A Taste of Desire

by Beverley Kendall

  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.”

  Was she now supposed to tremble in fear? She’d simply have to fight to contain herself. “And supper this evening? Am I to join your family or am I to work? You simply cannot have it both ways.”

  He pinned her with the kind of look that robbed grown women of breath, reason, and propriety. In that order. “Princess,” he drawled, “you can scarce imagine all the ways I manage to have it.”

  Never had the word it sounded so very wicked. A sinful utterance. And for that very reason he robbed her of speech; she had no caustic response primed and ready to cut him to ribbons. She even forgot to bristle at the hated manner in which he addressed her.

  But if his intention was to render her mute, he did not linger nor appear to gloat over his victory. “Supper does not commence until eight, and as it’s only six now, you should have ample time to finish.”

  He pushed off the desk and came to his full, impressive height. “If you find yourself in need of me”—he paused ever so slightly, but long enough to infuse the words with a breadth of meaning—”ring for Reeves. He will know of my whereabouts.”

  While she busily gathered her wits and composure and summoned back some of her suspended indignation, he strode from the room, with the unstudied air of a man who hadn’t just performed a sort of verbal intercourse with her.

  Amelia dropped back into the chair, landing on the cushioned seat with a soft thump. She was angry, and agitated that her anger was threefold.

  Firstly, Thomas Armstrong was a loathsome man. Secondly, he aggravated her more than any person should have a right or power to. And lastly, but the one which distressed her most, she was angry with herself. That he should have the power to fluster her with not just his words or his regard, but at times with his very presence, was an excruciating blow to a woman who’d always thought herself immune to his overstated charms. Humiliating if she considered just how unaffected he appeared by their exchanges.

  The knock on the door jarred her from her damning admission. A young girl whose age Amelia estimated at no more than fifteen, entered and eagerly approached her. If the color of the girl’s hair—which was a shade lighter than the viscount’s—hadn’t proclaimed her an Armstrong, then her green eyes certainly would. Moreover, she possessed a striking resemblance to the viscountess.

  “Hello. Lady Amelia.” The address seemed more an afterthought, as though the girl had suddenly remembered her manners. And perhaps if the young Miss Armstrong knew Amelia would rather be troweling under the hot desert sun, she’d have saved her greeting for someone who could more appreciate her exuberance.

  She halted beside Amelia’s desk, an impish smile wreathing her face. “We had so hoped to meet you yesterday—my sister and I. I’m Sarah. Thomas never mentioned how pretty you are.”

  Amelia was at a loss as to which of her hodgepodge of statements to respond to first. “Um—hello, Sarah. Perhaps that’s because your brother doesn’t believe I am.”

  Sarah laughed as though she’d just heard the most amusing tale, her braid swaying at the jostling of her shoulders. “One thing my brother does know better than most is a beautiful woman, and I’m sure he finds you so.”

  Amelia stifled a laugh. No diffident female was Miss Sarah Armstrong. “Well then, thank you. I shall take that as a compliment coming from a beauty such as yourself.”

  Most girls—women—would have simpered at the compliment or made sounds of feigned denial. Sarah merely smiled, her eyes bright with delight. Her attention then moved to the contracts stacked neatly in front of Amelia.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting these documents in order,” Amelia replied, resuming her task. “And if I intend to make supper this evening, I can’t afford to dawdle.”

  “I think it’s admirable that you’ve offered to help Thomas with his charity work.”

  Amelia covered an eruption of laughter with a cough. So that’s what he’d told his family. He’d painted her as the saintly do-gooder instead of the daughter whose father had passed her off to the viscount like unwanted baggage.

  “Indeed it is,” Amelia replied dryly.

  “Perhaps I could assist you,” Sarah offered, her expression so eager and earnest, Amelia regretted that she had to refuse her.

  Or did she? Amelia took in what represented almost two hours of work on her desk and in the box. Work that would take her right up to the supper hour. She would not even
have time to dress at leisure.

  “Won’t you be missed?” Amelia inquired, angling her head to gaze up at her.

  “No, for the next hour Mama will be practicing the piano, and Emily is still with Miss Jasper completing today’s lesson.”

  “Then should you not be taking lessons also?”

