A Taste of Desire(109)
She may be many things, and perhaps once or twice he had caused her knees to buckle, and yes, there was the dizzying euphoria that happened all too frequently when he was near, but a female fit to swooning she was not. Today, however, she was at risk of doing exactly that if she dared meet his gaze, her composure around him now easier to shake than a dilapidated cabin during a high wind.
Had they been alone, she would have kissed him, but if she allowed herself even a chaste kiss, she’d want more. They’d both want more.
Amelia desperately looked everywhere but at him, feeling the burn of his gaze. Lord Alex’s stare captured her attention. His teeth gleamed white against his dark complexion in a lazy smile. He inclined his head as if to acknowledge and approve the new status of her and Thomas’s relationship. He then turned and sauntered to Missy’s side and relieved her of her daughter.
“You may give me a more appropriate thank you tonight.” Thomas’s dark, smoky voice promised an evening of untold pleasures, his words conjuring up an image of tangled sheets, bare skin, and a hot furious coupling. A tide of heat washed over her from head to toe. Dear Lord, she really needed to control herself. They still had the entire day to get through before night fell.
“I also have something for you.” Amelia left him to ferret out his present from the sea of gift-wrapped boxes under the tree. She returned to his side and handed him the box, only then permitting herself to meet his gaze. His look devoured her.
Thomas accepted the box and wasted no time in opening his gift. He stilled for a long second when he saw the model ship. His gaze flew to hers. The intimacy of that look turned her knees to the consistency of molasses.
“I hope you like it.”
Missy, ever curious, had come to her brother’s side. She peered into the box. “Oh, how lovely. Finally a ship more scaled to suit you.”
Thomas ignored her quip as only a brother could and extricated it from the paper padding. Holding it up, he turned it around slowly several times, admiring the craftsmanship. It was clear the ship had been carved by expert hands and with loving attention to every detail.
With his goddaughter still in his hands, Alex ventured toward them. “And here Father Christmas brought me only one fat lump of coal. Do tell, Armstrong, what did you do to earn such a jewel?”
Missy tried to muffle her laughter without success.
Thomas didn’t so much as blink before replying, “I haven’t earned her yet, but I’m hoping that’s just a matter of time.”
At that precise moment, Amelia conceded she might indeed be exactly the type of woman prone to swoons.
Following supper that evening, the women parted company with the men in the hall, proceeding upstairs to check on the babies. Thomas, Cartwright, and Rutherford filed into the drawing room.
“So, Armstrong, when can we plan for your upcoming nuptials? My calendar tends to become more crowded in the spring.” Cartwright, with his unsinkable tact, did not prevaricate but got straight to the point.
Rutherford proceeded to the sideboard to pour the after-supper port without commenting but Thomas could tell by his expression he too awaited his response.
Thomas took a seat on the sofa and regarded Cartwright’s arched-brow countenance. “Your schedule doesn’t make the slightest difference to me. I’ll marry her with or without you in attendance.”
“You realize there will be talk. The ton is still abuzz from your infamous public encounter at Lady Stanton’s ball.”
“Let them talk. In any effect, our betrothal should put to rest any notion that there is any acrimony between us,” Thomas replied with a short laugh.
Rutherford advanced toward them and paused by the sofa to hand him and Cartwright their glasses of port. Thomas accepted his gladly, quickly tipping his head back for a swallow.
Rutherford took a seat in the nearby armchair while Cartwright remained standing, looking suddenly like a rudderless boat. “Bloody hell, it just occurred to me that both of you will be married.” He made the final word sound more like some ghastly infection than the state of wedded bliss.
Thomas relished his friend’s apparent disgruntlement. “What, afraid you’re next?”
Cartwright waved his hand dismissively. “God, that’s the last thing on my mind. My father thanks the saints every day he has Charles to carry on the name.” And as with every reference to his father, his voice held an acerbic note.
“So when’s the long-anticipated proposal to be made? Missy will, of course, insist on having a hand in the preparations.”