A Taste of Desire (2 page)

“I bear you no ill will, although I had hoped …” Harry offered a faint smile. “It is quite unfortunate that Amelia did not choose to take up with a man more like you.”

Thomas’s gaze probed his friend’s as he disengaged his hand. He had known Harry for six years and was well aware of the man’s deep affection for him. But surely Harry hadn’t made this proposal with hopes that he and Amelia would …?

He tried to veer away from the thought before it could fully form in his head and take up residence in his mind. Unfortunately, the thought had a life of its own. The utter notion was beyond absurd, but in all likelihood would send Harry into fits of jubilation—were he inclined to such behavior. A union between he and Amelia would not only give the
marquess a son-in-law he both admired and respected but more important, someone with mettle enough to control his unruly daughter.

A dark laugh emerged from somewhere deep in Thomas’s throat. “That would indeed be a match bound for the fires of perdition.”

A wry smile twisted Harry’s mouth. “Yes, it appears so.”

In silence, both men made their way to the study entrance. While they paused at the door, Harry clapped his hand across the width of Thomas’s back, giving his shoulder two solid thumps.

“I still have another month before my departure. If you should reconsider, please let me know.”

Thomas admired the man’s doggedness, but he’d willingly board a ship of prisoners bound for New South Wales first.

Amelia knew her father was angry.

He’d spoken not one word to her since that loathsome Mr. Ingles had dragged her, quite literally, from the coach not even two miles outside of town. With the crush of conveyances on Piccadilly and Regent Street, she and Lord Clayborough would have been better served if they’d attempted their elopement to Gretna Green on foot.

Thirty minutes gone, her father had requested her presence in the study. Still more than piqued at the unfairness of her three-day confinement to her bedchamber, she’d dawdled, doing absolutely naught before commencing the interminable walk downstairs to meet with her irate parent.

Upon reaching the study, she blithely thrust open the door, only to make jarring contact with a body standing on the other side.

She heard the
thwack
and a low masculine grunt—the sound a mixture of surprise and pain. Instinctively, she took a quick step back, her hand still clutching the knob. Lord, what was her father doing—?

Before she could complete the thought, Lord Armstrong’s imposing form stepped into view, tapered fingers rubbing a spot near his right temple. He observed her through narrowed eyes, emerald green and ponderously lashed, pinning her with the type of look meant solely to make a person squirm.

Squirming was not in her nature, but her heart performed an odd lurch and her pulse quickened at the sight of her father’s protégé. She was once again unsettled to discover that with each meeting, the golden-haired viscount could elicit such a response in her. But then—she made a surreptitious sweep of his body—he did exude an elegance and raw masculinity she grudgingly conceded might appeal to a less discerning woman—which, thankfully, she was not.

“Pardon me.” Amelia kept her tone level and polite. Easing the door open wide enough to allow for the sheer volume of two layers of stiff petticoats beneath her blue, flounced skirt, she entered the room. She immediately blinked against the glare of the sun pouring through large paned windows dominating the eastward-facing walls.

She caught the clean, subtle whiff of bergamot and rosemary. His scent. She’d recognize it blindfolded and spun around. How she’d grown to thoroughly dislike that scent. She loathed the man with whom she’d forever associate it even more. Inhaling a breath deep and slow, she took up a spot on the area rug, a comfortable distance from both men.

“I didn’t expect
someone
would place himself so near a closed door,” she added in case he’d misconstrued her statement as an apology.

Her father’s face seized up as if in the midst of an apoplexy. Lord Armstrong’s mouth flattened, his regard narrowing to a squint. Amelia returned his stare placidly. He could stare—or glare, as it were—at her all he wanted. She didn’t give a whit, ignoring her heart knocking a frantic beat beneath her breastbone.

“It is also customary to knock before opening a
closed
door,” came the viscount’s glib reply.

“Might I remind you, my lord, it is
I
who resides in this house.” The gall of the man, trying to chastise her. Who told him he should situate himself thus? Hinges on doors were not meant as frivolous ornaments; they
did
have a purpose.

“Amelia is regrettably sorry,” her father hastily interjected.

