A Taste of Desire(37)
The knock on the door jarred her from her damning admission. A young girl whose age Amelia estimated at no more than fifteen, entered and eagerly approached her. If the color of the girl’s hair—which was a shade lighter than the viscount’s—hadn’t proclaimed her an Armstrong, then her green eyes certainly would. Moreover, she possessed a striking resemblance to the viscountess.
“Hello. Lady Amelia.” The address seemed more an afterthought, as though the girl had suddenly remembered her manners. And perhaps if the young Miss Armstrong knew Amelia would rather be troweling under the hot desert sun, she’d have saved her greeting for someone who could more appreciate her exuberance.
She halted beside Amelia’s desk, an impish smile wreathing her face. “We had so hoped to meet you yesterday—my sister and I. I’m Sarah. Thomas never mentioned how pretty you are.”
Amelia was at a loss as to which of her hodgepodge of statements to respond to first. “Um—hello, Sarah. Perhaps that’s because your brother doesn’t believe I am.”
Sarah laughed as though she’d just heard the most amusing tale, her braid swaying at the jostling of her shoulders. “One thing my brother does know better than most is a beautiful woman, and I’m sure he finds you so.”
Amelia stifled a laugh. No diffident female was Miss Sarah Armstrong. “Well then, thank you. I shall take that as a compliment coming from a beauty such as yourself.”
Most girls—women—would have simpered at the compliment or made sounds of feigned denial. Sarah merely smiled, her eyes bright with delight. Her attention then moved to the contracts stacked neatly in front of Amelia.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting these documents in order,” Amelia replied, resuming her task. “And if I intend to make supper this evening, I can’t afford to dawdle.”
“I think it’s admirable that you’ve offered to help Thomas with his charity work.”
Amelia covered an eruption of laughter with a cough. So that’s what he’d told his family. He’d painted her as the saintly do-gooder instead of the daughter whose father had passed her off to the viscount like unwanted baggage.
“Indeed it is,” Amelia replied dryly.
“Perhaps I could assist you,” Sarah offered, her expression so eager and earnest, Amelia regretted that she had to refuse her.
Or did she? Amelia took in what represented almost two hours of work on her desk and in the box. Work that would take her right up to the supper hour. She would not even have time to dress at leisure.
“Won’t you be missed?” Amelia inquired, angling her head to gaze up at her.
“No, for the next hour Mama will be practicing the piano, and Emily is still with Miss Jasper completing today’s lesson.”
“Then should you not be taking lessons also?”
“I’ve already completed the lesson. Emily despises French because her enunciation isn’t terribly good. She’d be there all night if Miss Jasper didn’t have to eat and sleep.”
Amelia suppressed a smile while she considered the offer. Why not have the girl help? She was obviously willing. The viscount hadn’t told her how she was to complete the task, just that she should. And two pairs of hands would certainly speed up the process. Surely that should please him. It would certainly please her.
“Well, if you insist.” Amelia rose from her chair. “Come, you may have my seat while I instruct you.”
Chapter 11
“Ah, Lady Amelia, so good of you to join us,” Lady Armstrong said upon Amelia’s entry into the dining room at precisely two minutes to eight that evening.
The viscountess, resplendent in a double-skirted gown edged with velvet vandykes, stood beside two women—well, the younger female might not be considered a woman just yet.
“Good evening, Lady Armstrong,” Amelia replied.
“Please, allow me to introduce you to my dear friend, Mrs. Eleanor Roland, and her daughter Dorothy. Eleanor, Dorothy, may I present Lady Amelia Bertram. She will be our guest while her father is out of the country.”
Mrs. Roland was a tall, stocky woman with dark, graying hair suffering from too much pomade, her face, too much powder. The latter, undoubtedly, to hide the pockmarks riddling her cheeks, forehead, and chin. Despite her size, she gave the illusion of a woman three stone lighter. Donned in a dark blue dinner dress, she’d opted for fabric that draped her figure instead of trying to squeeze her body into something that idealized the feminine shape as many ladies of grander proportions were wont to do.