Amelia wished she didn’t know of what he spoke. But she did. She treated him to a blank stare anyway.
“Your hair. Your dress. Isn’t it a bit fancy for all this?” A jerk of his head indicated all this was the narrow scope of her current existence: the study.
So what if she’d had Hélène take the irons to give her hair some bouncy curls?
Outward beauty, while pleasing to the eye, isn’t enough to hold my attention.
And so what if the pale violet, silk dress with trimmings of puffed ribbon might be more suited for an elegant supper party? It wasn’t a crime that she chose to wear it today.
You could never tempt me.
But as much as she tried to convince herself of that fact, she knew he saw right through to her damaged pride and silently mocked her.
God help me should I have a daughter like you.
He let her stew in her foolishness a second longer before turning on his heel and heading to his desk. “Before you get settled there, I’ll need some coffee.” He tossed the remark over his shoulder with a casualness meant to give the impression that such a request was a common occurrence.
Amelia gave her head a violent mental shake. Fetch him his coffee? Has he gone completely daft?
“Then I suggest you ring for one of the servants.”
“And why should I do that when I have you?” He now sat ensconced behind his desk.
“Why should I get you coffee when you employ a team of servants whose express purpose is to cater to your every whim?” He’d now taken his petty vindictiveness to a level of which even he should be ashamed.
The viscount didn’t immediately respond, his attention focused on ostensibly searching for something on his desk. When he spoke, he sounded distracted. “But I want you to do it. Every morning Mr. Wendel’s secretary brings him his morning beverage. It is not an uncommon practice.”
“I do not particularly care what occurs in Mr. Wendel’s office,” she said, bearing down on her back teeth.
Lord Armstrong lifted his head to regard her. “You are correct. The only thing that need concern you right now is bringing me my coffee. Two cubes of sugar with just a dash of cream. And Amelia, make no mistake about it—this is not a request.” He returned his attention to the clutter on his desk, effectively dismissing her.
Amelia silently cursed him in English, French, and the smattering of Italian she’d learned from an Italian governess. But damn it, she had little choice but to do as he said. He had her at a disadvantage. This was his estate, his family, his bloody everything. Here she was nothing but another servant in the guise of a guest. Imprisoned for having a mind of her own and wanting a life of her own.
Although she took pains not to glance in his direction, she felt the intensity of his gaze as she rose and crossed the room to the door, her pride smarting with her every step. Like everything else, she’d attempt to get through this with as much aplomb as she could muster.
In the hall, Amelia immediately located the butler, a dour, portly man with graying hair, who treated her request for the beverage with a monotone “Yes ma’am.” He summoned a footman from the drawing room and dispatched him to the kitchen. The confusion came when she insisted on taking the coffee to the study herself. Puzzled looks were exchanged between the two men until with a nod, the butler permitted the footman to hand her the tray.
The same silence of her leave-taking met her return to the study. Lord Armstrong stopped what he was doing to watch her approach, his expression shuttered.
If she was truly the hoyden he and her father believed her to be, he wouldn’t be drinking the hot liquid; he’d be wearing it.
The sequence of events that followed would make that very thought appear as rehearsed as anything performed in Her Majesty’s Theatre, the execution the stuff of accolades. In trying to find a place for the tray amongst the clutter of papers, books, and various writing accoutrements, one corner of the tray tilted and sent the cup careening like a drunken sailor in a storm. All of her frantic efforts could not prevent what happened next: hot coffee—fixed to the viscount’s specifications—all over his lap.
A roar and a series of blistering curses added to the carnage as he bolted to his feet and toppled his chair to the wood floor. The empty cup landed on the rug but miraculously came through the fall unscathed, leaving only one human casualty.
“I-I-I’m dreadfully sorry.” Amelia gulped, flustered and out of sorts. She stared at him—his wet, coffee-stained trousers an untrammeled horror.
“You little brat, you did that deliberately,” he ground out, and pulled open one of the many drawers of his desk, yanking out a white handkerchief.
