A Taste of Desire(89)
What was she still doing up? And good God, why hadn’t she the sense to don more than the blue, silky cover-up that draped her from her slender shoulders to the tip of her stockinged feet and had him aching like a man too long deprived of a woman’s touch.
Thomas shifted to rest his forearms on his splayed legs. She started at the movement before swiveling sharply. Her eyes widened when she spotted him tucked in the shadowed corner. Her hand flew to her throat.
“Oh Lord, I didn’t realize anyone else was up,” she said in a breathy voice. She immediately began to edge toward the entrance. “I was—was getting a book from the—the library, when I noticed the tree….” She trailed off with a gulp, her face flushing a becoming pink.
“Don’t allow me to stop you from looking your fill.” In that moment, he decided it was time to end the standoff.
Amelia’s instincts urged her to leave immediately. But foolhardy she must be, for she halted at his words. Thomas looked too … masculine, his hands hanging between his muscled thighs, and his jaw shadowed from a day’s worth of growth. And his eyes, dark and vibrantly green, watched her from between lids lowered to half-mast. If any man should keep the aura surrounding him bottled to keep all the females of the world safe, it was Thomas Armstrong.
“I just wanted a closer look at the tr-tree,” she said, stuttering like a child who had just learned its way around its tongue.
Two craterlike dimples creased his bristled cheeks as a smile tipped the corners of his mouth. Lord, he was more beautiful than any fully grown male had a right to be. Amelia’s gaze skittered away in a show of keen interest in the garland decorating the fireplace mantel. She hated this new nervousness that struck her when around him.
“You are beginning to remind me of your father.” He made no attempt to keep the amusement from his voice, coming to his feet in one lithe, fluid motion.
Amelia’s gaze narrowed. What on earth did he mean? She was not at all like him—in any manner.
“You both have a tendency to stutter when you’re anxious.”
Her father was never anxious; therefore he never stuttered. And neither did she! At least she hadn’t done so until she’d met the viscount.
“I am not stuttering,” she managed to say without the embarrassment of stumbling over her words. “The air down here is quite chilly. I should have realized the servants would have already put out the fires.” She could think of nothing else to say so as to not appear completely ridiculous.
“Why are you so nervous?” With every word from his sensuous lips, he advanced a step. Self-preservation urged her to close her eyes and keep them shut.
“I—” Amelia was forced to stop when she realized she was about to do the very thing he’d just accused her of. She cleared her throat, and began to edge toward the entrance. “What you’re mistaking as nervousness is fatigue, as it’s late and I’m tired.” She tried for a bit of hauteur, but failed miserably as he drew closer, causing her throat to lock up and the last several words to trickle out low and breathless.
“You can’t be that tired if you were just looking for a book to read.”
Amelia’s face burned. Blasted man.
“You’re running from me,” he said softly.
Just a few steps and he would be within arm’s reach. Amelia turned but didn’t make it one step before his hand locked around her upper arm. His hold was firm and unyielding … and warm. Hot sparks shot through her.
“What are you doing?” A breathless gasp emerged from her lips.
“I want to know why you are so nervous.” He pulled her inexorably closer. Amelia turned away from the sight of his chest, shoulders, and the ridged line of his neck.
Amelia swallowed. “Thomas, do not do this.” She winced at the weak note in her voice. Weak of mind and of body.
“Don’t do what?” he murmured, his voice seductively low.
Now he was standing within a hairbreadth of her, the male scent of him scrambling her thoughts, his nearness sending a cacophony of sensations coursing through her body.
The last time they had been this close, his hands had been on her breast, his tongue tangling with hers. And it had been he who had pulled back, not her, the weak, weak woman that she was. But only with him. She couldn’t allow him this sort of control over her.
He lowered his head, his hooded gaze focused intently on her lips. She immediately clamped them shut tight, and angled her head to the side. Her feet, though, felt glued to where she stood. Move. Move. Move.