A Taste of Desire(12)
He strode through the crush, his gaze locked on the source of his ire donned in a peach ball gown, her hair a mass of dark, silken curls elaborately arranged atop her head. She stood frozen, her face cherry-blossom pink, her eyes like a deer on the verge of flight. What a pity beauty that blinding hid a heart encased in stone and housed such a virulent tongue.
The crowd watched spellbound. Randolph, Smith, and Granville did little to squelch their amusement, their chuckles reaching his burning ears. And there wasn’t a single guest present fooled by the loud and prolonged coughs of Essex and Cartwright.
Lady Camden, Lady Dalton, and Widow Ramsey looked on in mute denial, their expressions stricken—and they should know, they themselves had experienced enormous pleasure at the hands of his alleged sexual shortcomings.
Thomas imagined at least half those attending the ball waited in salacious delight at what they hoped would be a scene from a particularly titillating melodrama.
“Lady Amelia.” He managed a pleasant enough tone and a courtly bow. But his mouth strained under the effort of producing a smile.
Cobalt blue eyes stared up at him with such stark horror he was almost moved to laugh. Almost, but not quite. She swallowed, and then like a curtain being drawn, her expression became shuttered.
“Good evening, Lord Armstrong,” she replied coolly, her delicate chin tilted high as she performed a modest curtsey. But the quaver in her voice betrayed her nervousness … or fright.
She had every right to be scared. He hoped she was quivering in her lacy French drawers.
“Will you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked in cordial tones, extending his hand. Hardly the gesture of a man whose images of wringing her neck had barreled back in his mind with the force of a ferocious storm.
He could feel the shock ripple across the guests standing close enough to hear his request. Much like spectators at a pugilist match, this crowd wanted blood, though they’d be loath to admit such a thing. They yearned for something raucous to break up the humdrum of their dreary week.
The air was taut as the collective ton suspended their breaths to await her response. They made no attempt to even feign disinterest in the encounter that he was quite certain would top the list of conversation topics in parlors and drawing rooms all over town.
Amelia thought she must be losing her mind—or at least had rattled her brain. He could not have just asked her for a dance.
Her heart had only just begun to beat again. Now the wretched man stood too close, her senses picking up his distinct scent. Why had she come to this blasted ball? How she now craved those four silken walls. At the moment, she’d welcome Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle. Really, she’d willingly read anything at all.
But there he stood, his jaw firmly set, appearing the height of civility. Yes, this was more his style. Crush her with kindness. Watch her squirm. Make a show of philanthropic compassion. And the moment they took to the dance floor … She shivered. She could well imagine the kind of retribution he intended.
But if he expected her to stutter in embarrassment or issue a false apology, he’d wait an eternity. It was clear he intended to weather the incident with the veil of gentlemanly decorum. Well, so could she. Though her father would vehemently protest otherwise, she could act the proper lady when the occasion called for it. At the present, the occasion called out rather loudly.
“Good evening, Lord Armstrong. As much as I would—”
Someone tugged sharply on the tulle bertha of her gown, halting her before she could complete her refusal. A startled glance to her left revealed her chaperone appearing even more dour than the high-necked, brown poplin dress adorning her too-thin figure.
How perfectly splendid. Now she returned. If the blasted woman had returned only minutes before, she would undoubtedly be sipping some sweet drink instead of facing down this wretched man in a ballroom full of the crème de la crème of society.
Miss Crawford shot her a hard look that said, Refuse him and I’ll make you regret the day you were born. She then gave a shrill laugh, to cover the silence that had befallen their rapt audience. “She would be delighted, my lord.”
This she tittered to Lord Armstrong, who wore the same smile Lucifer must have worn when committing the sins that brought about his expulsion to earth.
A low murmur started amongst those surrounding.
“What did she say?” one woman inquired.
“Did she order the Bertram girl to dance with him?” an older gentleman asked of another balding, portly one.