  “I’ve already completed the lesson. Emily despises French because her enunciation isn’t terribly good. She’d be there all night if Miss Jasper didn’t have to eat and sleep.”

  Amelia suppressed a smile while she considered the offer. Why not have the girl help? She was obviously willing. The viscount hadn’t told her how she was to complete the task, just that she should. And two pairs of hands would certainly speed up the process. Surely that should please him. It would certainly please her.

  “Well, if you insist.” Amelia rose from her chair. “Come, you may have my seat while I instruct you.”

  Chapter 11

  “Ah, Lady Amelia, so good of you to join us,” Lady Armstrong said upon Amelia’s entry into the dining room at precisely two minutes to eight that evening.

  The viscountess, resplendent in a double-skirted gown edged with velvet vandykes, stood beside two women—well, the younger female might not be considered a woman just yet.

  “Good evening, Lady Armstrong,” Amelia replied.

  “Please, allow me to introduce you to my dear friend, Mrs. Eleanor Roland, and her daughter Dorothy. Eleanor, Dorothy, may I present Lady Amelia Bertram. She will be our guest while her father is out of the country.”

  Mrs. Roland was a tall, stocky woman with dark, graying hair suffering from too much pomade, her face, too much powder. The latter, undoubtedly, to hide the pockmarks riddling her cheeks, forehead, and chin. Despite her size, she gave the illusion of a woman three stone lighter. Donned in a dark blue dinner dress, she’d opted for fabric that draped her figure instead of trying to squeeze her body into something that idealized the feminine shape as many ladies of grander proportions were wont to do.

  The daughter was the antithesis of the mother, possessing a shock of curly red hair the texture of which made humidity its natural enemy. Small and slight, she spoke in monosyllables, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  “Lady Amelia, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Roland said politely, but her voice lacked sufficient warmth to declare it a friendly greeting. But then, women rarely welcomed her with open arms.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Roland, Miss Roland.” Amelia gave each a nod.

  Mrs. Roland appeared preoccupied, her attention focused elsewhere. Amelia followed the woman’s gaze straight to the hooded stare of the viscount.

  Since her ar rival, she’d done her best to ignore him, conscious that he stood only feet away in front of the mahogany cabinet, watching her, making her feel as if he could see through her tulle silk gown and cotton undergarments straight to the bare flesh below. Amelia quickly averted her gaze.

  “And I believe you have met my daughters.” Lady Armstrong gestured to where they stood by their brother, both dressed in pretty lace-trimmed frocks.

  “Yes, ma’am, earlier this evening.”

  Amelia certainly would not divulge under what circumstances she became acquainted with the youngest. Emily, three years older than Sarah’s fifteen years, Amelia had met as she’d returned to her chambers after leaving the study. Though not inclined to her sister’s chattiness, Emily had been welcoming and kind. And like her brother and sister, she had inherited the viscountess’s green eyes, golden hair, and good looks.

  With the introductions completed, they took their places at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth. In proportion to all the other furniture in the room, it was solid and large.

  To Amelia’s chagrin, she was seated to the left of the viscount, who sat at the head with the viscountess on his right. She would have preferred the opposite end of the table.

  The entry of the footmen bearing silver trays, laden with food tasty enough to tempt even the most particular palette, diverted her attention.

  Within minutes, bowls and dishes were filled, red wine in every glass.

  “And how did you enjoy the Season?” Lord Armstrong asked, addressing Miss Roland after the footmen had taken up their post at the back of the room and everyone was intent upon the first course.

  Miss Roland stilled, her spoon poised near her lips. She quickly lowered it into her bowl of turtle soup.

  “Do tell his lordship how you enjoyed your Season,” Mrs. Roland prodded, impatience edging her tone when her daughter didn’t offer up an immediate reply.

  “If I were prettier then I’m certain I would have attracted more suitors … well, at least one suitor.” Miss Roland let out a heavy sigh. “I fear I shall end up disappointing Mama.”

  Amelia nearly choked on her wine. Honesty among the aristocracy was usually harder to find than a lady with an eighteen-inch waist—without stays—and looked upon with just as much skepticism, envy, or lecherous delight. But no one could doubt Miss Roland’s sincerity. Not with the droop of her narrow shoulders and the forlorn look in her hazel eyes.

