A Taste of Desire(22)
“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.
Chapter 7
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.