A Taste of Desire (10 page)

One moment she’d been vexed beyond comprehension and the next she’d stood fidgeting under his perusal, his green eyes glittering with a brilliant intensity. His look hadn’t held the scorn, annoyance, or gloating satisfaction she’d grown accustomed to from him. What it had held was something infinitely more dangerous, for it had had the power to unnerve her enough to forget herself. What remained back in that study was her poise, plain and simple.

Amelia gave her head a shake hard enough to cause a thick lock of hair to spill down her back. Pushing off the door, she crossed the room to the mahogany four-poster bed.

The viscount might be able to charm all the women of
London, but his attractions were lost on her. She knew that with unshakable certainty. But her reaction to him was troubling. For over a year, she’d managed minimum contact with him. And it had been a mutual avoidance. On the rare occasions they’d both attended the same ball, no less than a league was sufficient distance enough to separate them.

However, the circumstances were quite different now. There would be no avoiding. And with every minute she remained in his company, it grew ever apparent this wasn’t just a man she should steer clear of but one that should have her running pell-mell in the opposite direction.

Passing the three trunks sitting at the foot of the bed, Amelia dispensed with her petticoats, kicking them onto the carpeted floor, and clambered onto the mattress.

It was clear the two days of travel had finally taken their toll. It hadn’t been him she’d been reacting to but the circumstances. Obviously, what she needed was some rest. Perhaps when she woke her world wouldn’t seem like it was whirling out of control and she’d be herself again.

Four hours of sleep taken at midafternoon should have left Amelia pleasantly rested. Instead, she awoke long after the sun had made its descent below the horizon, still weary, her head pulsing behind her eyes.

Squinting, she inventoried the room, noting her trunks now sat beside the large wardrobe against the wall and her toiletry lay spread on the adjacent vanity. Hélène had unpacked and put away her belongings without disturbing her, a sign of a truly efficient lady’s maid.

No sooner had Amelia made the observation before a knock sounded at the door and Hélène bustled into the room.

“Ah,
oui,
you are awake,” her maid said with a smile. Striding over to the wardrobe, she threw both doors open and immediately began to contemplate several of Amelia’s
supper dresses, her fingers skimming over one with a gauzy, pale yellow skirt.

“Shall I pick out a dress
pour vous,
mademoiselle?”

Coaxed by a headache that had gone from a dull throb to sharp and unrelenting, it took only seconds for Amelia to make up her mind. “No, I would like you to convey my most contrite apologies to Lord Armstrong that a malady will prevent me from joining the family for the evening meal.” And as that was the truth, there wasn’t much he’d be able to say or do about it.

Hélène’s head jerked in her direction. “You are unwell, mademoiselle?”

“No need to look so alarmed. ‘Tis just a headache, nothing more. A good night’s sleep should set things right.”

Nodding, Hélène dropped her hands from the tulle silk dress, and closed the wardrobe doors. “As you please, mademoiselle. Shall I ask a tray be brought up
pour vous?”

It was at that moment her stomach voiced its protest, churning indelicately—and quite loudly. Lord, she hadn’t eaten a thing since before luncheon time. “Yes, please do. Apparently, lack of food is contributing to my migraine.”

Hélène’s mouth edged up slightly at Amelia’s grumbled response. With a nod, she turned and exited the room, her departure coinciding with the chiming of the supper bell.

Five minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Amelia called out while sliding her legs from the bed onto the floor, her feet sinking into the plush pile of Brussels carpeting. The food had arrived much faster than she had anticipated. Her stomach growled its approval.

The door opened, but no servant greeted her bearing the much anticipated tray of food. The viscount himself stood framed in the doorway like Apollo on the cusp of the Trojan War—sans the bow and arrow. He had changed, now more formally attired in a sage jacket and waistcoat and tan trousers. The white cravat knotted about his neck contrasted
sharply with the gold hue of his skin. An irrelevant observation, but one she’d made despite herself.

“You look well enough to me,” he stated with no preamble.