  A swift glance around the table gave testament to the fact. Though Mrs. Roland looked mortified, every member of the Armstrong family observed her as if they’d just witnessed a puppy being kicked.

  However, it was Lord Armstrong who galloped in on his white horse in full knight armor, polished and glistening.

  “You’re much more than pretty. And if the gentlemen of the ton can’t see your other wonderful qualities, they don’t deserve you.”

  Miss Roland lifted her gaze from her plate to regard him. If he’d told her she was Aphrodite immortalized, she couldn’t have looked more dubious. “I can’t imagine anything better than being pretty enough to attract a gentleman.”

  In response, he placed his utensils down, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a serviette and gave Miss Roland a measured look. Obviously a man so filled with his own self-importance, he expected Miss Roland to accept his every word as fact.

  “I really must disagree. I’ve met my share of beauties who would have made a tour of duty seem like a picnic. Without divulging the name of a certain lady of the ton, I will tell you a story about my introduction to her the year past.”

  The ting of utensils against the white porcelain plates halted. All eyes were riveted on the viscount, who needed only his crown to claim his position as the noble prince. The hairs on Amelia’s nape reared up as her unease began its ascent.

  “She was quite beautiful. I would say almost as handsome as—” He paused as if in search of the right comparison. His gaze found hers. “Lady Amelia, I would wager. Certainly a stunning beauty by all accounts.”

  All eyes in the room fell on her. She quickly gave her bowl of vermicelli soup her undivided attention. Her cheeks warmed with every extended moment of silence.

  Amelia wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d intended to pay her a compliment. With this grand show in front of his rapt audience, she was certain he planned to make her the moral example of his little tale.

  “Well, this young lady,”—he stressed the last word as if the term in regard to said “lady”—her—was suspect—”and I had no prior acquaintance. I won’t offend your sensibilities with the particulars of what she said to me during our introduction. Needless to say, it was the sort of thing you’d find in the gossip rags. Groundless, unfounded rumors maligning my character.”

  “You mean there is a woman alive who can resist your charms?” the viscountess asked, the grave sincerity in her tone contrary to the amusement in her eyes.

  At their mother’s remark, Sarah and Emily, who had been trying to stifle their laughter by covering their mouths with serviettes, abandoned all efforts to remain poker-faced and let out a torrent of girlish giggles.

  “Abominable behavior,” Mrs. Roland exclaimed with a disapproving sniff, her back visibly stiffening, pushing back her plump shoulders. “Some of the young ladies these days are lacking
in good breeding.” Turning her regard from the viscount, she beamed a smile at her daughter. “Now Dorothy here has what anyone would consider exemplary manners. Don’t you, dear?”

  “But what good does all that do me? Manners alone won’t find me a husband. Gentlemen prefer pretty wives,” Miss Roland muttered, her gaze downcast.

  The viscountess and Mrs. Roland looked primed to voice their replies. However, it was again Lord Armstrong who prevailed. “An intelligent man prefers much more desirable qualities in a wife. Qualities such as kindness, humility, warmth, and a good character. A beautiful wife who is disagreeable is hardly the sort of woman a man wants to remain chained to for the rest of his life.”

  In a move that held all the innocence of a highwayman telling the magistrate he’d merely stopped the carriage for a ride while touting a gun and a mask, he shifted his gaze to her. “Don’t you agree, Lady Amelia?”

  Just what was his game, to embarrass her? Didn’t he know one had to actually care for that to work? Besides, she hadn’t said anything that hadn’t been the unvarnished truth.

  “Certainly, if in fact the lady in question was truly disagreeable. I, for one, did not witness the incident so I have no knowledge as to the circumstances under which the lady, um, insulted you, as you say. And as you haven’t enlightened us on exactly what she said, it would be unseemly of me to offer my opinion.”

  “You have my assurances that this lady was indeed insulting.” The intensity of his regard could have seared a hole through her.

  “Well, before I condemn the woman, I would have to hear her account of the events. As you know, there are always two sides to a story.” With that pert statement, Amelia spooned some soup into her mouth.