Thomas stilled. What the devil could she possibly want with him? After all that had transpired between them, she could have nothing to say to him—at least nothing he wished to entertain.
“Let her ask,” Thomas bit out.
“I expect she’ll be making an appearance here tonight. I’ve heard she likes to be fashionably late so she can make a grand entrance.”
That was all Thomas needed to hear. “Then I shall leave unfashionably early this evening.” He started for the door.
“Surely, you’re not running from her?” Cartwright sounded amused and half-disbelieving.
Pausing, Thomas shot his friend a glance over his shoulder. “A wise man doesn’t run, for that encourages a chase. What he does is avoid. I am avoiding.”
Thomas could hear Cartwright’s laugh ringing in his ears long after he took his leave of the ball.
The following day, while Amelia was still suffering the ill effects from a fitful night of sleep, Clemens interrupted her morning meal. Her father requested her presence in his study, the second footman conveyed. He then issued a deferential bow and departed with a click of his heels.
Goodness, midday hadn’t even been reached and she had yet to see Miss Crawford poke her head from her bedchamber. Surely, word of last night’s incident had not gotten back to him so swiftly.
With her heart racing and her appetite, which hadn’t been substantial to begin with, now nonexistent, Amelia dabbed a serviette to her mouth, gathered her skirts, and rose from the table.
Given the tenuous nature of her circumstances considering the elopement attempt earlier that week, and now the unfortunate faux pas involving her mouth, Lord Armstrong, and a ballroom full of their peers, she thought it unwise to keep her father waiting.
As she made her way down the foyer, her steps a soft tap against polished wood floors, she thought back to her perfectly horrid evening, which had ended just as abruptly as Lord Armstrong had taken his leave of her.
She and Miss Crawford had managed a hasty but dignified exit, Amelia endeavoring to avoid eye contact with guests whose expressions ranged from mild rebuke to high amusement. She’d then endured a carriage ride home in oppressive silence, tumbling into bed after midnight only to have her sleep disturbed with dreams of the bloody man. Dreams of threatened kisses. Disturbing dreams.
Smoothing not-quite-steady hands over her loose chignon, Amelia drew in a calming breath before delivering two knuckled raps to the oak door. This time she awaited her father’s muffled bid to enter before opening the door … slowly.
Harold Bertram sat ensconced in his wing-backed leather armchair, a pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose. Judging by his appearance, the world had righted itself back on its axis. His neckcloth looked as if painstaking efforts had been made to starch, press, and knot it to perfection, his bespoke garments immaculate, as always.
“Ah, Amelia, I feared I would have to send for you. Have a seat—we have things to discuss.” He gestured to the chairs opposite him. Not exactly the manner of a father who’d heard scandalous news about his daughter. In fact, the curve of his mouth lit his face with the same pleased sort of smile usually brought on by the advent of a promising business venture.
A feeling of unease coursed the length of her spine as Amelia inched closer to his desk. He appeared too happy, too agreeable, not exhibiting his normal impatience when dealing with her. Their encounters normally consisted of few words, her father, at most, sparing her a preoccupied glance, before immersing himself back into his account ledgers. Only when she was embroiled in a scrape that might affect her standing in society was she worthy of his full attention.
Amelia firmed her jaw, pushed back her shoulders, and took a seat in the chair closest to the door. She then occupied herself by arranging her skirt so the lace-trimmed flounces lay in perfect symmetry. If her father had called her here to inform her he’d accepted a marriage proposal on her behalf, he’d find himself up for the fight of his life.
Harold Bertram directed his gaze toward the back of the room. “Thomas, please join us.”
With a start, Amelia twisted in her seat before she could stop herself, to find the man standing in front of a wall of teak bookshelves casually examining the spine of a leather-bound volume.
