A Taste of Desire

by Beverley Kendall

  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.
<
br />   Enough is really enough! Turning, she started toward the door.

  “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.