A Taste of Desire(28)
“Shall I pick out a dress pour vous, mademoiselle?”
Coaxed by a headache that had gone from a dull throb to sharp and unrelenting, it took only seconds for Amelia to make up her mind. “No, I would like you to convey my most contrite apologies to Lord Armstrong that a malady will prevent me from joining the family for the evening meal.” And as that was the truth, there wasn’t much he’d be able to say or do about it.
Hélène’s head jerked in her direction. “You are unwell, mademoiselle?”
“No need to look so alarmed. ‘Tis just a headache, nothing more. A good night’s sleep should set things right.”
Nodding, Hélène dropped her hands from the tulle silk dress, and closed the wardrobe doors. “As you please, mademoiselle. Shall I ask a tray be brought up pour vous?”
It was at that moment her stomach voiced its protest, churning indelicately—and quite loudly. Lord, she hadn’t eaten a thing since before luncheon time. “Yes, please do. Apparently, lack of food is contributing to my migraine.”
Hélène’s mouth edged up slightly at Amelia’s grumbled response. With a nod, she turned and exited the room, her departure coinciding with the chiming of the supper bell.
Five minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Amelia called out while sliding her legs from the bed onto the floor, her feet sinking into the plush pile of Brussels carpeting. The food had arrived much faster than she had anticipated. Her stomach growled its approval.
The door opened, but no servant greeted her bearing the much anticipated tray of food. The viscount himself stood framed in the doorway like Apollo on the cusp of the Trojan War—sans the bow and arrow. He had changed, now more formally attired in a sage jacket and waistcoat and tan trousers. The white cravat knotted about his neck contrasted sharply with the gold hue of his skin. An irrelevant observation, but one she’d made despite herself.
“You look well enough to me,” he stated with no preamble.
Amelia halted abruptly at the foot of the bed. It took a moment for her to collect her wits enough to understand just what he intimated and respond in kind. “Your concern is overwhelming.”
Without removing his gaze from hers, he entered, and the room seemed to shrink in size. Casually, he reached behind him to push the door closed, the click of the action loud and menacing to her ears.
With a start, Amelia swallowed hard and could only gape at him for several moments of incredulity. “What are you doing?” she said, recovering her speech and embracing her indignation.
“Is that what you do, get your servants to carry your lies for you?” He started toward her. “You are very much mistaken to think I believed a word of it.”
“You are in my bedchamber, my lord.” Her tone had shifted from heated to brittle as he drew closer. “Perhaps you are accustomed to treating females in this fashion. But I am a lady and I expect to be treated better than one of your trollops. I’m quite certain your mother would not look kindly upon your actions.”
Lord Armstrong halted in front of her. He stood too close, and Amelia yearned for the distance two arm’s lengths would have brought her. But after fleeing from him hours before, her pride wouldn’t allow another retreat.
“You of all people will lecture me on impropriety?” A dark blond eyebrow rose with his question. “Did I fail to mention that your father gave me leave to acquire you other accommodations should this—um—situation prove too trying for me? I believe the sisters at a very remote convent in Westmorland would gladly welcome your arrival.” He shook his head slowly and made a tsking sound. “It would be such a shame if it came to that.”
The pain in her head was forgotten—or perhaps it fled in light of the anger that overwhelmed her. Directed both at her father and the loathsome man standing before her, it was the kind of anger that had men carrying a pistol to the fields at dawn in the company of their second. Amelia inhaled deeply.
His gaze dropped to her breasts. Then his regard snapped back to her eyes. “Now, I believe that in my office I was explicit in my instructions as to where you’re to take your meals.”
Amelia swallowed a breath, her anger broken by the pitching of her stomach. He made it sound inappropriate. Intimate.
That he did not believe she was ill was obvious by the look in his eyes as he took another step toward her. Forcing herself not to retreat, Amelia tipped her chin to stare him directly in the eye. It annoyed her that this close, his shoulders were wide enough to block her view of the door. Her only exit.