Amelia halted abruptly at the foot of the bed. It took a moment for her to collect her wits enough to understand just what he intimated and respond in kind. “Your concern is overwhelming.”

Without removing his gaze from hers, he entered, and the room seemed to shrink in size. Casually, he reached behind him to push the door closed, the click of the action loud and menacing to her ears.

With a start, Amelia swallowed hard and could only gape at him for several moments of incredulity. “What are you doing?” she said, recovering her speech and embracing her indignation.

“Is that what you do, get your servants to carry your lies for you?” He started toward her. “You are very much mistaken to think I believed a word of it.”

“You are in my bedchamber, my lord.” Her tone had shifted from heated to brittle as he drew closer. “Perhaps you are accustomed to treating females in this fashion. But I am a lady and I expect to be treated better than one of your trollops. I’m quite certain your mother would not look kindly upon your actions.”

Lord Armstrong halted in front of her. He stood too close, and Amelia yearned for the distance two arm’s lengths would have brought her. But after fleeing from him hours before, her pride wouldn’t allow another retreat.

“You of all people will lecture me on impropriety?” A dark blond eyebrow rose with his question. “Did I fail to mention that your father gave me leave to acquire you other accommodations should this—um—situation prove too trying for me? I believe the sisters at a very remote convent in Westmorland would gladly welcome your arrival.” He shook his head slowly and made a tsking sound. “It would be such a shame if it came to that.”

The pain in her head was forgotten—or perhaps it fled in light of the anger that overwhelmed her. Directed both at her father and the loathsome man standing before her, it was the kind of anger that had men carrying a pistol to the fields at dawn in the company of their second. Amelia inhaled deeply.

His gaze dropped to her breasts. Then his regard snapped back to her eyes. “Now, I believe that in my office I was explicit in my instructions as to where you’re to take your meals.”

Amelia swallowed a breath, her anger broken by the pitching of her stomach. He made it sound inappropriate. Intimate.

That he did not believe she was ill was obvious by the look in his eyes as he took another step toward her. Forcing herself not to retreat, Amelia tipped her chin to stare him directly in the eye. It annoyed her that this close, his shoulders were wide enough to block her view of the door. Her only exit.

“Do you really want to begin a battle with me? On your very first night?” He bent his head, his face mere inches from her own, his voice low and taunting.

For the first time since she’d initially laid eyes on the man, Amelia experienced a pang of fear hitherto unknown to her. He represented a threat. She recognized that now. But what kind of threat was not as yet altogether clear. And that made her resent him all the more.

“Then I guess you would rather I come down to dine ailing?” Goodness, what was she doing? Trying to appeal to his sense of … decency? It was obvious granite had usurped anything he might at one time have had resembling a heart.

“If you are ailing, then I am the king of England.”

“Then I will ask Your Highness to please remove yourself from my chamber.”

“Princess, let us get one thing perfectly clear.”

Amelia’s jaw locked, and her hands curled tightly around a swath of her skirt. It was clear he took great delight in
drawing out the name, knowing just how much she resented his use of it.

“This”—he gestured about the room with his hand—”and everything in this house is mine. You occupy this space at my hospitality. Moreover, I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve been in a room alone with a man and a bed. Remember, I know about both Cromwell and Clayborough, though I’ll wager Cromwell wasn’t even the first.”

If Amelia didn’t fear he would retaliate in kind, she would have slapped him—no, she would have balled up her fist and pummeled him to the ground. No one had ever—not ever—cast aspersions on her character in such a manner. Did he think because he had the morals of an alley cat, so, too, did everyone else?

“While you are in
my
house, you will do as I say. Do we understand each other?”

His expression, his eyes, his entire demeanor told her he expected her to respond with a rousing display of feminine defiance. She refused to give him the satisfaction of responding to his slur.

“Oh, I very much understand,” she replied softly.

Lord Armstrong stilled and stared as if he found her ready capitulation not to his liking—and not a capitulation at all.

