A Taste of Desire(35)
Ill-conceived? The only ill-conceived thing—
“However, I see no harm in allowing you to put my files in order.”
Harm? Amelia gritted her teeth, refusing to rise to his insults. It was what he wanted. She should collect his bloody files, dump them on a woodpile, and light the biggest blaze anyone in Devon had ever seen. Oh yes, the idea did have merit, she thought with a certain amount of glee.
“That should not tax me unduly,” she said just to be contrary.
“Excellent.” Like a well-rested lion, he unfolded his long length from the chair to circle the desk and stride over to the secretaire, which sat some twenty feet away, close to two towering arched windows.
Turning in her seat, Amelia watched his progress. If he’d had the decency to wear a jacket, she wouldn’t have to endure an unfettered view of his backside—a part of the male anatomy to which she typically paid little mind. Black trousers molded trim hips, firm buttocks, and long muscled legs to proclaim him a very fine figure of a man.
Amelia quickly averted her gaze and gave her head a quick shake as if that would now dislodge the image from her mind’s eye. Or perhaps she expected the action to jolt some sense back into her.
“You can start with these.” He prodded a large open box by the desk with a black-booted foot.
Careful to avoid looking at his backside again, she rose to her feet and made her way to the desk to peer inside the box. What she discovered was utter chaos in the form of sheaves of black-inked papers, most of which appeared worn with age.
“And what am I to do with this?” she asked coolly. The man was the devil incarnate.
He paused before replying, “Why, organize them of course.”
“These papers, documents, whatever they are, don’t appear to be well kept at all.”
“I see your father was right. You are intelligent. How quickly you’ve grasped the need for an organized work space.”
Amelia bristled under his condescension and clamped her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a response.
His shift to a businesslike manner occurred with the suddenness of a passing summer storm. He proceeded to explain what he wanted done and exactly how she should go about doing it.
The box—the first of many, he informed her—contained years of contracts for services pertaining to his breeding farm. He indicated where and how they would be filed: in a tall, six-drawer cabinet, equipped with metal dividers. He would be available for any questions that may arise. At that statement, a sense of relief overwhelmed her, for it indicated he had no intention in remaining there with her. No matter how grand a study this was, it would have felt like a broom closet if she was confined in it with him for the duration of the day.
“I will be down at the stables if your need is urgent.”
Amelia’s regard immediately snapped to him. Though his tone was not in the least bit suggestive, his choice of words begged a sharp look. But he was already halfway across the room, seconds later his tread a fading echo beyond the study doors.
Alone in the room for the first time, Amelia heaved a sigh of relief and cast an abstracted look around. The French Rococo influence was prominent in the serpentine-backed sofa and a plum brocade armchair at the far end of the room, which created an intimate sitting area around a black walnut fireplace. Four arched windows, topped by gold tasseled curtains, were evenly spaced along the length of the north and east walls, making little need for artificial lighting during daylight hours. Built-in bookcases consumed at least half of the wall space, its dark wood and clean lines giving the room its masculine appearance.
Amelia circled what could now be considered her desk and seated herself in the high-backed chair. Plucking a handful of papers from the box, she surveyed the first sheet. Faded with age and smudged from frequent handling, her eyes strained to make out the name at the top of the contract, all to no avail. Why wait for a ceremonious bonfire? She had a mind to toss it in the fire right then and there.
Amelia could see this would indeed be a long and frustrating day—days, perhaps even weeks. Tonight she’d pen a letter to Lord Clayborough; then tomorrow she’d acquaint herself with every conceivable avenue of escape the sprawling Stoneridge Hall possessed.
If a purgatory of smudged black ink on sheaves of paper existed, Amelia could rightly say she was trapped in it. Her day, which normally clipped on at a steady pace, lumbered relentlessly onward and was broken only by the luncheon meal and an afternoon snack she’d eaten at her desk. By the time six o’clock arrived, she’d suffered every second of every minute of every hour—the tedium of her task nearly lulling her to unconsciousness.