Her heart took off on a wild gallop as the dark corniced walls of the study seemed to close in on her, sucking all the air out in the process. The embodiment of her worst nightmare turned his regard to her, his air one of artless detachment. How was it possible she hadn’t sensed him the moment she crossed the threshold when his presence permeated every crevice of the room?
“Good morning, Lady Amelia.” His placid greeting rolled off his tongue as smooth as velvet.
“Lord Armstrong.” She managed the address between tight lips, giving a vague nod in his direction before swivel-ing back around.
She hadn’t actually thought he would do it. However, here he was, the dew on the grass barely dissipated by the early morning sun before he’d rushed to tell her father the tale of last night’s incident. He was worse than the gossiping matrons of the ton, she thought, silently railing him with a string of epithets.
Unable to bring herself to look at her father, she cast her gaze about blindly. Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried to focus on something—anything else—she sensed the moment Lord Armstrong came within feet of her. He approached with the stealth of a jungle cat, but his scent heralded his proximity just as loudly as a blast from a trumpet. Sinking his long length into the armchair beside her, he splayed legs encased in a forest green fabric before him.
“I told you I would apprise you when I found a situation appropriate for you during my stay in America,” her father began, his words commanding her attention with mind-boggling swiftness.
Dread and disbelief coalesced on a wave in her belly.
“And Lord Armstrong has kindly consented to take you on.”
An enraged gasp tore from her throat as she shoved white shaking hands into her lap, her fingers clutching swaths of sky blue pyramid silk.
Take me on! As though she were some—some thing to be managed. She tamped down a cauldron of emotions and stared back at her father while endeavoring to keep her expression void of emotion and make sense of the utterly senseless.
He intended she remain in London and work at the shipping company? The idea was preposterous. It actually went beyond that, trampling unhindered into the completely asinine realm. Wasn’t she to remain in Westbury at Fountain Crest?
“But, Father, really, Wendel’s Shipping? Surely—”
The marquess’s hearty laugh filled the study, his shoulders shaking in mirth. “Good heavens, do you really believe I would send you anywhere near those docks?”
Finding nothing particularly amusing about any of it, Amelia narrowed her gaze. “But this makes no sense a’tall. Lord Armstrong isn’t involved in any other business enterprises—is he?” She addressed the question to her father as if the viscount wasn’t sitting a mere foot away and hadn’t the capacity to answer for himself.
“As a matter of fact, I run a very lucrative horse-breeding farm.”
Humph. Figures it would have to do with breeding. Her caustic observation was accompanied by a sidelong glance in Lord Armstrong’s direction, where she encountered his bland, green-eyed stare.
“In Westbury?” The deadly calm in her voice did not belie the emotion surmounting her disdain, overtaking her, and rendering her insensate with horror.
Harold Bertram drummed blunt fingers against the surface of the desk. “I think perhaps you misunderstand the situation.”
Amelia’s narrowed regard swung back to him. “What am I misunderstanding, Father?” Her tone sharpened with each word.
The viscount cleared his throat, bouncing her attention from her father back to him like a spectator at a tennis match.
“What your father is trying to tell you, Lady Amelia, is that my farm is in Devon and you will be residing there on my country estate with
me.”
Chapter 6
Amelia shot to her feet amid the rustle of silk and one rather cumbersome crinoline, nearly toppling the chair.
“I-I cannot live with him at his residence,” she said, struggling to catch her breath and bridle the panic threatening to careen out of control. “Father, it wouldn’t be proper. I will be ruined.”
“I really don’t believe it will come to that.” A flash of dimples denting his chiseled cheeks betrayed the viscount’s amusement.
Amelia hadn’t thought it possible to despise a person more than she did him at that moment. His smile—no, it was more a taunting grin—laid that assumption to rest.
Harold Bertram’s chest swelled beneath his black and grey checkered jacket. “Of course, I would not allow anything not sanctioned proper by society. You will be well chaperoned at Thomas’s estate. Miss Crawford and Hélène will accompany you. In addition, during a portion of your stay, Lady Armstrong and her two teenaged daughters will be in residence.”
