A Taste of Desire(16)
Thomas stilled. What the devil could she possibly want with him? After all that had transpired between them, she could have nothing to say to him—at least nothing he wished to entertain.
“Let her ask,” Thomas bit out.
“I expect she’ll be making an appearance here tonight. I’ve heard she likes to be fashionably late so she can make a grand entrance.”
That was all Thomas needed to hear. “Then I shall leave unfashionably early this evening.” He started for the door.
“Surely, you’re not running from her?” Cartwright sounded amused and half-disbelieving.
Pausing, Thomas shot his friend a glance over his shoulder. “A wise man doesn’t run, for that encourages a chase. What he does is avoid. I am avoiding.”
Thomas could hear Cartwright’s laugh ringing in his ears long after he took his leave of the ball.
The following day, while Amelia was still suffering the ill effects from a fitful night of sleep, Clemens interrupted her morning meal. Her father requested her presence in his study, the second footman conveyed. He then issued a deferential bow and departed with a click of his heels.
Goodness, midday hadn’t even been reached and she had yet to see Miss Crawford poke her head from her bedchamber. Surely, word of last night’s incident had not gotten back to him so swiftly.
With her heart racing and her appetite, which hadn’t been substantial to begin with, now nonexistent, Amelia dabbed a serviette to her mouth, gathered her skirts, and rose from the table.
Given the tenuous nature of her circumstances considering the elopement attempt earlier that week, and now the unfortunate faux pas involving her mouth, Lord Armstrong, and a ballroom full of their peers, she thought it unwise to keep her father waiting.
As she made her way down the foyer, her steps a soft tap against polished wood floors, she thought back to her perfectly horrid evening, which had ended just as abruptly as Lord Armstrong had taken his leave of her.
She and Miss Crawford had managed a hasty but dignified exit, Amelia endeavoring to avoid eye contact with guests whose expressions ranged from mild rebuke to high amusement. She’d then endured a carriage ride home in oppressive silence, tumbling into bed after midnight only to have her sleep disturbed with dreams of the bloody man. Dreams of threatened kisses. Disturbing dreams.
Smoothing not-quite-steady hands over her loose chignon, Amelia drew in a calming breath before delivering two knuckled raps to the oak door. This time she awaited her father’s muffled bid to enter before opening the door … slowly.
Harold Bertram sat ensconced in his wing-backed leather armchair, a pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose. Judging by his appearance, the world had righted itself back on its axis. His neckcloth looked as if painstaking efforts had been made to starch, press, and knot it to perfection, his bespoke garments immaculate, as always.
“Ah, Amelia, I feared I would have to send for you. Have a seat—we have things to discuss.” He gestured to the chairs opposite him. Not exactly the manner of a father who’d heard scandalous news about his daughter. In fact, the curve of his mouth lit his face with the same pleased sort of smile usually brought on by the advent of a promising business venture.
A feeling of unease coursed the length of her spine as Amelia inched closer to his desk. He appeared too happy, too agreeable, not exhibiting his normal impatience when dealing with her. Their encounters normally consisted of few words, her father, at most, sparing her a preoccupied glance, before immersing himself back into his account ledgers. Only when she was embroiled in a scrape that might affect her standing in society was she worthy of his full attention.
Amelia firmed her jaw, pushed back her shoulders, and took a seat in the chair closest to the door. She then occupied herself by arranging her skirt so the lace-trimmed flounces lay in perfect symmetry. If her father had called her here to inform her he’d accepted a marriage proposal on her behalf, he’d find himself up for the fight of his life.
Harold Bertram directed his gaze toward the back of the room. “Thomas, please join us.”
With a start, Amelia twisted in her seat before she could stop herself, to find the man standing in front of a wall of teak bookshelves casually examining the spine of a leather-bound volume.
Her heart took off on a wild gallop as the dark corniced walls of the study seemed to close in on her, sucking all the air out in the process. The embodiment of her worst nightmare turned his regard to her, his air one of artless detachment. How was it possible she hadn’t sensed him the moment she crossed the threshold when his presence permeated every crevice of the room?