A Taste of Desire (12 page)

“Sit down.” His voice cut the air with bladelike precision.

Amelia halted mid-stride, her right foot inches from the doorway. For a pregnant moment, she did nothing, her mind engrossed in the possible consequences of outright defiance. It took a few moments to decide that doing so wouldn’t be worth the stir it was sure to cause. Turning sharply back to him, she found his position unchanged, his head still bent over the ledger, strands of hair glinting a brilliant gold shine beneath the sun’s rays.

“I just assumed you had no need of me.”

“Sit down,” he repeated in clipped tones, waving his hand negligently toward the chair directly opposite him. He had yet to look up.

Amelia bit her lip and clenched her hands, striving for calm. She’d quit the place soon enough, she reminded herself as reluctant steps propelled her forward to take a seat in the designated chair.

His head came up slowly, revealing a regard as intense as she’d ever experienced. In haste, she dropped her gaze and took in his attire. She wasn’t altogether surprised to find him wearing shirtsleeves much less that it was open at the collar, allowing for an eyeful of chest hairs. But what else was to be expected? He was a Lothario lacking Casanova’s heart. Amelia jerked her gaze back up to his.

“I hope you found the accommodations to your liking.” The viscount reposed back in his chair to make a lazy appraisal of her person, his regard lingering overly long at her breasts.

“I find your regard offensive, my lord.” She dismissed the slow curl of heat in her belly as hunger.

Her rebuke did not in any way halt his scrutiny. Indeed it appeared to amuse him, a smile breaking the golden planes of his visage.

Slowly, he raised his gaze up to hers. “Does it disturb you? I imagine you’d be well used to male admiration.” His tone held a suggestive quality that belied the innocence in his eyes.

He flattered himself to think a look from him could do anything but revolt her. Gentlemen had been looking at her for years. She’d grown quite accustomed to being surveyed as if she were under consideration for purchase. But she knew quite well he did so with the sole purpose of unsettling her for he disliked her as much as she did him.

“My lord, I’d have you not play at these games. In the end, it will do little else but distress us both.”

He arched an eyebrow, his smile still in place. “Distress? Why should either of us be so afflicted? I was merely commenting on your appearance, which I’m certain you are well aware could lead even a monk astray.”

A flood of warmth suffused her face despite her best efforts to remain unaffected. From any other man the compliment would have sounded as stale as week-old bread. But from the viscount’s lips, it flowed in a poetry of words that might have brought praise from Tennyson himself.

“But you needn’t fear I have any designs on you. My tastes have always run toward females of the warm-blooded variety. Outward beauty, while pleasing to the eye, isn’t enough to hold my attention. A good disposition is essential, and, Princess, that is one area in which you sorely lack.”

His poetry hit a discordant note, rendering her motionless and mute. Then the indignity of his set-down brought a flash of molten anger. Later, she’d undoubtedly regret the impudence of her response, but the words streamed from her without thought, just a to-the-bone kind of fury.

“And this from a man who can’t keep his trousers above his ankles a minute longer than it takes the pastor to deliver his sermon.”

The corners of his mouth performed a slow grin, spurring her to uncharted levels of viciousness.

“So please,
my lord,
do save me from the dubious distinction of being singled out by a man who has undoubtedly made it through every whore in every whorehouse in all of London.”

Once she’d finished the vitriolic diatribe, she wondered at the glaring absence of her poise. The vow she’d made to herself after he’d left her bedchamber the prior night—that she’d not allow him to see even the tiniest fissure in her control—had bolted in the wake of his scathing indictment of her.

But for all her rancor, his grin only broadened, revealing a set of straight teeth, white and blinding. She was almost
certain he wouldn’t be nearly as handsome with the front set of them—top and bottom—missing.

“Then I can safely presume I needn’t fear you’ll attempt to entice me with your, er, charms, and you in turn are safe from my lascivious and most unwanted attentions?”

Want to entice him? Her? The idea was beyond absurd.
“You,
my lord, were never in any danger of that,” she said, her tone scornful.