His words neither registered nor penetrated her horrified brain. The only thing she knew without an ounce of doubt was that she could not—would not—live with that man.
“Father there must be someone—anyone else—whom you could prevail upon so I may work this ridiculous punishment off.” Never before had she pled for leniency, but the circumstances demanded she make an exception.
Her father’s denial came with a hard shake of his head, as final and definitive as a judge bringing down his gavel. Inhaling a restorative breath, Amelia subsided right into the straight-backed chair. Arrowing a glare at the man seated next to her, she noted the barely contained look of satisfaction in his eyes. The urge to snatch up the marble weight from her father’s desk and smash it repeatedly against his skull had her fisting her hands in her lap and clenching her jaw tightly enough to grind her back teeth into enamel dust.
“At Lady Stanton’s ball, you knew that entire time,” she said, her voice fierce and barely above a whisper. While she’d endured his touch and suffered his odious presence, he’d been relishing the prospect of soon having her at the crook of his finger.
Her father’s gaze darted between them, his brow pleated, his expression perplexed. The viscount did not so much as blink at her accusation. “You give me far too much credit. I don’t believe anyone has ever called me a soothsayer. No, I was more than happy to take up the ribbons your father offered.”
“Ribbons? Ribbons! Are you comparing me to an animal—a horse?” Amelia clutched the arm of the chair with white knuckles.
“Never,” he replied too quickly. “I meant no umbrage by that. Please forgive my ill use of that word, but this is what happens when one runs a horse breeding operation.” He sent the marquess a small self-deprecating smile. In turn, her father beamed at the man as if he were the Savior sent down to restore earth to its natural order.
“I will have you know that Thomas initially turned down my request, so I am grateful he has reconsidered.” Her father said it as if it meant something. As if she should also be oh so grateful for such a magnanimous gesture on the viscount’s part.
Amelia yanked her gaze away, refusing to look at the blasted man, to watch the smirk lurking behind his feigned look of innocence. His reference had not been a metaphorical slip of the tongue. He did not intend to put her to work; he meant to break her just as one would do a fractious mount.
Never.
“How terribly considerate of him,” she said in a tone drenched in sarcasm.
“We will return home in three days, and next month you will go to Devon.”
Four whole months with the detestable man. While the knowledge caused her belly to clench in rebellion, Amelia sat erect, her mouth pursed in a tight-lipped, contentious line.
“If you have nothing else to say, Amelia, you may take your leave.” With those words, her father dismissed her, much in the same manner as he always did. His attention withdrawn before she had barely risen from her seat.
She couldn’t get out of there quickly enough, but tempered her strides so as not to appear like some cowed and beaten figure fresh from a sound trouncing. Just as she grasped the knob of the door in her hand, she heard him, his voice low and as benign as a declaration of war. “Lady Amelia, I look forward to your arrival in the coming month.”
Her step faltered. She had to forcibly resist the urge to turn and confront him. To engage him in a war of words would be pointless. Instinct told her it would be best she save her energies for the battles that undoubtedly lay ahead. Amelia glided through the doorway without looking back.
“She is not happy.” Harry asserted the obvious upon his daughter’s exit.
“I believe that is why it’s called punishment. It’s not expected to be pleasant.” Thomas’s dry response came with a casual lift of his shoulders.
“Yes, but when Amelia is not happy, usually neither are those around her.”
Thomas’s mouth curved at one end. “That might indeed be the case in her dealings with others; however, I can assure you, any misery that befalls her will not affect me whatsoever.” He’d barely reached his maturity the last time a woman had caused him emotional distress. And the day some spoilt, snake-tongued brat caused him to lose even a minute of sleep would be the day he’d give up his viscountcy.
“That is why I asked you. I knew if anyone could control her, you could. Unfortunately, since her mother’s death, I have allowed her too free a hand when a firm one was required.”
