the bitterness tainting her words would somehow turn on him, Lord Clayborough’s expression cleared, his hand dropping to his side. “Come, let us start back. I wouldn’t wish for your father to send his men out to bodily retrieve you should you stay too long,” he said wryly, his hand hovering beneath her right elbow as they turned and proceeded back in the direction of their waiting carriages.

“I will contact you after my father has left and I have settled in Devon. By then I should have a reasonable idea of how best to proceed with our plans.” Amelia slanted him a glance. He affirmed her statement with a slow, deliberate nod.

“Have you contemplated what would happen if your father refused you your dowry when we marry?” He delivered the question insouciantly, given the importance of the response.

“My father’s guilt will not allow his only child to live in genteel poverty, as he refers to your unfortunate circumstance,” she said dryly.

A brittle sound emerged from Lord Clayborough—one she presumed he meant to pass off as a laugh. Amelia was well aware that he did not like to speak of those particular circumstances. And she certainly understood his embarrassment, for truly, what self-respecting man countenanced the public airing of what many in the ton considered his rank inadequacies.

If a gentleman could not afford to support a wife and children in the manner befitting a member of the privileged aristocracy, he was a man of little value. The gentlemen in this unenviable situation could only hope to marry well, and Amelia knew that a marriage to her would be marrying very well indeed. Lord Clayborough wanted to marry her for more than just the financial resources she would bring to the marriage. He understood her need to retain her independence. He understood theirs wasn’t a marriage that would be ruled by passion but one built on the foundation of respect and companionship. Truly, the ideal marriage.

They exchanged few words once they reached the carriages, agreeing he would await her communication upon her arrival in Devon. Then with a light squeeze of her hand, he assisted her back into the plush, burgundy interior of the brougham. By the time Charles flicked the reins to set the matched chestnuts in motion, Lord Clayborough had disappeared into his older model landau. There were no lingering looks or longing glances, which was precisely the way Amelia preferred it.

Thomas thought his mistress’s parlor overly feminine—even for a female dwelling—cluttered with enough frippery to make an unsuspecting guest blanch and fall into an appalled silence at the ostentatious display of taste—or lack thereof. From the showy velvet curtains and a plethora of figurines and bronzes mounted on the chiffonier, to footstools, and a sewing box littering the floor, it was hard to move about in the small space. He couldn’t even speak about the jarring his visuals endured upon taking in the gaudy flowered, red, green, and gold paper covering the walls.

Thankfully, his offended senses were not forced to suffer the sight long. Within moments of his arrival, Miss Grace Howell swept in through the doorway. She was a beautiful woman: petite, voluptuous, fair-haired, and hazel-eyed. Tonight she had donned a pale, green chiffon dress, worn off her shoulders to plunge at the neckline in a daring décolleté.

“Hmmm, Armstrong you look good enough to eat,” she murmured, her voice low and sultry. Looping her hand about his neck, she dragged his head down for a kiss. It had been a fortnight since he’d seen her last and the way her tongue delved and tangled with his in a long, lusty mating of the mouths, it was apparent that she wouldn’t satisfy easily that evening.

Thomas allowed himself the luxury of losing himself in the kiss, but when her hands began to roam to the front of his trousers and discovered the thick ridge of his arousal, he reluctantly broke the kiss, holding her straying hands gently but firmly at her side.

“I will not be discovered by one of your servants making love in the parlor,” he murmured, his voice throaty.

Flashing him a coquettish smile, Grace fluttered her lashes up at him, her eyes heavy with desire. “Then, my darling, what are we still doing down here?” She took his hand in hers, offering him her back with a sensual spin on her heel, and led him down the narrow hallway and then up the stairs.

Thomas appreciated the sway of her lush hips. Upon reaching the bedchamber, they made straight for the canopied bed. Grace fell back onto the mattress. With a quick tug of her hand, she pulled him down atop her.

Lips met, open and hungry, tongues tangling in wet demand. In no time, clothes lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Just as Thomas had guessed, Grace was insatiable in her lust, clutching his buttocks and moaning loudly minutes later when he slid his length into her.

