A Taste of Desire (11 page)

His mother smiled, looking not the least bit abashed. “But if I’d asked outright, you would have tried to talk circles around me, much like you do when I inquire about the women in your life.”

“Amelia Bertram is
not
a woman in my life. She is merely the daughter of a friend. And you will meet the woman in my life when I decide to take a wife.” And he hoped she wasn’t holding her breath for that.

“So, are you going to tell me what is going on between the two of you?” his mother asked with exaggerated patience.

“Nothing whatsoever,” Thomas replied, shifting in his seat. “And I believe I’ve already explained Harry Bertram’s predicament with his daughter.”

The viscountess gave him the sort of arched look that had coaxed many confessions from him as a child. He was no longer a child.

“Yes, but why do I get the impression that you are conveniently omitting pertinent details?”

Thomas shrugged, picked up his drink from the table,
and took a cautious sip. “I’m not certain. There is nothing else to tell.”

The viscountess continued to watch him closely, her expression dubious. “After meeting her, I’m hard pressed to believe her father couldn’t find someone more suitable to care for her. Although I had heard she was quite beautiful, I was surprised to find her so—so collected. Hardly the type of woman who would require such a close watch.”

His mother was too much the diplomat to use the more appropriate term of haughty.

“And what is this business of her coming without a chaperone? You know that I cannot, in all good conscience, leave the two of you here alone. My word, what would people say?”

Crossing his leg so his foot rested on the opposite knee, Thomas reposed back into the chair. “Yes, well, that was something that I could not have anticipated. But have no fear, I shall find her adequate supervision before you depart.”

The problem wouldn’t be in finding someone, but in keeping this saint after she met Amelia. He certainly didn’t delude himself into believing this would be an easy task. How could Harry have put him in this position without a word of warning?

But his assurance didn’t appear to appease his mother as much as he’d hoped. “And I will let it be known that Amelia is here as your guest.”

“But I will be leaving in a month.”

“And an unfortunate calamity will befall her, which will prohibit her from joining you and the girls in America. A surprise her father could not have anticipated but one that will sadly never come to pass.”

The viscountess regarded him, her green eyes flickering with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Reaching over, she patted his forearm. “You have obviously thought of everything.
I just hope this whole affair doesn’t result in unwanted consequences.”

Thomas gave a hollow laugh. “You’re worrying overmuch. I will ensure nothing untoward should mar Amelia’s reputation in your absence.”

If his mother dared pick up one of the gossip rags, she’d soon learn a red mark already existed. Over a month had passed since Lady Stanton’s ball, and the London set still savored the incident with the same relish as a wine connoisseur did a glass of Bordeaux.

With a satisfied nod, the viscountess gave her skirt a pat and rose. “Good, then I shall take myself off to bed.”

Thomas held up his glass to her. “Good night, Mother.”

She strode to the door. Upon reaching it, she stopped and turned back to him. “You said once that her mother died when she was young.”

“Yes,” Thomas affirmed even though it hadn’t been a question.

His mother sighed. “I did sense a sadness there. You will take care how you deal with her, won’t you? I very much want her to enjoy her stay.”

Caught off guard by the statement, Thomas was at a loss of how to respond. His conscience didn’t need the reminder of a dead parent. He too had lost his father at a difficult age. As for sadness, he saw none of that. What he saw was a spoiled and difficult female who cared nothing for anyone but herself.

“Rest assured, Mother, I will treat Lady Amelia with all the respect and care that is due her.”

His reply appeared to satisfy her this time, for she offered him a warm smile before quitting the room.

Thomas sat and pondered her parting statement long after she’d gone.

The following morning, and hours after day had wrested itself from the night grey and dreary, Thomas watched the long hand on the ormolu clock inch to the next position in its sixty-second journey. One minute after eight. Amelia was now officially late.

