A Taste of Desire(87)
Her face burned; her hands trembled. What was this man doing to her? She had offered little to no resistance when he’d taken her virginity. She had liked it. Who was she fooling, she’d been like a gourmand at the most lavish spread in all of London, gorging herself to satiation, and then wishing she could go back for more.
Chapter 23
Amelia’s gaze toured the bronzes and Staffordshire figures on the rosewood étagère in the drawing room. The ornaments displayed were not so plentiful as to give it a cluttered appearance. She herself preferred sparse simplicity rather than a hodgepodge of knickknacks laying claim to taste and money. Yes, Lady Armstrong had made Stoneridge Hall a place anyone would be proud to call home. Which was one of the other reasons Amelia so desperately needed to leave—the sooner, infinitely the better.
She hadn’t intended to become comfortable here. More important, she and Thomas had crossed a line in their relationship and couldn’t go back. With the heat of his touch and kiss … his possession, he could send her high as a kite in flight, ascending the dizziest heights. But all too soon, she was cast down low to the darkest depths of despair. Never in her life had a person affected her so. She feared the risk of remaining would somehow include her heart—a risk she wasn’t willing to take.
Since Lord Alex’s departure three days ago, they now circled each other like strangers. Their conversation—such as it was—extended to staggering five-word sentences. Good morning. I’ll be at the stables. And the moment he finished, he’d vanish and not return for the remainder of the day. She worked the hours in solitude. Rarely did he speak to her during the evening meals, choosing to converse almost exclusively with Miss Foxworth, who proved to be a most captive audience. He’d committed the grievance, yet she was being ignored. More glaring evidence of his arrogance.
“Lady Amelia?”
Amelia started at the sound of her name, quickly turning to view the pale, wisp of a woman hovering at the entrance of the drawing room. Speak—or in this instance think—of the devil and she was sure to appear.
Since Miss Foxworth’s arrival at Stoneridge Hall, she’d continued to follow Amelia’s advice, managing to unearth from her wardrobe brighter colored dresses more suitable to her complexion. Today, she wore a chartreuse dress with raglan sleeves and a full, billowing skirt.
“Is anything wrong? You’ve been so very quiet lately.” Miss Foxworth edged into the room and daintily sidestepped a rogue footstool.
Amelia summoned a small smile. “Nothing really. You’ve just caught me deep in thought.”
“Are you missing home?”
“Yes, perhaps a little.” At this point, lying was easier than a game of twenty questions … or the truth.
“May we sit? I would like to speak with you.” Miss Foxworth motioned to the dark blue sofa flanked by a balloon chair on her left.
Dear Lord, this all sounded quite ominous. Amelia took a seat in the balloon chair and tamped down any show of apprehension by busily arranging her skirts around her.
Miss Foxworth sat on the edge of the sofa with her hands clasped neatly on her lap, her expression earnest. “I would like to assure you that Lord Armstrong has no designs on me whatsoever.”
Amelia’s jaw went slack. Of all the things she had expected the woman to say, this hadn’t even made her mental list. “Pardon?”
Miss Foxworth studied her with sage eyes. “From the beginning, I’ve gotten the impression you don’t particularly care for my association with Lord Armstrong. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she added hastily, “I certainly don’t fault you for your reaction. I might be moved to act in a similar fashion for his affection. That is why I felt the need to assure you, he cares nothing for me—at least not in a romantic sense.”
Amelia choked out a laugh, endeavoring for a smooth recovery from the shock of the woman’s words—and the accuracy of her observation. “You are very much mistaken. Nothing could be further from the truth.” She then held her breath to see if a bolt of lightning should appear in the crystalline, blue, winter sky. After a minute pause without the scent of burning flesh, she continued. “And truly, it is none of my concern what the true nature of your relationship is with the viscount.”
Miss Foxworth now appeared puzzled. “So your grievance is with Lord Armstrong, not me?”
“No—I mean—yes—what I mean is my grievance is with no one. Lord Armstrong is free to associate with as many women as he pleases. It is not my concern.” Of all the characteristics Amelia would have attributed to Miss Foxworth, tenacity hadn’t been one of them.