A Taste of Desire(59)

“I don’t particularly care what you do with her. I just have no desire to be party to whatever it is.”

Releasing her arm, he took a step back. Amelia relished the breathing room. She didn’t like the fact that when she stood so close to him her mind muddled and every nerve ending stood at attention.

He continued to observe her closely, his dark gold lashes fanning the tops of his cheekbones. “Good God, I do believe you’re jealous.” Awe threaded the softly spoken words. If he had been Petruchio reveling in Kate’s obedience, Thomas could not have looked more satisfied.

Amelia sputtered a laugh before finding her voice. “You couldn’t be farther from the truth. But I’m certain the notion does wonders for your bloated ego.”

“Oh no? Well, you give a very good impression of it.” His eyebrow inched up. “What have you against Miss Foxworth? Why should it bother you if she is—as you quaintly put it—fawning all over me?”

“That is not what bothers me about the situation. I simply have no desire to be used.”

“And pray tell, how exactly are you being used?”

“Well, to-to-to—” Dear Lord, she was sputtering again.

He looked at her as if he could read her mind and delighted in what he found there. “If you are worried that there is something going on between Miss Foxworth and I, let me put your fears to rest in that regard.”

“I don’t care—”

It required only two steps, and he stood inches from her, his masculine scent enveloping her in a sensual prison. He pressed his forefinger gently to her lips, stilling her words. “You might be the most vexing woman I’ve ever met, but the one thing I’d begun to admire about you was your candor. Don’t spoil it now,” he murmured.

Staring up at him, Amelia wasn’t certain what kept her mute, his audacity or his finger on her lips.

“Now,” he continued, as casual as you please, “If you’re going to pitch a jealous fit, at least have just cause. Case in point, the appointment I have this evening.”

“No doubt a bed romp with your wretched mistress.” Abruptly, she stepped back and swatted at his hand.

His hand fell to his side. “Why should you care who I sleep with, mistress or otherwise?”

It was only at his softly spoken question that Amelia realized she must have given a voice to her thoughts. Heat flooded her from head to toe as she wished she could snatch back those renegade words.

“I don’t care who you bed,” she said coldly.

Thomas threw back his head and emitted a dry laugh. She suppressed the overwhelming urge to slap him clear into oblivion.

“So you say. However, I’m getting the distinct impression you care more than you like or will ever admit.”

“Believe what you choose.” Avoiding his gaze—the knowing glint in his green eyes—Amelia turned sharply and stalked from the room with the sound of his laughter, a taunting trail behind her.


Thomas glanced around Grace’s parlor and wondered again what he was doing there.

The idea of an uncomplicated evening of sexual release had been foremost in his thoughts when he’d set out from his townhouse. More than a month had passed with nothing but his hand to relieve his sexual urges. He should be fairly frothing at the mouth in anticipation of an encounter with Grace. He wasn’t. And he dare not examine the reason why.

“Darling.”

Thomas started, and then turned at the soft lilting exclamation. Grace swept into the room, her hands outstretched. She wore a silky robe over an equally silky, pale pink confection of lingerie, which skimmed her lush figure. Before he could respond, she enfolded him into her arms, her neck angled back for her kiss.

Thomas pressed an obligatory kiss on painted red lips and then hastily extricated himself from the embrace and the overly sweet scent of her perfume. The pleasure on her face dimmed. She quickly offered him a smile too bright, too wide-eyed to be genuine. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to town,” she scolded lightly, trailing her hand up his arm.

Her touch failed to elicit the normal rush of desire. At that moment Thomas knew what he had to do and couldn’t help an inward cringe.

Thomas caught her hand with his, and drew her down to the chintz, floral sofa. “Come, we must talk.”

Grace subsided without a demur, her nightwear pulling taut over womanly hips and thighs, but her hazel eyes held a glimmer of unease. “You want to talk before we retire to the bedchamber?” Again her smile appeared forced.