A Taste of Desire(101)
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.
Chapter 26
Supper could be summed up in one word: Strained. At least on the part of her and Thomas, Amelia mused. Or perhaps strained was too ambivalent a word to describe the combustible electricity that simmered between them.
Thomas treated Lord Alex with surly politeness, which meant he only spoke to him when specifically addressed, and responded in curt monosyllables. It came as no surprise to her that Lord Alex didn’t appear the least bit offended by his treatment.
Thomas spoke to her twice throughout the meal. The first time to inquire about her day, and the second to ask if she was finding everything to her liking. She replied to each question “excellent” and “yes,” respectively, in as normal a voice as she could muster, considering that when he’d walked into the room, he’d literally taken her breath away, dressed to the nines, his scent a mixture of delicious clean male flesh and rosemary and bergamot. Thomas’s own scent. If bottled, she’d purchase it by the caseload.