“Now that you have my assurance, I am asking you to leave. I pray I will at least be permitted the privacy a bedchamber should afford anyone. Even someone in your service, I daresay.” She wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover he imprisoned the servants in their chambers. But then, how many of the female servants would actually call it being “imprisoned”?

Straightening with a languid grace, the viscount retreated several steps, a lazy smile in place. “You needn’t worry in that regard.”

Grateful that he no longer crowded her with his proximity,
Amelia chose to ignore the amused and knowing look in his eyes.

“Will I be permitted to eat this evening, or do you intend for me to starve?” The churning of her stomach had not allowed her to forget its current state of emptiness.

“I will instruct one of the servants to bring you something
this
time. Beginning tomorrow, I expect to see you in the dining hall.”

To respond as she wanted would simply delay his departure, so Amelia remained mute.

Lord Armstrong was at the door in long, fluid strides. Before exiting, he turned to her and said in a clipped, unyielding tone, “Be in the study tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. If you keep me waiting for even one minute, whether you’re dressed fit for company or not, I will come and fetch you myself.” He paused and without so much as a glimmer of amusement said, “On second thought, don’t sleep in a stitch tonight, that way that little exercise will rouse us both.”

He left her standing stock-still by her bed, eyes wide and mouth agape, fairly reeling at his audacity. But his words conjured up an image in her mind that left her flushed and hot for an altogether entirely different reason.

Supper with his family had been a relatively quiet affair. Eaten up with curiosity, his sisters had set upon him, firing question after question about their newly arrived guest. To their questions, he’d replied, “You can ask her yourself when you meet her tomorrow.” After receiving five such responses, Emily and Sarah had lapsed into silence.

Now retired to the library blissfully alone, Thomas crossed over to the sideboard and set about pouring himself a much desired—much needed—glass of port.

Soon he was settled in his favorite chair where he could freely assess his problem. One, Amelia Bertram. As
evidenced by her behavior thus far, this might prove an even greater challenge than he’d imagined.

Thomas took a swallow of the drink. His plan had been simple enough. Make her eat her words. And he’d manage this by not actually bedding her. He imagined a kiss or two would be called for, perhaps even one heated embrace, but that was all. Just enough to leave her yearning for something she’d never get—at least not from him.

The logical part of his brain told him a smart man would send her to Westmorland as soon as the sun rose tomorrow and let the sisters deal with her. However, the part ruled by his pride demanded her requital must come at his hands. It was only fitting. And if that meant he’d have to put on a performance that rivaled the best the St. James Theatre had to offer, so be it. Though given his body’s response to her, the physical intimacy aspect of it wouldn’t require any acting on his part. She was desirable, he’d give her that.

“I thought you had already retired,” came his mother’s voice from behind him.

Angling his head, he watched as she made her way toward him, the skirts of her mauve gown fluttering around her.

“Not as yet.”

“Good, because I would like to speak to you about Lady Amelia,” she said, taking a spot on the adjacent sofa. “Are the two of you planning to marry?”

In the midst of taking a swallow of his drink, the port went down the wrong passage, sending Thomas into a paroxysm of coughing. He quickly placed the glass on the table next to him with a clatter.

The viscountess patted his hand solicitously until the coughing subsided. “My dear, I didn’t mean to rattle you.”

“What on earth would give you such a notion?” he said, wheezing a bit.

“Honestly dear, it’s really the only thing that makes any sense. You are a bachelor, and she
is
beautiful and very
much a lady. That Lord Bradford should ask you to watch his daughter is like asking a fox to guard over a chicken coop. It simply defies all logic. The only thing that does make sense is that you intend to marry her.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mother, but I have no intention of marrying anytime soon, and I can guarantee you when I do it won’t be to the likes of Lady Amelia Bertram.”

The viscountess’s brow puckered. “And just what is wrong with her?”

The trap had been so neatly set, Thomas hadn’t seen it until he hung upside down squirming at the end of the rope. A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. He had to admire a mind that crafty.

“You could simply have asked that instead of going through the pretense of believing I intended to marry her.”