A Taste of Desire(13)
“Move closer, Henry—I cannot hear a thing,” the hostess, Lady Stanton, instructed her husband.
Amelia darted a glance around. Eyes alight with almost fiendish anticipation stared back at her. Their expressions said they wanted her to refuse. It was as if the taste of a scandal had bestirred their hunger and her refusal would merely whet their appetite for more.
What choice did she have but to accept? At present, she’d do anything to halt this embarrassing debacle before it grew to such proportions that someone—namely Miss Crawford or perhaps even Lord Armstrong—would apprise her father of her gauche. Lord, he’d have her on the next train to some godforsaken convent to spend a year on bended knees, clutching a cross, and reciting Hail Marys and Our Fathers.
“I would be delighted.” She echoed her chaperone’s sentiments, praying her abhorrence wasn’t writ plain on her face for all to see. Placing a gloved hand on his proffered arm, the innocuous touch igniting a shower of sensation from her fingertips up the length of her arm, she followed his lead.
They made what seemed like a mile-long walk to the dance floor amid a flurry of movement as onlookers hurried to clear a path for their progress. Amelia wasn’t certain which was worse, the intense scrutiny and whispers, or having his hands on her person as he drew her into the circle of his arms. The impulse to jerk from his touch overwhelmed and alarmed her … as it did to every one of her nerve endings.
Her instincts told her to run, to go. Then pride tugged her up by the shoulders, lengthening her spine and tipping up her chin. Amelia didn’t mind if people called her cold and emotionless, but she’d never give them cause to call her a coward. So instead of bolting, she rested her hands on his shoulders, ignoring the tingling of her flesh in all the places they came in contact: her hands, her waist, the small of her back.
With his athletic physique, she had taken Lord Armstrong for a man more suited to masculine pursuits like rugby or rowing. But he proved to be a dancer of finesse and grace, twirling her expertly about the floor. Uttering not a single word, he gazed down at her, his green eyes half-lidded. His slumbered look could not, however, hide the sharp glint in coal-black pupils bespeaking a mind in action—surmising, scheming … plotting her demise.
Well, he didn’t frighten her.
Amelia gave an involuntary shiver and in flustered haste, shifted her gaze from the heat of his perusal. Was it her or had the temperature in the ballroom risen several degrees since the waltz had commenced?
Minutes and too many thundered heartbeats later, when the final notes of the waltz arrested the air, Amelia could hardly believe her punishment was over. That was it, only one dance for her insult? She’d receive no reprimand or belittlement on her conduct as a lady?
In a state of bemusement, she allowed him to escort her off the dance floor. And she dared not look up at him for fear her relief was too palpable to be disguised. Poking a sleeping lion while within moments of escape would be the height of stupidity.
“Come and join me. It would be a shame not to take this time to get to know one another better.” Cupping her elbow in the palm of his hand, Lord Armstrong steered her in the opposite direction of where Miss Crawford stood alone next to a large potted fern.
Amelia started at his words, instinctively tugging her arm back. “No thank—”
“Uh-uh, perhaps you think I’m issuing you an invitation.” He shook his head, his manner awash in the kind of parental admonishment that instantly caused everything in her to rebel against his authority. “No, that was an order.” He retained a firm hold on her arm while keeping his tone conversational and smiling down at her with a hard, unyielding glint in his green eyes. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? I fear you’ll have to suffer my presence a little longer.”
As much as Amelia despised surrendering control, she gave up the fight almost as abruptly as it had begun. The man outweighed her by at least six stone, and she’d discovered during their dance that under the cut of the finely spun fabric of his evening jacket were hard, muscled arms.
“Whatever for? I’m quite certain you don’t actually wish for my company,” she said, endeavoring to keep her tone neutral.
Lord Armstrong laughed in amusement. “The first true thing I’ve heard come from your mouth this evening,” he said, as they threaded through the crowd toward the refreshment room. “What I am attempting to do is save your father from embarrassment. I believe he’s been through enough this past week, wouldn’t you agree?” He cocked one eyebrow and leveled her with a censuring look, which effectively wilted her indignation.