Indecision warred like a tempest within him. His first instinct urged—no commanded—that he follow through on his promise. He should march upstairs to her chamber and haul her bodily from her bed. But he didn’t believe he possessed the discipline such a task would require without wringing her beautiful neck. Then there was the matter of his family and the servants. All the commotion was sure to cause a disturbance of tongue wagging proportions.

He went to his desk and gave the tasseled cord of the bell pull on the wall an impatient tug. Within seconds of the pealed summons, Johns, the second footman, appeared at the study entrance.

“Sir?” Johns inquired with the proper deference.

Thomas had intended to instruct him to send one of the maids to locate Amelia but quickly thought better of the idea and snapped his mouth closed. Such insolence could only be by design. No doubt she was currently tucked snug in her
bed, fairly champing at the bit waiting to see just what he would do next.

“I can’t seem to find the posts from yesterday.” It was the first thing that came to his mind—and completely inane.

“I believe they’re on your desk, sir.” Johns replied solemnly.

Thomas made a show of moving around the books and papers on the desk, before saying, “Ah, yes. Here they are, buried under my work. Very well, that will be all.”

With a quick bow, Johns pivoted on his heel and exited.

Damn girl. Now she had him looking like a dimwit in front of his servants. While contemplating how best to deal with Amelia, he began to rifle through the stack of correspondence, most of which, he surmised at a glance, did not require his immediate attention. However, one of the envelopes—dark olive in color—caught his eye just as he was about to toss it back onto the pile with the rest. It was obvious by the handwriting the sender was female, but not one he was familiar with.

Curious, he tore open the envelope and extracted a single piece of paper. The words on the first line jumped out at him:
My Dearest Thomas.
His gaze shot immediately to the salutation at the bottom, which read
With all my affections, Louisa.

Thomas froze, his hand tightly clutching the letter. A quick scan of the contents told him
Her Grace
looked to renew their acquaintance. And it appeared she’d abandoned subtlety in favor of a more direct approach.

Snatching up the discarded envelope from his desk, Thomas strode over to the stone fireplace and tossed both it and the letter into the flames. The fire made quick work of turning the whole matter to ashes. Dead and buried and long forgotten, which was exactly where it would remain.

His thoughts went back to his current problem. Just how exactly was he to manage Amelia? There was no way he could allow for such a flagrant display of insubordination.

It was clear they were presently engaged in a battle in which only a level head could and would prevail. Therefore, he would wait. If nothing else, he had time on his side. Rome might not have been built in a day, but he wagered he could break Lady Amelia Bertram in four short months.

“Mademoiselle?”

The sound of her maid’s voice jerked Amelia awake. For a moment she didn’t know why she felt so panicked and what had her gulping mouthfuls of air. Then everything hit her at once.

Light—bright light—streamed in through the windows of the bedchamber. Her gaze frantically sought the clock on the bedside table. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Nine o ‘clock!
With a squeal and a flurry of arms and legs, she kicked off her covers and sprang from the bed. “Heavens above, how can it possibly be so late?”

Amelia had a vague recollection of the upstairs maid arriving to open the curtains and tend the fireplace earlier that morning. She’d intended to rise then, but had talked herself into another fifteen minutes of sleep. How had she allowed that time to run nigh on two hours?

Blast and double blast!

In her haste, she snagged her toe on the hem of her nightdress but managed to right herself before she went tumbling to the floor.

“Qu’est que c’est?
Mademoiselle, what is wrong?” Hélène darted forward to steady her as Amelia tottered on her feet.

“I am late,” Amelia snapped her reply, her panic having quickly given way to irritation. This was not how she’d intended to begin the humiliation that was her punishment.

“But it is still quite early.”

Her maid’s point was a valid one. Rarely, if ever, had she reason to rise before ten, especially when residing in
London. The social whirl of the Season made it impossible for one to sleep before two in the morning.

“I know, I know, but I was to meet with Lord Armstrong at eight. Please Hélène, make haste. I must bathe and dress quickly.”

With her brows furrowed in puzzlement, Hélène released her arm and started toward the bathing room adjoining the bedchamber.