“I swear to you, I didn’t mean to—” Amelia abruptly broke off when her mind fully comprehended what he had called her. Stiffening, she drew her shoulders back.
Brat?
And here she was practically tripping all over herself to apologize. “Well if you’re going to be a boar about it, I shall withdraw my apologies.”
“Milord.” The breathless address came from behind her.
Amelia turned to see a footman hovering anxiously at the doorway.
“I heard—” The footman broke off when he saw the nature of the calamity that had sent a string of colorful expletives echoing down the corridors.
“I will send someone from the kitchen directly,” the young man said, before disappearing back through the door.
“If the desk wasn’t such a mess, this would not have occurred. Where was I to put this?” Amelia gave the tray she still held in her hand a pointed look.
Lord Armstrong growled low in his throat. “You should have taken the damn cup off the tray is what you should have done.” With one last dab of the once-white handkerchief at a wet spot on his upper thigh, the viscount tossed the soiled linen on the floor with a hiss of disgust.
“My lord, you are in the presence of a lady, whether you will admit the fact to yourself or not. Please do keep a check on your tongue,” she reproached him in her frostiest tone.
His head jerked up, and suddenly his green eyes glowed with predatory intent. “Me? I am the one who needs to check my tongue?” he asked softly.
Rounding the desk, he advanced toward her, and with each stride forward, Amelia instinctively took one step back. She held the tray in front of her as if tempered silver was enough to ward him off.
Their dance of advance and retreat continued in silence until Amelia saw they were nearing the bookshelves along the south walls—where she would be trapped.
“Milord.” The footman announced his return, and in front of him stood a petite girl whom Amelia swiftly assessed as the kitchen help by her white food-stained apron. She carried a pail in one hand and a cloth rag in the other.
The footman directed the girl with a motion of his hand. “Anna will clean up.”
Lord Armstrong had stopped, and Amelia took that opportunity to place the tray on her desk and distance herself from him, far enough away that his presence—utterly male and overwhelming—didn’t continue to unnerve her.
“No.” The word emerged clipped and harsh. He strode over to the maid and relieved her of the bucket.
All eyes in the room snapped to him, containing varying degrees of bewilderment. With a solicitousness he’d never once shown her, the viscount removed the cloth from the maid’s hand and set the bucket on the floor. “You may leave. I shall have this dealt with.” At his nod of dismissal, the girl curtsied and scampered from the room.
“As you wish, sir.” The footman bowed before following the maid’s hasty departure.
The soft click of the door closing indicated they were once again very much alone. The viscount directed his attention to her. Only when he extended the hand holding the cloth rag, did she realize what he intended.
Stupefied, Amelia could only shake her head in mute denial. He simply could not be serious.
In response to her vigorous head shaking, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to the contrary. “Oh, yes, you will
. And after every single drop of coffee is wiped clean, you may mop the entire floor.”
It would have been thigh-slapping, chortling, snorting funny had it not been quite so apparent he was serious—and obviously as mad as a hatter.
Amelia held up her hand, splayed her fingers for him to take in their unblemished, perfection and manicured nails, and then gestured to her dress, which was a color that could only be described as pale salmon. “If you expect me to get down on my knees to perform menial servant work, you, my lord, are sadly mistaken.” What would he do, physically force her to her knees? As heinous a man as he was, that seemed several levels beneath his character.
“Oh, I don’t just expect it—I shall relish it.” He tossed the rag in the water and started toward her, his movements lithe and controlled.
Amelia stood her ground, commanding her legs not to move. When he drew within several feet, she balked and stammered, “If you dare lay one finger on me, I shall create so much noise, everyone will think someone is being murdered.”
The viscount came to a smooth stop in front of her, his expression implacable. As if to test the sincerity of her threat, he stroked the curve of her cheek with his finger in a feathery caress. Amelia’s stomach plummeted the same way it had done when she had once lost her seat on her mount. She vividly recalled the terrifying feeling of hurtling forward to meet the hard earth. At least when she had hit the ground unharmed but shaken, the sensation had stopped. In this case, there appeared to be no end to her fall.