For Thomas, it too had been a long two weeks. He plucked at her peaked, dusty nipples, wringing a string of whimpers from her lips, her head twisting in abandon against the bed linens as he pounded relentlessly into her. She came with a wail of pleasure, the high-pitched sound reverberating off the walls as she convulsed helplessly, endlessly beneath him. And while she still trembled in the aftermath of her orgasm, he found his release with a harsh grunt and clenched teeth.

Spent and sated, Thomas flung himself from atop Grace’s limp form and onto his back, his chest falling and rising as he luxuriated in the pleasure of his release. From the corner of his vision, he saw her turn slowly on her side toward him, and felt the languid slide of her hand over his chest. She was
in the mood to cuddle, and now satiated, he yearned for his own bed—alone.

Then in his head, Lady Amelia’s voice rang out crystal clear in that scathing tone as she announced to everyone within hearing range, that he was too self-involved to care for anyone else’s pleasure. So, with her words rattling about in his brain, instead of bounding to his feet, throwing on his clothes, and going home as he was wont to do, he lay acquiescent under his mistress’s caresses.

“Will you stay the night?” Her voice purred with satisfaction.

“I can’t. Tomorrow I will be leaving for Devon,” he said, turning his head on the pillow to face her. “That was my other reason for coming. To tell you in person.”

The moment her hand stilled just above his navel, Thomas knew he had made a mistake. Grace bolted upright, her plump breasts bouncing against her ribs.

“You are going to Devon?”

Thomas suppressed a wince at the shrillness of her voice. Lord, why hadn’t he simply sent her a note once he’d arrived?

Raising himself to a sitting position, he dragged his hand through his hair. “I told you when we started our arrangement that I routinely go home this time of the year to tend to my business interests.”

However, his reminder was to no avail. For the next several minutes, Thomas listened with half an ear while Grace bemoaned the fact that his visits to her had dropped off over the past few months. She complained of feeling neglected. The bloody woman sounded more like a wife than a mistress. And truly, he had no idea what she need fret about. He’d set her up in a quaint townhouse in a fashionable part of London. Each month he parted with a good sum of coin to pay for her creature comforts, and he had opened accounts in her name at some of the best shops in town. She possessed a healthy supply of jewelry and he escorted her to
some of the best entertainment to grace this side of the Atlantic. What more could she possibly want? Well, except for more of his time, which he had no inclination to give her, and she had no right to ask of him.

“Would you rather my visits not decrease but stop entirely?” He asked the question in a world-weary voice that conveyed his impatience all too clearly, while shooting her a look that said he was within minutes of ending their arrangement.

By the speed at which Grace ceased her fretful prattle, her expression immediately becoming contrite, she had taken heed of his warning. Soothing him with her hands, they fell back onto the bed, her fingers wrapping around his cock as she worked to coax it back to life.

Thomas stilled the movement of her hand and brought it up to his mouth for a kiss. At the moment, he had no desire for another bout of lovemaking. And once again, Amelia Bertram assailed his thoughts.

Clayborough might have won her affections, but Thomas sincerely doubted the baron had been able to elicit in her one iota of passion. A task surely more difficult than wringing blood from a stone. How was he, a man of questionable temperance and patience, and an inordinate amount of pride, supposed to accomplish such a feat? How was he going to make her want him—better yet, crave him, his touch, his kisses, yearn for the very thing she’d scorned? Were his acting skills truly up to the part of the smitten gentleman?

At present, the answer was an unequivocal no. But he’d need to hone those skills quickly enough if he was to see his plan to its completion.

“Apart from my title, my wealth, and my appearance, what is it that you find appealing about me?” All of the attributes the chit had discounted with a disdainful tilt of her chin. He surely had more to offer a woman than those things, didn’t he?

He could feel Grace’s hazel eyes boring into his profile. Angling his head to view her fully, he quirked a brow.

Silence met his question head on. Thomas laughed dryly. “As those are things largely out of my control, I’ll try not to feel insulted at your speedy response.”

“No, darling, I guess I just find it a strange question,” she said, smiling, tiny wrinkles fanning the corners of her eyes. “Don’t tell me you have been reconsidering your charms?”

“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.”