A Taste of Desire(19)
There was no mistaking the absurdly pleased expression on the marquess’s face. If Harry was counting on a match between them, he’d be woefully disappointed. His goal was to deliver her comeuppance, nothing more, and assuredly nothing less.
Harry chuckled softly. “Certainly not. A more agreeable daughter is all I am hoping for.”
However, the marquess’s assurance did little to alleviate a sense of foreboding gnawing at his gut. Thomas immediately gave himself a mental kick. What could Harry do from thousands of miles away?
“I have a feeling that by your return, she will be much changed—hopefully for the better.”
“I sincerely hope so. You would think with her beauty and dowry, I would have excellent prospects wearing a tread to my drawing room. Instead, she has completed her second Season with only five proposals from gentlemen too insipid to be borne. Not a handful of sense among the lot of them.”
“I will do what I can with her.” No other female in his association more deserved what he had planned for the little miss.
Ten minutes after bidding Harry farewell, Thomas headed south down St. James Street toward his bachelor’s residence. He must send word to his mother to expect a visitor for the next several months. But should he tell her to ready a space for Lady Amelia in the servants’ quarters or a chamber in the guest wing? Thomas smiled. Tricky business this thing called just desserts.
You will be residing there on my country estate with me.
With the ring of those words playing a most ominous tune in her mind, Amelia had escaped the study to her bedchamber to think … to plot. The urgency of her situation had had her mind working furiously. With her father’s plans for her barreling forth like a coach-and-four with a broken axle—the outcome certain to be a catastrophe of grand proportions—this matter had to be dealt with without a moment’s delay.
She had immediately shot off a letter to be delivered to Lord Clayborough posthaste. He might well have the pitiable distinction of being heir to an impoverished barony in Derbyshire, but what he lacked in funds, he made up for in gumption. Few men would dare cross her father. He’d done so—albeit without success—but the attempt certainly spoke of a strength of character. Certainly more character than the likes of Lord Armstrong, no matter how society appeared to esteem the man.
So at half past ten the following morning, Amelia, accompanied by Hélène and Charles, the first footman, awaited Lord Clayborough’s arrival on the southwest side of Hyde Park.
His reply to her note requesting they meet, which she’d received an hour later, suggested the location of the park by the large elm situated between Rotten Row and the river. Well, she had been waiting at the tree thirty minutes gone with nary a sighting of him or his landau.
Using her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the August sun, Amelia scanned the vicinity again. She certainly could not have missed his tall, lanky frame. By this time of the year, the enormous crowds, which normally converged on the hundreds of acres of lush greenery and stately trees, had retreated to their homes in the country. At present, only a smattering of ladies and gentlemen were taking their constitutional on Hyde Park’s well-kept foot paths. The baron unfortunately not being one of them.
Another glance down at the timepiece clutched in her hand told her it was only half a minute later than when last she’d checked. Snapping it closed, her mouth stretched into a grimmer line.
“Come along, Hélène,” she said, motioning the woman back into the carriage with a gloved hand. She refused to wait a minute more in this heat. Just as they started toward the door of the brougham, the canter of horses alerted her to an approaching vehicle. Amelia turned to spot Lord Clayborough’s blue and gray carriage cresting the hill up ahead.
The landau had barely come to a stop behind hers before the baron leapt out. Her very own knight, his armor pumice and brown wool instead of tempered iron plate and his equipage in dire need of paint and new springs. Well, better a poor knight than a wealthy, dissolute rake.
He reached her side within seconds, covering the distance separating them with loping strides. Amelia attributed his choppy breaths and flushed visage to anxiety rather than exertion. It wasn’t as if he’d had to make the journey from his residence on foot.
“Good morning, Lady Amelia. Please excuse my tardiness, but a horse lost his shoe in the middle of Piccadilly. Caused quite a bit of confusion. I pray you haven’t been waiting long?” His mouth curved up at the corners, softening the sharp contours of his face, making him appear younger than his twenty-nine years.