Like hell she is.
The bloody woman had probably parked herself outside waiting for the opportunity to bash his head in. Thomas wouldn’t put anything past her.

Tamping down his growing irritation, he replied smoothly, “Yes, Harry, I am quite certain she is.”

“I do hope I’m not preventing you from leaving. You were on your way out, were you not?” she asked in dulcet tones, a smile curving her lips.

If it had been any other woman, Thomas could have envisioned many other uses for such a mouth, with plump lips the deep pink of a man’s erotic dreams. And if one were dealing purely in aesthetics, who could fail to appreciate the dark-haired beauty’s jaw-dropping figure, shown to its best advantage in a gown the exact sapphire blue of her eyes, the fitted corsage allowing for the glorious display of creamy skin. But as stunning as she was, he wouldn’t have her if she begged him. Not that he would mind the begging part. That he would relish if only to have the pleasure of refusing her.

“Er … Thomas, thank you for calling. I expect I shall see you again before my departure.”

Thomas issued Harry a curt nod. “Yes, I expect you will.” He returned his attention to her. “And as always, Lady Amelia, it was a pleasure,” he said, managing to remain quite straight-faced, for surely Judas could not have told a grander lie.

For a brief moment, something sparked in her blue
eyes, breathing life into the flawless, glacial beauty of her countenance and hinting at a slumbering fire. If he gave a damn—which he most assuredly did not—it’d give him cold satisfaction to see her icy hauteur reduced to a puddle on the floor.

“Yes, but as we are both well aware, if I claimed likewise it would be a blatant untruth.”

The cheeky little piece!

The sound of Harry’s sharp intake bounced off paned glass and dark paneled walls. “Amelia—”

Thomas held up his right hand to forestall Harry’s coming reprimand. She must always have the final word. God, he’d sooner strip naked and immerse himself in a vat of leeches than spend a minute in her company, which meant he’d already remained in her presence at least four minutes too long.

“That’s quite all right, Harry. I certainly wouldn’t want your daughter to lie.”

“I’m glad we can agree on that,” she said tartly.

Not trusting himself to issue her another word—at least not a civil one—Thomas dipped his head in a shallow bow, giving her one final glance. Lord, what was it about her that always had his control splintering under the weight of her acerbic tongue? And just what was her grievance against him? In dealing with him, she was more than merely cold—as was her reputation. She wore the requisite pointed black hat and rode about perched on a broom like her sisters of the dark craft.

Women, ladies, matrons, the female population as a whole, simply did not despise him on sight.

Lady Amelia had.

Many claimed even children were not immune to his brand of wit and charm.

Lady Amelia most definitely was.

Annoyed at the direction of his thoughts, as if he gave a damn about her opinion, Thomas turned to address Harry. “I
will see myself out. Good day, Harry … Lady Amelia.” He then calmly took his leave.

If Amelia was one to indulge in tears, she might have wept in relief at the sight of the broad back of Lord Armstrong exiting through the doorway. And then whooped in exhilaration when his long, unhurried strides traversed the polished hardwood floors of the corridor until he vanished from view.

Arrogant, insufferable swine.

“You were unconscionably rude to Lord Armstrong,” her father said, disapproval a heavy stamp across his dignified features.

The clock on the fireplace mantel measured her lack of response in even strokes. When it became evident none would be forthcoming, Harold Bertram emitted a sound of displeasure. Amelia had long grown accustomed to the nuances of that particular sound.

As he raked a hand through his hair, he made his way to a small circular table in the corner of the room, on which sat crystal decanters containing some of the most expensive port in all of England. After loosening his neckcloth with three sharp tugs and then tossing it on the nearby sofa, he poured himself a drink. It was ten in the morning.

“Father, you wished to speak with me?”

He moved to stand in front of one of the windows and tipped the glass to his mouth. For several seconds he appeared to contemplate the yellow azaleas bordering the garden, his face presented to her in profile. Slowly he swiveled to face her, his eyes devoid of all perceptible emotion.

As Amelia regarded him, it struck her that she hadn’t really
looked
at her father since her eventful arrival. She’d never seen him thus: his waistcoat unbuttoned, his hair tousled. And his recently discarded neckcloth made his
incessantly adorned neck look barren and out of sorts. One could go so far as to say he appeared elegantly unkempt. For a man who was usually groomed in a manner that would have tailors on Savile Row bending at the waist to concede to his superior taste, this anomaly could push the sordid tale of Lady Grable’s affair with her footman off the front page of the gossip sheets.