Wide-eyed, she regarded him, unable to move, incapable of protest.
He lowered his head until she could feel his breath, lemon-scented and warm, on her forehead. “This is my finger,” he whispered. “Maybe I’ve gone deaf, but I can’t seem to hear your screams.”
It took a moment for his words to register, her thinking having been momentarily suspended by the lull of his dark, silken tones. Amelia took a hasty, if somewhat jerky step backward, breaking the heated contact as she endeavored to collect herself.
Really, this whole situation was laughable—or perhaps one day she’d look back upon it and feel so.
“That’s because you are not listening closely enough.” Certainly one absurd statement deserved an equally absurd response.
Lord Armstrong answered her with one undaunted forward movement. When Amelia attempted another step backward, she encountered the hard edge of her desk.
He was going to kiss her, his intent clear in his eyes. A silent yearning had taken root within her, setting her blood pulsing wildly and starting a dull throb at the apex of her thighs. She watched, transfixed, as his mouth drew closer. Not only was he about to kiss her, she was going to permit him the liberty … again.
Then, in a flash, he was gone, his movements a blur. By the time she regained a portion of her bewildered senses, he was beside his desk looking the picture of equanimity.
Then she heard it again. The knock. The sound she’d thought was the frantic beating of her heart had been someone knocking on the door. Her face went up in flames. She sat down with an abruptness that knocked the next breath from her, laid her hands flat on the desk and willed them to stop their god-awful trembling.
Lord Armstrong issued the terse command to enter and made a show of sopping the coffee from his trousers with a clean handkerchief.
The door flew open. Sarah entered with her smile and sunny disposition. If Amelia had been inclined to grand shows of physical affection, she might have hugged her.
“Good morning, Thomas, I wondered if—” Sarah halted. Espying her brother, her eyes grew round and her mouth formed a perfect o. Then she giggled, a girlish sound that reminded Amelia of innocent mischief making. “What happened to your trousers?”
The viscount shot her a dark look and ceased his ineffectual wiping. “I’m glad I’m able to amuse you this morning. What do you want, brat?”
How different the word sounded when used in reference to his sister, exasperated but warmly affectionate. Certainly not the tone he’d used with her.
“I—well, I came to find out if I could assist Amelia again today.”
Amelia nearly groaned aloud. The innocence of youth also had its drawbacks. How she wished the girl knew when to keep her mouth shut. She half expected a bolt of lightning to zigzag down from the sky and impale her right where she sat. That was just the sort of day she was bound to have.
“What do you mean ‘again’?” the viscount asked in a deceptively soft voice. Though he addressed his sister, he affixed his regard on her.
Amelia swallowed hard.
Sarah’s gaze bounced between them several times before responding. “Um—I helped Amelia with some …” Her voice trailed off as a storm gathered in the viscount’s eyes.
“Did I do something wrong?” Sarah asked, after a moment of charged silence.
“No, you did nothing wrong. If anyone—” Amelia began.
“Amelia will not require your assistance any longer,” the viscount cut in smoothly.
Sarah shot a glance at Amelia as if she expected her to contradict her brother.
“Yes, Sarah, I shan’t be requiring your help again.”
Sarah sighed in the dramatic fashion of a girl who could turn even the most minor events into something fit for a fiction novel. “Fine, then I shall have to find something else to do today since Miss Jasper is sick in bed with a cold.” She turned back to her brother. “Oh, and mother says she hopes you don’t intend to keep Lady Amelia holed up in the study all day.”
Amelia choked back a bitter laugh. If only the viscountess knew the full of it. Lord Armstrong’s response was low and unintelligible.
Sarah issued them a cheery farewell and went on her way.
