A Taste of Desire(93)
Rutherford’s gaze darted between them, his expression bewildered. “Would one of you be kind enough to fill me in? It’s obvious I’m missing something.”
With his eyes trained on Thomas, Cartwright peeled off his gloves, one finger at a time, his movements unhurried. Extending his right hand to him, he said, “Nothing that bears repeating. Isn’t that right, Armstrong?”
Thomas grasped his friend’s cold hand in his, accepting the peace offering in the spirit in which it was given. “It’s already forgotten.”
“But—”
“Leave it alone, Rutherford. It was nothing.” Thomas used a tone that clearly conveyed he’d entertain no further discussion on the matter. The earl eyed them for a few seconds longer before snapping his mouth closed.
As far as Thomas was concerned, the incident was forgotten. “Will supper be served at eight?”
Rutherford gave a short nod.
“Good, then I think a bath and a change of clothes are in order. I will see you both then.” With a nod toward his friends, Thomas departed.
* * *
“What the hell was that about?” Rutherford asked the moment Armstrong disappeared up the stairs.
Cartwright gave his friend a feigned look of innocence. “Where is the lovely Lady Amelia?”
“She’s upstairs with Missy,” Rutherford replied automatically. Then a look of comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Is that what—or to be more precise—whom that exchange was about?”
Cartwright idly tapped his gloves against his trousered leg. “Let’s just say the most effective way to get to Armstrong is by showing an interest in Lady Amelia. You wouldn’t imagine the time I had of it. Just be prepared to defend yourself though. You know the man’s temper.”
Rutherford grimaced, no doubt remembering the pummeling Armstrong had given him last year when he’d discovered the earl had compromised Missy. A beating Alex would no sooner forget and one he had no desire to ever be on the receiving end of. He could very well have broken something trying to break the two up.
“Ah,” Rutherford whispered after a moment of silence. “I should have suspected as much. He has always been just a little too violently opposed to her. Too much a Shakespearean element to his protests.”
Cartwright barked out a laugh. “My thoughts precisely.”
“And something tells me you’re up to something.”
“Well, I have been known to be a risk taker, as you are aware. And what would Christmas season be without me to liven things up?”
“If you do anything to spoil mine and Missy’s first Christmas with our children, I’ll beat you to a pulp myself,” Rutherford said, but the ghost of a smile softened the sternness of his warning. There was probably no one more eager to see Armstrong squirm because of a female.
“Uncle Alex ruin Christmas for my favorite twins? Absolutely not,” he said, theatrically aggrieved. “I’m just going to have some fun with their dear Uncle Thomas. And I know you’ll enjoy watching the show.”
Rutherford conceded the point with a wry chuckle. “You mean the damn spectacle. You’re a daring man, Cartwright.”
Alex smiled. He’d been told that a time or two, though under considerably different circumstances. “I know.”
The countess had summoned one of the maids to escort Hélène to her sleeping quarters after she’d shown Amelia hers. When the three departed, Amelia properly surveyed the room. Included in the mahogany and enameled furnishings were a large canopied four-poster bed, a winged wardrobe with inset glass on the center door, and a chintz flowered armchair. The walls were covered in silk paper of embossed pink and gold flowers, and the ceiling was an elaborate bead and floral molding. Everything appeared comfortable and infinitely pleasing to the eye.
Amelia’s plans for the evening were simple enough: a hot bath, a short nap, and supper, in that order. But the moment her head touched the pillow, her plans collapsed under the weight of her fatigue. Her allotted hour-long nap ran unabated until a knock on the door pulled her from a dreamless sleep.
Two things registered immediately: the curtains were drawn, permitting in a profusion of wintery light. And this, of course, led to Amelia’s other very astute observation: it was morning. Morning!
She bolted up in bed just as Hélène entered the chamber.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Her maid’s tone brimmed with joie de vivre.