“No, I shall tend to my bath. Just prepare my clothes.”

Hélène shot her a curious glance and then reversed course to hurry toward the wardrobe.

Precisely fifteen minutes and one gooseflesh-inducing bath later, Amelia stood outfitted in a velvet robe dress. As she didn’t have time for anything that required more effort than a brush and some pins, Hélène had merely coiled her hair at the nape in a simple bun.

“You must wake me at seven every morning,” Amelia said, slipping her feet into a comfortable pair of kid leather shoes.

Hélène paused in her task of straightening the dressing area, raising her head to stare at Amelia, her brown eyes the size of a crown and just as round. “Every morning, mademoiselle?”

Amelia nodded briskly. “Unfortunately, we shan’t enjoy the same luxury as we do at home. But you needn’t bother with my toilette. That I can handle myself. But as there’ll be no time for me to take breakfast downstairs, unless”—she gave a mild shudder—”I’m prepared to rise at an obscenely early hour, please bring a tray when you come. It needn’t be anything grand. Just enough to stave off hunger until luncheon.”

“And zis morning, shall I bring you something
toute de suite?”
Hélène asked, ever the solicitous lady’s maid. She’d not have her mistress go hungry if she could prevent it.

“No, this morning, I have no appetite at all.”

“As you please, mademoiselle.”

Already out of the chamber, the address floated behind Amelia, a faint whisper in her ear as she hastened toward the staircase.

Downstairs, Amelia reduced her pace and made the long trek down the marbled hallway. In the midst of performing their duties, servants paused, their expressions polite with only the barest hint of curiosity. Then, as she passed, like a line of falling dominoes, they acknowledged it with dips and nods with the courtesy due her status as a lady.

However, her position in the household—neither a guest nor truly a servant—was the equivalent of a queen forced to labor for her keep with the full support and encouragement from the king. In truth, her position couldn’t be considered much above the people whose duty it was to serve her.

Quickening her steps, she made the final turn down yet another long stretch of floor. She passed the billiard room, the library, and another half dozen servants before she finally reached the study. She viewed the sight of the ornately framed double doors with a mixture of disapprobation and trepidation.

Was he angry? she wondered. Or more aptly put, just how angry was he? Well, in this her conscience was clear. It was not as if she’d done it deliberately. Not that he’d believe her claim that she hadn’t been late intentionally were she to offer it. But truly, not only was this punishment grossly unfair, so too was its expeditious beginning. As far as
he
was concerned, her duration there would afford ample time for torment and misery. Though
whose
torment and misery was a matter yet to be seen, for she vowed she’d not bear the brunt of that alone.

Despite all her internal assertions, her belly coiled up tighter than a sailor’s hitch in the Arctic cold when she delivered two short raps to the door—a courtesy she exercised more to announce her arrival than request admittance.

Shoulders back and chin high, Amelia inhaled a deep breath before entering, a grudging apology ready on her
tongue. The man who was to receive it sat behind the mahogany desk, his head bent over a blue leather-bound book she instantly recognized as an accounts ledger. Around him, papers ran rampant, consuming almost every square inch of the desk’s surface.

She ventured several feet beyond the door and awaited his acknowledgement. Only the rustle of paper and the rhythmic tick of a clock perched on a glass stand broke the silence.

A true gentleman would have already risen to his feet. A good half dozen seconds passed. A man would have at least glanced up. Several more seconds passed. Only an unmannerly brute would do neither.

The viscount did neither.

She was tempted to clear her throat, but her pride balked at the notion. The action carried with it a sense of desperation.
Look at me,
it begged. Truth be told, she didn’t so much mind that he ignored her. What had her more piqued was that she was here at
his
behest.

With every moment she stood there unmoving, her spine grew stiffer, her breathing, deeper. After a half minute had elapsed, she knew her intended apology would never materialize. After a full minute, said apology could not have been pried from her tongue with medieval tools of torture.

The clock chimed on the half hour.

Enough is really enough!
Turning, she started toward the door.