“How many times do I have to ask you to please not address me in that tone? It wasn’t so long ago you called me Papa.”

The latter statement he seemed to make to himself. Perhaps a wistful musing? Amelia dismissed the thought with a self-preserving kind of haste before it succeeded in penetrating the walls guarding her heart. The part of her that had once cared what he felt for her was long gone. Hit broadside by a frigate and shredded by its screw propellers.

“I was told you wished to speak with me,” she reiterated as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Sit down, Amelia.” A sweep of his hand encompassed the newly upholstered leather armchairs by the desk, plush brocade side chairs, and a plump sage sofa situated around the fireplace.

Amelia took a cursory look around before returning her gaze to him. “I would much prefer to stand.”

The color of his face took on the hue of a ripe beet, and his lips quivered when he spoke. “This last antic of yours has not only caused me needless moments of worry and considerable stress, but countless amounts of money.”

Amelia was certain it was the last item that aggrieved him most. Lord forbid she cost him a fraction more than she should. He possessed fortune enough to keep the queen in jewels for life, and his sole purpose in living was to accumulate more. However, any additional funds spent on his only child had him claiming financial woes. Although, she was certain he’d have spent his last sixpence ensuring Thomas Armstrong’s financial recovery without batting a lash.

He studied her, his brows drawn. The lines fanning his eyes and the grooves bracketing his mouth made him look every one of his forty-seven years. “You have left me to deal with you the only way I know how.” His tone was hard and stern.

The year past, her punishment for running off to marry Mr. Cromwell had been a six-month suspension of her pin money. So what would he do this time, refuse her money for
nine
months? Make her forfeit her next Season? No, it would be a futile endeavor to remove her from the circle of eligible and prominent gentlemen of the peerage—men he hoped to foist her upon so he could wash his hands of her.

“Shall I be locked forever in my bedchamber?” At the coldness of his stare, she masked the flare of pain that commenced in her chest with a bored lift of her eyebrow.

He paused, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She could tell he was throttling her silly in his mind. When he spoke, it was ominous in its quiet tone, purporting a brewing storm. “I do not believe those scoundrels for whom you regrettably acquire an affinity will think to look for you in a convent.”

Amelia’s breath suspended on its journey from her lungs. For a second she feared she’d meet the exquisite Persian rug in a dead swoon.

“But we belong to the Church of England.”

“And I believe this is as good a time as any to embrace Catholicism. I’ve heard nuns have a manner about them conducive to obedience.”

Good Lord, he sounded serious. “You are mad!”

Harold Bertram emitted a humorless laugh and polished off his drink. Strolling over to his desk, he dropped the empty glass atop it. “Yes, I must be. But I have reached the end of my tether with what to do with you. Perhaps a year in the sisters’ care will succeed where it is obvious I have failed.”

A year!
She nearly gasped at the enormity of the proposed sentence. He had to be bluffing. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time you sent me away?” Amelia asked, forcing herself to display a calm she didn’t feel.

Even as derelict as he’d been in his parental duties, surely he remembered her stay at the boarding school taught predominantly by rigid nunlike creatures had been fraught with nothing but difficulties.

“I believe perhaps some time of quiet religious introspection is exactly what is required in this instance. It appears only the Father himself can curb your rebellious streak, and I welcome him to the task.”

A deep inhalation did little to quell the panic flaring in the pit of her belly. “What of my Season? I’m to miss it to be cloistered with some overly pious nuns?” She despised the insidious creep of hurt in her voice and the sudden clammy feel of her hands.

“What else would you have me do?” Her father asked the question in a subdued tone as he circled the desk to take a seat in his chair. Over steepled fingers, he fixed her with a grave stare. “My presence is required in America for the next several months. If I leave you here, the moment I am gone you will be gallivanting from Cornwall to Northumberland with God knows who, and I will be met with a
fait accompli
upon my return. Lord only knows which bounder you’ll present me with as your husband.”