A Taste of Desire(33)

However, her position in the household—neither a guest nor truly a servant—was the equivalent of a queen forced to labor for her keep with the full support and encouragement from the king. In truth, her position couldn’t be considered much above the people whose duty it was to serve her.

Quickening her steps, she made the final turn down yet another long stretch of floor. She passed the billiard room, the library, and another half dozen servants before she finally reached the study. She viewed the sight of the ornately framed double doors with a mixture of disapprobation and trepidation.

Was he angry? she wondered. Or more aptly put, just how angry was he? Well, in this her conscience was clear. It was not as if she’d done it deliberately. Not that he’d believe her claim that she hadn’t been late intentionally were she to offer it. But truly, not only was this punishment grossly unfair, so too was its expeditious beginning. As far as he was concerned, her duration there would afford ample time for torment and misery. Though whose torment and misery was a matter yet to be seen, for she vowed she’d not bear the brunt of that alone.

Despite all her internal assertions, her belly coiled up tighter than a sailor’s hitch in the Arctic cold when she delivered two short raps to the door—a courtesy she exercised more to announce her arrival than request admittance.

Shoulders back and chin high, Amelia inhaled a deep breath before entering, a grudging apology ready on her tongue. The man who was to receive it sat behind the mahogany desk, his head bent over a blue leather-bound book she instantly recognized as an accounts ledger. Around him, papers ran rampant, consuming almost every square inch of the desk’s surface.

She ventured several feet beyond the door and awaited his acknowledgement. Only the rustle of paper and the rhythmic tick of a clock perched on a glass stand broke the silence.

A true gentleman would have already risen to his feet. A good half dozen seconds passed. A man would have at least glanced up. Several more seconds passed. Only an unmannerly brute would do neither.

The viscount did neither.

She was tempted to clear her throat, but her pride balked at the notion. The action carried with it a sense of desperation. Look at me, it begged. Truth be told, she didn’t so much mind that he ignored her. What had her more piqued was that she was here at his behest.

With every moment she stood there unmoving, her spine grew stiffer, her breathing, deeper. After a half minute had elapsed, she knew her intended apology would never materialize. After a full minute, said apology could not have been pried from her tongue with medieval tools of torture.

The clock chimed on the half hour.

Enough is really enough! Turning, she started toward the door.

“Sit down.” His voice cut the air with bladelike precision.

Amelia halted mid-stride, her right foot inches from the doorway. For a pregnant moment, she did nothing, her mind engrossed in the possible consequences of outright defiance. It took a few moments to decide that doing so wouldn’t be worth the stir it was sure to cause. Turning sharply back to him, she found his position unchanged, his head still bent over the ledger, strands of hair glinting a brilliant gold shine beneath the sun’s rays.

“I just assumed you had no need of me.”

“Sit down,” he repeated in clipped tones, waving his hand negligently toward the chair directly opposite him. He had yet to look up.

Amelia bit her lip and clenched her hands, striving for calm. She’d quit the place soon enough, she reminded herself as reluctant steps propelled her forward to take a seat in the designated chair.

His head came up slowly, revealing a regard as intense as she’d ever experienced. In haste, she dropped her gaze and took in his attire. She wasn’t altogether surprised to find him wearing shirtsleeves much less that it was open at the collar, allowing for an eyeful of chest hairs. But what else was to be expected? He was a Lothario lacking Casanova’s heart. Amelia jerked her gaze back up to his.

“I hope you found the accommodations to your liking.” The viscount reposed back in his chair to make a lazy appraisal of her person, his regard lingering overly long at her breasts.

“I find your regard offensive, my lord.” She dismissed the slow curl of heat in her belly as hunger.

Her rebuke did not in any way halt his scrutiny. Indeed it appeared to amuse him, a smile breaking the golden planes of his visage.

Slowly, he raised his gaze up to hers. “Does it disturb you? I imagine you’d be well used to male admiration.” His tone held a suggestive quality that belied the innocence in his eyes.