A Taste of Desire(88)
“You see, we’ve been getting on nicely since our time in London. I just didn’t want—”
“Truly, Miss Foxworth, I don’t think it’s any of my—”
“Does your disapproval of him stem from what you said at the ball?”
Dear Lord, did the woman know when to stop?
“If that is the case, I must disabuse you of the notion that Lord Armstrong indiscriminately goes about town bedding any and every woman who happens to cross his path. That is your assumption, is it not?” Miss Foxworth appeared so utterly confident of what she spoke. As if Amelia were the sadly ignorant girl and it was she who was schooled and learned in the inner workings of human behavior. Amelia didn’t very much like the feeling.
“The man is hardly a saint, so if that’s what you hope to convince me of, please save your breath.”
Miss Foxworth nodded. “That is true. He isn’t a saint, but then show me a man who is. Lord Armstrong is kind, loyal, and generous beyond fault. Were you aware he gave my brother the money to buy his commission? He is also paying for the lease on our flat in town. He has been doing so since Marcus entered the military.” Her voice softened with emotion. “Thomas Armstrong has been a saint to Marcus and me, and we owe him a great deal.”
She gave a short self-deprecating laugh. “Don’t mistake me, it would be far too easy to fall in love with Lord Armstrong.” Miss Foxworth lowered her gaze to her lap where she stared at her intertwined fingers. “But for me that would be a foolish act. Although he likes me just fine, he is not interested in me like that. He would deny it, of course, for that’s the kind of gentleman he is, but to him I am merely Marcus’s rather unfortunate spinster sister who is in need of support while her brother is away fighting wars. And that is fine with me, you know.” She peered up at Amelia. “I would never do anything to damage our friendship.”
Why had Miss Foxworth told her all of this? Such outpourings were better reserved for broken dams and rain downfalls. She’d already said she had no interest in the nature of their relationship. But her heart did lighten and flutter in the most abominable fashion at what she’d just heard.
Despite the fact he would be spending the Christmas holiday at his sister’s home in Berkshire, Thomas allowed the servants to decorate the hall much in the same manner as his mother would have done. A Christmas tree was magnificently displayed in the morning room, its sturdy branches holding a ponderous amount of ornaments of bronze and silver. Against the backdrop of the night sky, candles lit the tree like a festive beacon in the bow-shaped window.
But for all the outward signs of Christmas cheer, he was feeling anything but in the holiday spirit. The last three weeks had been the most tension-wrought he’d ever spent, Amelia being the source of his disquiet. Like a festering sore, she seemed to affect everything he did. His sleep—or lack thereof—could only be considered fitful at best. The guilt of taking her virginity couldn’t escape him. The unquenchable need to have her again had him keeping as far away from her as physically possible.
So many times he’d wanted to go to her and explain his reasons for taking her letters. But two things had always stopped him, the first being he could offer no acceptable excuse. He hadn’t had to take Harry’s suggestion that he monitor her correspondence. The second was that he could clearly see in her manner toward him that any kind of peace offering on his part would not be well received. She treated him like a pariah, and it was obvious she regretted giving him her innocence.
Raking a hand through his hair, he weaved his way between the side table and the settee, and dropped into the damask armchair facing the tree. He silently watched the flickering candles dance under the light of the crescent moon outside. He was too wide awake to take to his bed, and a book couldn’t distract him from the things he wanted to do more. Even a drink had done nothing to soothe his nerves or ease the tension in his muscles. No, nothing had worked the past week.
Thomas dropped his head back against the cushioned chair and closed his eyes. But Amelia’s beautiful face remained firmly implanted in his mind and thoughts.
In the tortured silence, he heard the rustle of cloth. Snapping his eyes open and jerking his head up, his gaze flew to the entrance. The unmistakable figure of the woman who now haunted his dreams by night and thoughts by day appeared, gliding into the room to stand in front of the Christmas tree. Flicking a glance at the longcase clock adjacent to the stone fireplace, Thomas was surprised to note it was much later than he first thought—fifteen minutes to eleven.