Leaning forward, the viscount rested his elbows on the desk. “Then I know I won’t offend you by saying it wouldn’t matter if that was your intention because
you
could never tempt me.”

Having regained some of her calm, Amelia silently assessed the situation with more forethought and a clearer head.

He was lying.

Which was not to say that he liked her—or even desired her, for that matter. He could think her as cold as the Thames frozen over in the dead of winter, but he’d no more turn her down than a rummy would a bottle of liquor. His mission, as the reprehensible rake that he was, was to fornicate himself through vast pools of women, the willing ones making the task of attaining the goal that much easier. All his talk was bluster and bravado. Now had she been a spiteful sort of woman, she might have made a liar of him.

“Shall we now move onto a more pleasurable topic, like your duties for today?” His brow raised as if awaiting her permission to proceed.

For all his seeming nonchalance, no doubt he expected her to view him as a man of great restraint. Amelia wasn’t fooled. Nevertheless, she was determined to match him in demeanor if nothing else. Ranting on like a fishwife would do little good.

“Your father tells me you have a good head for numbers. He believes you’d be the most use to me if I put you in charge of the accounts.”

Ah yes, the one area her father thought she showed great
promise. It simply boggled his mind that a female could manage such a manly task without straining her inferior, insufficient brain. That “her gift” related to a matter in the financial realm came as no big surprise to her.

“Although I have a great deal of confidence in your father’s opinion, I believe it completely ill-conceived to think of placing something of that importance in your hands.”

Ill-conceived?
The only ill-conceived thing—

“However, I see no harm in allowing you to put my files in order.”

Harm?
Amelia gritted her teeth, refusing to rise to his insults. It was what he wanted. She should collect his bloody files, dump them on a woodpile, and light the biggest blaze anyone in Devon had ever seen. Oh yes, the idea did have merit, she thought with a certain amount of glee.

“That should not tax me unduly,” she said just to be contrary.

“Excellent.” Like a well-rested lion, he unfolded his long length from the chair to circle the desk and stride over to the
secretaire,
which sat some twenty feet away, close to two towering arched windows.

Turning in her seat, Amelia watched his progress. If he’d had the decency to wear a jacket, she wouldn’t have to endure an unfettered view of his backside—a part of the male anatomy to which she typically paid little mind. Black trousers molded trim hips, firm buttocks, and long muscled legs to proclaim him a very fine figure of a man.

Amelia quickly averted her gaze and gave her head a quick shake as if that would now dislodge the image from her mind’s eye. Or perhaps she expected the action to jolt some sense back into her.

“You can start with these.” He prodded a large open box by the desk with a black-booted foot.

Careful to avoid looking at his backside again, she rose to her feet and made her way to the desk to peer inside the box. What she discovered was utter chaos in the form of
sheaves of black-inked papers, most of which appeared worn with age.

“And what am I to do with this?” she asked coolly. The man was the devil incarnate.

He paused before replying, “Why, organize them of course.”

“These papers, documents, whatever they are, don’t appear to be well kept at all.”

“I see your father was right. You are intelligent. How quickly you’ve grasped the need for an organized work space.”

Amelia bristled under his condescension and clamped her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a response.

His shift to a businesslike manner occurred with the suddenness of a passing summer storm. He proceeded to explain what he wanted done and exactly how she should go about doing it.

The box—the first of many, he informed her—contained years of contracts for services pertaining to his breeding farm. He indicated where and how they would be filed: in a tall, six-drawer cabinet, equipped with metal dividers. He would be available for any questions that may arise. At that statement, a sense of relief overwhelmed her, for it indicated he had no intention in remaining there with her. No matter how grand a study this was, it would have felt like a broom closet if she was confined in it with him for the duration of the day.

“I will be down at the stables if your need is urgent.”

Amelia’s regard immediately snapped to him. Though his tone was not in the least bit suggestive, his choice of words begged a sharp look. But he was already halfway across the room, seconds later his tread a fading echo beyond the study doors.

