A Taste of Desire(29)
“Do you really want to begin a battle with me? On your very first night?” He bent his head, his face mere inches from her own, his voice low and taunting.
For the first time since she’d initially laid eyes on the man, Amelia experienced a pang of fear hitherto unknown to her. He represented a threat. She recognized that now. But what kind of threat was not as yet altogether clear. And that made her resent him all the more.
“Then I guess you would rather I come down to dine ailing?” Goodness, what was she doing? Trying to appeal to his sense of … decency? It was obvious granite had usurped anything he might at one time have had resembling a heart.
“If you are ailing, then I am the king of England.”
“Then I will ask Your Highness to please remove yourself from my chamber.”
“Princess, let us get one thing perfectly clear.”
Amelia’s jaw locked, and her hands curled tightly around a swath of her skirt. It was clear he took great delight in drawing out the name, knowing just how much she resented his use of it.
“This”—he gestured about the room with his hand—”and everything in this house is mine. You occupy this space at my hospitality. Moreover, I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve been in a room alone with a man and a bed. Remember, I know about both Cromwell and Clayborough, though I’ll wager Cromwell wasn’t even the first.”
If Amelia didn’t fear he would retaliate in kind, she would have slapped him—no, she would have balled up her fist and pummeled him to the ground. No one had ever—not ever—cast aspersions on her character in such a manner. Did he think because he had the morals of an alley cat, so, too, did everyone else?
“While you are in my house, you will do as I say. Do we understand each other?”
His expression, his eyes, his entire demeanor told her he expected her to respond with a rousing display of feminine defiance. She refused to give him the satisfaction of responding to his slur.
“Oh, I very much understand,” she replied softly.
Lord Armstrong stilled and stared as if he found her ready capitulation not to his liking—and not a capitulation at all.
“Now that you have my assurance, I am asking you to leave. I pray I will at least be permitted the privacy a bedchamber should afford anyone. Even someone in your service, I daresay.” She wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover he imprisoned the servants in their chambers. But then, how many of the female servants would actually call it being “imprisoned”?
Straightening with a languid grace, the viscount retreated several steps, a lazy smile in place. “You needn’t worry in that regard.”
Grateful that he no longer crowded her with his proximity, Amelia chose to ignore the amused and knowing look in his eyes.
“Will I be permitted to eat this evening, or do you intend for me to starve?” The churning of her stomach had not allowed her to forget its current state of emptiness.
“I will instruct one of the servants to bring you something this time. Beginning tomorrow, I expect to see you in the dining hall.”
To respond as she wanted would simply delay his departure, so Amelia remained mute.
Lord Armstrong was at the door in long, fluid strides. Before exiting, he turned to her and said in a clipped, unyielding tone, “Be in the study tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. If you keep me waiting for even one minute, whether you’re dressed fit for company or not, I will come and fetch you myself.” He paused and without so much as a glimmer of amusement said, “On second thought, don’t sleep in a stitch tonight, that way that little exercise will rouse us both.”
He left her standing stock-still by her bed, eyes wide and mouth agape, fairly reeling at his audacity. But his words conjured up an image in her mind that left her flushed and hot for an altogether entirely different reason.
Supper with his family had been a relatively quiet affair. Eaten up with curiosity, his sisters had set upon him, firing question after question about their newly arrived guest. To their questions, he’d replied, “You can ask her yourself when you meet her tomorrow.” After receiving five such responses, Emily and Sarah had lapsed into silence.
Now retired to the library blissfully alone, Thomas crossed over to the sideboard and set about pouring himself a much desired—much needed—glass of port.
Soon he was settled in his favorite chair where he could freely assess his problem. One, Amelia Bertram. As evidenced by her behavior thus far, this might prove an even greater challenge than he’d imagined.