A Taste of Desire(25)
“Ah, Thomas, there you are. Just in time. Lady Amelia has only recently arrived.” It was clear by the softening of the viscountess’s expression, she loved her son in the blind, unstinting way only a mother could love her offspring.
I was loved like that once. Just as quickly as Amelia felt the pang of pain, she ruthlessly quashed all thoughts of her mother. To remember was to open up a well of hurt.
“So I see,” he drawled, closing the gap between them with unhurried strides and a lord-of-the-manor swagger. He appeared as if he’d just come from outside, attired in dark brown riding clothes with his thick mane windblown. Halting in front of her, he dropped at the waist in a bow. A most uncalled-for bit of gallantry, but one Amelia believed he’d performed purely for show.
“Welcome to Stoneridge Hall, Lady Amelia.”
“Lord Armstrong.” Amelia gave a stiff nod but managed to keep her tone neutral. It wouldn’t do to have her dislike of the viscount obvious to members of his family and household.
Perhaps to his mother, and Hélène and George, who hovered discreetly behind her, the smile the viscount bestowed upon her might appear gracious, but she knew better. His green eyes held a mocking glint, his expression, a sly look of satisfaction.
“I pray your travels today progressed without further mishap.”
Aware that Lady Armstrong watched their exchange with heightened interest as evidenced by her intent regard, Amelia inclined her head in a polite nod.
“Wonderful, then we best get you settled.” Turning to the viscountess, he asked, “Mother, which room did you have prepared for Lady Amelia?”
“The blue room, my dear.”
In brusque tones, he instructed the footmen, who had just hefted one of her larger trunks through the front door, to carry her things up to the designated bedchamber.
“And your chaperone … I believe it was Miss Crawford?” His gaze briefly strayed to Hélène and George.
“Unfortunately, Miss Crawford was forced to return to Yorkshire. Her mother is failing.” And Amelia’s father, the Marquess of Bradford, a man who had a sense of propriety rivaled only by the patronesses of the convent of Almack’s, had had no qualms in sending her off to the residence of a known rake without a chaperone.
Lord Armstrong elevated a brow. “Indeed? Your father failed to mention that bit of news in his communication. Am I then to presume this is your new chaperone?” he asked, directing his attention to Hélène, his expression dubious.
Given her maid’s youth, she hardly suited the role, but it was clear introductions were in order. Amelia motioned Hélène and George forward. “No, my lord, this is my maid, Hélène, and my father’s manservant, Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith acted as our escort, but he will be returning home posthaste.”
Son and mother greeted the servants amiably. Hélène and George responded with an exaggerated curtsey and a deep bow.
“Mother, why don’t you have someone show Lady Amelia’s maid to her chambers and have one of the footmen show Mr. Smith where he can refresh himself before he departs. I need to speak to Lady Amelia about some important matters pertaining to her father.”
While Amelia’s stomach recoiled at his words, the viscountess was already going about the business of acceding to her son’s wishes.
“Come, we will go to the study.” With that, he started down the hall as if expecting she trot obediently along beside him. Amelia followed but at a sedate walk not a trot, stubbornly hanging back a distance.
As they traversed down the wide corridor, with nowhere else to focus her attention but at the back of his form, Amelia inspected her surroundings. Large framed oil portraits dominated the silken walls. On the opposite wall hung several glass topiary pieces and elaborate brass sconces. She found the décor elegant and understated, a fine representation of the viscountess herself.
Several years after her mother had died, her father had had Fountain Crest done over from top to bottom. All vestiges of her mother had been carted off and discarded much like the dated furniture and the heavy window coverings.
Lord Armstrong came to a stop in front of the double doors of what could only be the study. With a sweep of his hand and an inclination of his head, he said, “After you.”
Amelia swallowed and thrust thoughts of her mother from her mind. She preceded him into a room as wide as it was long.
“Please, do make yourself comfortable,” he said, striding across the room, giving a pointed look at several of the armchairs in front of the oversized mahogany desk.