The warning bell didn’t chime, it created a deafening cacophony in his ears. “Harry, I hope you’re not taking my change of heart as an indication of interest in your daughter.” Well, certainly not an honorable or genuine interest.
There was no mistaking the absurdly pleased expression on the marquess’s face. If Harry was counting on a match between them, he’d be woefully disappointed. His goal was to deliver her comeuppance, nothing more, and assuredly nothing less.
Harry chuckled softly. “Certainly not. A more agreeable daughter is all I am hoping for.”
However, the marquess’s assurance did little to alleviate a sense of foreboding gnawing at his gut. Thomas immediately gave himself a mental kick. What could Harry do from thousands of miles away?
“I have a feeling that by your return, she will be much changed—hopefully for the better.”
“I sincerely hope so. You would think with her beauty and dowry, I would have excellent prospects wearing a tread to my drawing room. Instead, she has completed her second Season with only five proposals from gentlemen too insipid to be borne. Not a handful of sense among the lot of them.”
“I will do what I can with her.” No other female in his association more deserved what he had planned for the little miss.
Ten minutes after bidding Harry farewell, Thomas headed south down St. James Street toward his bachelor’s residence. He must send word to his mother to expect a visitor for the next several months. But should he tell her to ready a space for Lady Amelia in the servants’ quarters or a chamber in the guest wing? Thomas smiled. Tricky business this thing called just desserts.
You will be residing there on my country estate with me.
With the ring of those words playing a most ominous tune in her mind, Amelia had escaped the study to her bedchamber to think … to plot. The urgency of her situation had had her mind working furiously. With her father’s plans for her barreling forth like a coach-and-four with a broken axle—the outcome certain to be a catastrophe of grand proportions—this matter had to be dealt with without a moment’s delay.
She had immediately shot off a letter to be delivered to Lord Clayborough posthaste. He might well have the pitiable distinction of being heir to an impoverished barony in Derbyshire, but what he lacked in funds, he made up for in gumption. Few men would dare cross her father. He’d done so—albeit without success—but the attempt certainly spoke of a strength of character. Certainly more character than the likes of Lord Armstrong, no matter how society appeared to esteem th
e man.
So at half past ten the following morning, Amelia, accompanied by Hélène and Charles, the first footman, awaited Lord Clayborough’s arrival on the southwest side of Hyde Park.
His reply to her note requesting they meet, which she’d received an hour later, suggested the location of the park by the large elm situated between Rotten Row and the river. Well, she had been waiting at the tree thirty minutes gone with nary a sighting of him or his landau.
Using her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the August sun, Amelia scanned the vicinity again. She certainly could not have missed his tall, lanky frame. By this time of the year, the enormous crowds, which normally converged on the hundreds of acres of lush greenery and stately trees, had retreated to their homes in the country. At present, only a smattering of ladies and gentlemen were taking their constitutional on Hyde Park’s well-kept foot paths. The baron unfortunately not being one of them.
Another glance down at the timepiece clutched in her hand told her it was only half a minute later than when last she’d checked. Snapping it closed, her mouth stretched into a grimmer line.
“Come along, Hélène,” she said, motioning the woman back into the carriage with a gloved hand. She refused to wait a minute more in this heat. Just as they started toward the door of the brougham, the canter of horses alerted her to an approaching vehicle. Amelia turned to spot Lord Clayborough’s blue and gray carriage cresting the hill up ahead.
The landau had barely come to a stop behind hers before the baron leapt out. Her very own knight, his armor pumice and brown wool instead of tempered iron plate and his equipage in dire need of paint and new springs. Well, better a poor knight than a wealthy, dissolute rake.
He reached her side within seconds, covering the distance separating them with loping strides. Amelia attributed his choppy breaths and flushed visage to anxiety rather than exertion. It wasn’t as if he’d had to make the journey from his residence on foot.
A Taste of Desire Page 5