The viscount wasted no time after the door closed before stalking toward her desk. Standing, he had her at a disadvantage, and he knew it. But she’d be damned if she’d acknowledge it by bolting to her feet looking the least bit intimidated and defensive.
“If you ever use my sister again, I’ll paddle you so hard you won’t be able to sit for days. Now, you have two choices, you can either clean up the mess you made or you’ll be rubbing elbows with the scullery maids. Which is it to be?”
If he’d delivered the first smack of the threatened paddling, Amelia couldn’t have been more horrified.
“What, not the two choices you expected? What did you think, that I would kiss you again?” He searched her expression, and whatever he found there made him exclaim softly, “Lord, is that what this was all about? You wanted another kiss? Well, you’re going to have to work on your approach. There are much easier ways to get what you want, and dousing a man with coffee is definitely not one of them. However, since you’ve gone through all this trouble, it would behoove me to oblige you.”
Of all the things he’d ever accused her of, this was by far the worst. Not to mention it made her appear pitiable and utterly pathetic. With little but her pride to act in her defense, Amelia sprang to her feet in a rustle of skirts and marched over to his desk. She snatched up the rag from the bucket of soapy water and with as much dignity as one could manage in the given situation, began to lower herself to her knees.
But her knees barely brushed the floor when she was hauled to her feet and into Lord Armstrong’s hard embrace. The wet rag fell from her startled hand to the floor.
“What—” She let out a gasp and clutched his shoulders for balance.
“Damn, but you are the most obstinate, willful, exasperating female—” He covered her mouth in a searing kiss. Amelia resisted for the time it took his tongue to penetrate the wall of teeth guarding the inside of her mouth, a task requiring only seconds. With that citadel breeched, her lips parted in helpless wonder, in hunger. She felt completely out of herself, drifting on a plane of pleasure that grew with every slow thrust of his tongue. Then his hands were on her bottom, squeezing and dragging her closer until she could feel his erection nudging her center through the inconvenient bulk of silk and cotton petticoats. Amelia whimpe
red and strained to get closer.
He abandoned her lips, which elicited a moan of protest. His mouth scored her cheek and then her chin, anointing every spot with a feathery kiss. Her head fell back with a soft groan, and he took advantage of the full access he now had to the long line of her neck. Her nails scraped his scalp, the feel of his hair soft and silky between her fingers as she pulled him closer.
She’d never known the spot behind her ears was so sensitive until his mouth settled there, the surge of his breaths its own caress. Amelia drank in the sounds of his pleasure and the scent of male heat, starched linen, and—coffee.
Reality descended down on her with pride crushing force. Her body immediately became rigid as she jerked her hands from his tousled strands to give his shoulders a hard shove. With a grunt and a bewildered look, he took a step back, his hands falling to his sides.
Good Lord, what was she doing? What was wrong with her? Earlier, she’d thought him mad when in truth she had to be the mad one.
For several moments, neither spoke, her labored breathing the only sound to fill the lengthening silence. If the viscount had been at all affected by the kiss, his expression revealed none of it.
“I need to change.” His gaze flickered down to her skirts. “And so do you.” With that, he strode from the room.
Amelia glanced down, and on her silk skirt, plain for all to see, was a large coffee stain.
Chapter 13
That evening under the light of the tallow candle in her bedchamber, Amelia penned a letter to Lord Clayborough. The pen pierced the paper in several places as if her words weren’t enough to convey her growing sense of urgency. And she despised that feeling of desperation.
Amelia was also tempted to write to Elizabeth, but could not bring herself to burden her with the horror of her circumstances when her friend, the Countess of Creswell, happily awaited the birth of her first child in four months.
After sealing the letter and placing it on the bedside table to give to the footman to post, Amelia crawled into bed doing something she rarely did: she fretted. She’d always thought it was nothing but a wasted bit of emotion signified by heavy sighs and persistent worry, which accomplished little and solved nothing. However, she had to concede that the matter of her physical reaction to Thomas Armstrong did call for something, if not fretting itself, then something close in association.
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