night—sinfully naked and buried between her thighs, he summoned the strength and halted the heated embrace with a muffled curse and a groan.
“If I don’t leave now, I never will. And we can’t allow your maid or one of the servants to find me here.” With a short, hard kiss to her mouth, he’d quickly exited the room.
That had been four hours ago. Yet the anticipation of seeing him again had her wiping damp palms against her skirt just before she entered the breakfast room.
Thomas was there standing in front of the sideboard, in his hand a plate piled high with food. He stopped as soon as he spotted her and treated her to the kind of look that had everyone else in the room turning to watch her.
A wave of heat flooded her face and other places she dared not think of. Ever conscious of her audience, she was brief in her acknowledgement of him: a silent dip of her head. But even as she turned to greet the earl and the countess, she could easily recall the exact shade of green of his waistcoat and trousers, and was envious of the fit of his shirt and jacket over his muscled shoulders, chest, and abdomen. Never had a man stirred her blood so.
“And how did you enjoy your evening?” The earl’s question ended abruptly with a grunt of pain. “Why—”
Missy condemned her husband with a sharp look, interjecting smoothly, “Good morning, Amelia.” She spoke as if she just hadn’t poked him in the side with her elbow—this contact the apparent source of his pain. The countess’s reaction suggested she knew exactly how and with whom Amelia had enjoyed her evening.
“Good morning, Lord Windmere, Lady—I mean Missy,” Amelia corrected upon receiving a look of mock reproach from the countess.
The earl seemed to quickly collect himself, clearly seeing the error of his ways. “And you must address me as James or Rutherford if you prefer, as it is obvious we will become well acquainted.” He brought his cup of coffee to his lips, peering over the rim at Thomas, who in turn continued to watch her intently.
“I told you we are an informal lot,” Missy chimed in.
Amelia rounded the table to the sideboard, feeling all three pair of eyes boring into her. More than anything, she could feel the heat of Thomas’s stare.
When she’d finished serving herself and came to the table, Thomas bounded to his feet, took her plate, placed it at the setting beside his, and seated her himself. Her heart leapt at the combination of his solicitousness and proximity. She inhaled his scent and wondered how she could ever have been adverse to it—adverse to him. It would be a miracle if she survived the day without pouncing upon him like some sexually deprived widow.
To hide her embarrassment, Amelia concentrated intently on her food, never daring to meet Thomas’s sidelong glances. If breathing was difficult, eating required Herculean efforts. Thomas had done this to her. Love had done this to her.
“Have you any plans for today, Amelia?” Again, Missy spoke to her as one would an intimate, very familiar and warm. To Amelia, even after such a short acquaintance, something in Missy’s manner felt right.
“I—”
“Yes, I plan to take Amelia into town. I thought she would enjoy Windsor’s shops, especially during the height of the season,” Thomas cut in.
Now she did look at him. He intended they spend the entire day together. Joy gripped her and refused to let go. She grew dizzy with it.
Thomas offered her a half smile. His gaze became hooded when it drifted to her mouth. Her breasts peaked and her skin tingled, her body responding as if it had been a physical touch.
“Yes, I would enjoy that tremendously.” She tried to sound not quite so much like an adoring simpleton.
James cleared his throat while Missy unsuccessfully attempted to hide a smile behind her serviette.
“I believe Catherine and Charlotte would enjoy a trip into town. Catherine in particular, for she adores the stores.” Missy directed her statement to her brother, a dark eyebrow arched. Amelia understood the look immediately. The countess didn’t trust him—them. While at her home they may enjoy their privacy; in public they would be circumspect, adhering to some form of propriety even if it was the chaperone of two sixteen-year-old girls.
A momentary tightening of Thomas’s features indicated his chagrin, but he conceded with a curt nod. Obviously they would have to curtail any physical intimacies. Amelia couldn’t help a stab