Alone in the room for the first time, Amelia heaved a sigh of relief and cast an abstracted look around. The French Rococo influence was prominent in the serpentine-backed sofa and a plum brocade armchair at the far end of the room,
which created an intimate sitting area around a black walnut fireplace. Four arched windows, topped by gold tasseled curtains, were evenly spaced along the length of the north and east walls, making little need for artificial lighting during daylight hours. Built-in bookcases consumed at least half of the wall space, its dark wood and clean lines giving the room its masculine appearance.

Amelia circled what could now be considered
her
desk and seated herself in the high-backed chair. Plucking a handful of papers from the box, she surveyed the first sheet. Faded with age and smudged from frequent handling, her eyes strained to make out the name at the top of the contract, all to no avail. Why wait for a ceremonious bonfire? She had a mind to toss it in the fire right then and there.

Amelia could see this would indeed be a long and frustrating day
—days,
perhaps even weeks. Tonight she’d pen a letter to Lord Clayborough; then tomorrow she’d acquaint herself with every conceivable avenue of escape the sprawling Stoneridge Hall possessed.

If a purgatory of smudged black ink on sheaves of paper existed, Amelia could rightly say she was trapped in it. Her day, which normally clipped on at a steady pace, lumbered relentlessly onward and was broken only by the luncheon meal and an afternoon snack she’d eaten at her desk. By the time six o’clock arrived, she’d suffered every second of every minute of every hour—the tedium of her task nearly lulling her to unconsciousness.

The only bright spot in her otherwise dreary day was that Lord Armstrong had not come back to check on her progress.

As she straightened her desk, the opening of the door had her turning with a start to view the man himself. He had changed since the morning, a neckcloth, waistcoat, and jacket adding much-needed formality to his attire. Suddenly a clothed version of Myron’s Discobolus came to mind. The
viscount would be the same under all that wool, silk, and lawn, all lean, sinewy muscle over golden flesh. Amelia immediately wanted to knock herself senseless for allowing another such image to enter her thoughts. What had come over her? Good looks had never impressed her—did not impress her still.

“How have you managed thus far?” He shot her a glance as he headed toward his desk.

“As well as expected, I imagine,” she said pertly before turning to straighten the last stack of documents. “I shall finish what remains in the morning.” She retrieved a handkerchief from the desk drawer and began wiping herself clean of what ink had gotten on her hands.

He had opened the account ledger and had begun to flip the pages. At her words, the rustling of paper ceased and the room went quiet.

Curious, Amelia darted a look in his direction to find him staring at her, the book suspended in his hand. “Tomorrow? Why tomorrow when you can do it now?”

Amelia blinked rapidly, her eyes widening. “Now?”

“Yes, do you have a problem with that?” He closed the account ledger and placed it on his desk.

Did she have a problem with that? The hour was late, her hands and back ached, and the majority of the day she’d spent sitting. Her bum had grown numb from overuse. Ridiculous man, of course she had a problem with it!

“Surely this can wait until the morning?” Her brittle tone cracked under the weight of her irritation.

Shifting, he propped himself on the edge of the desk and folded his hand across the expanse of his chest. “My dear Princess, there is still the matter of this morning to contend with. An hour and a half to be precise. You didn’t think I’d forgotten your tardiness did you?”

Amelia’s fingers tightened around the handkerchief much the same way she yearned to do to his neck.

“While I may have exercised restraint this morning,” he
continued softly with a thread of steel in his tone, “I won’t should there be another occurrence. I will not countenance disobedience.”

Yes, how dare she thwart his expressed orders? A fact that had undoubtedly gnawed at him the entire day and would haunt his dreams tonight. Amelia dropped the handkerchief on the desk.

“So oversleeping is now a capital offense?” she asked, endeavoring to sound as if he hadn’t just managed to set every one of her nerves on edge.

He shook his head, his expression vaguely amused. “We’d be hanging them in droves in the town square. However, for you, while not a
capital
offense, consider it an offense that carries with it certain consequences.”