A Taste of Desire(66)
“I want you to cease the letters.”
Her mouth tightened into a red, pouty line.
“I want you to cease the inquiries of my whereabouts. I believe I’ve made it plain that I have no desire to renew our acquaintance.”
She wrinkled her nose delicately, as if her nostrils had just been accosted by an objectionable scent.
“Have I made myself clear?”
A myriad of emotions expressed themselves in her eyes, her mouth, the angle of her chin and her form. Finally, she offered up a smile teetering on the fringes of irritation and exasperation. “It makes me wonder, Thomas, why you’re so angry with me after so many years. Such strong emotions may suggest that you still have feelings for me. Feelings possibly as strong as mine for you. I hear you’re still unwed.”
The only thing more staggering than her arrogance was her cheek. As if his marital state had anything to do with her. Thomas’s own sense of propriety—and the group of debutantes casting interested looks in his direction—prevented him from delivering her the dressing-down she deserved, but something in his expression must have conveyed his derision.
With the suddenness of a shift in the wind, her eyes went from a contrived woefulness to shards of ice. But that too was gone just as quickly, though her displeasure couldn’t be completely disguised. He knew the signs: the jawbone protruding slightly, the indrawn breath, and a quick flaring of her nostrils. Rejection could never be considered an aphrodisiac.
“I can’t help if your overwrought imaginings have you misconstruing my indifference for some sort of pent-up longing. I will, however, ask that you cease your pursuit. Now!” The last word was a growled command, brooking no opposition.
With that, Thomas gave a sharp bow, pivoted on his heel, and started toward the exit. He could see her in his mind’s eye, her eyes wide in disbelief and then quickly narrowing to slits. How dare he walk away from her, a duchess, the daughter of an earl? He had, the penniless viscount who wasn’t penniless anymore. But her pride wouldn’t permit her to pursue him so publicly. After all, she was all she’d ever aspired to be. A duchess, queen of the noble realm.
As he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, he could now take his leave of the place. There was just the matter of informing Cartwright of his departure. They’d come together so he could at least offer his friend transport home if he was inclined to leave now.
Thomas skirted the dance floor, evading a group of ladies who appeared ready to pounce on the next passing eligible male. As his gaze swept the room, a figure near the set of French doors leading to the terrace caught his attention. Although she stood a fair distance away and had her back to him, she possessed the kind of figure a man would have to be blind or a eunuch not to appreciate. And there was something familiar about the dark silken coif of curls pinned atop her head, and the set of her slender shoulders.
She angled her head. The view of her profile caused him to stop in mid-stride.
Damn her!
Someone bumped him from behind.
“I beg your pardon,” he said instantly, only giving the gentleman—Mr. Wright—an impatient glance. By the time he turned his attention back to the woman, the shifting masses now obscured his view.
Behind him, he could hear Mr. Wright launch into a profuse apology, for it was certainly his fault. Should he not have anticipated that his lordship would halt so abruptly in front of him? And if he hadn’t been in such a rush and following his lordship so closely, the unfortunate contact would not have occurred.
Thomas started toward the terrace, a maelstrom of fury propelling him forward as Mr. Wright’s ingratiating apology droned on behind him.
Thirty minutes after their arrival at the ball, Amelia watched as Mr. Glenville escorted her chaperone to the dance floor. In viewing the results of her and Hélène’s efforts, she conceded with more humility than conceit, that they had done a wonderful job in her transformation.
Miss Foxworth’s hair had been curled and strategically coiled about her face to accentuate her cheekbones and minimize her forehead, which Amelia had belatedly discovered upon closer inspection, was a fraction too long. She wore a rich blue taffeta gown with lace flounces, and the corset Amelia had chosen for her helped to create a cleavage out of modest-sized breasts, although the term modest in this instance might be an overly generous one. Miss Foxworth was almost unrecognizable, and looking very much improved. One could say she happily bordered on pretty.
And with Miss Foxworth now occupied, Amelia was free to search out Lord Clayborough. She knew he had to be in the crowd somewhere.