A Taste of Desire(38)
The daughter was the antithesis of the mother, possessing a shock of curly red hair the texture of which made humidity its natural enemy. Small and slight, she spoke in monosyllables, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
“Lady Amelia, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Roland said politely, but her voice lacked sufficient warmth to declare it a friendly greeting. But then, women rarely welcomed her with open arms.
“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Roland, Miss Roland.” Amelia gave each a nod.
Mrs. Roland appeared preoccupied, her attention focused elsewhere. Amelia followed the woman’s gaze straight to the hooded stare of the viscount.
Since her ar rival, she’d done her best to ignore him, conscious that he stood only feet away in front of the mahogany cabinet, watching her, making her feel as if he could see through her tulle silk gown and cotton undergarments straight to the bare flesh below. Amelia quickly averted her gaze.
“And I believe you have met my daughters.” Lady Armstrong gestured to where they stood by their brother, both dressed in pretty lace-trimmed frocks.
“Yes, ma’am, earlier this evening.”
Amelia certainly would not divulge under what circumstances she became acquainted with the youngest. Emily, three years older than Sarah’s fifteen years, Amelia had met as she’d returned to her chambers after leaving the study. Though not inclined to her sister’s chattiness, Emily had been welcoming and kind. And like her brother and sister, she had inherited the viscountess’s green eyes, golden hair, and good looks.
With the introductions completed, they took their places at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth. In proportion to all the other furniture in the room, it was solid and large.
To Amelia’s chagrin, she was seated to the left of the viscount, who sat at the head with the viscountess on his right. She would have preferred the opposite end of the table.
The entry of the footmen bearing silver trays, laden with food tasty enough to tempt even the most particular palette, diverted her attention.
Within minutes, bowls and dishes were filled, red wine in every glass.
“And how did you enjoy the Season?” Lord Armstrong asked, addressing Miss Roland after the footmen had taken up their post at the back of the room and everyone was intent upon the first course.
Miss Roland stilled, her spoon poised near her lips. She quickly lowered it into her bowl of turtle soup.
“Do tell his lordship how you enjoyed your Season,” Mrs. Roland prodded, impatience edging her tone when her daughter didn’t offer up an immediate reply.
“If I were prettier then I’m certain I would have attracted more suitors … well, at least one suitor.” Miss Roland let out a heavy sigh. “I fear I shall end up disappointing Mama.”
Amelia nearly choked on her wine. Honesty among the aristocracy was usually harder to find than a lady with an eighteen-inch waist—without stays—and looked upon with just as much skepticism, envy, or lecherous delight. But no one could doubt Miss Roland’s sincerity. Not with the droop of her narrow shoulders and the forlorn look in her hazel eyes.
A swift glance around the table gave testament to the fact. Though Mrs. Roland looked mortified, every member of the Armstrong family observed her as if they’d just witnessed a puppy being kicked.
However, it was Lord Armstrong who galloped in on his white horse in full knight armor, polished and glistening.
“You’re much more than pretty. And if the gentlemen of the ton can’t see your other wonderful qualities, they don’t deserve you.”
Miss Roland lifted her gaze from her plate to regard him. If he’d told her she was Aphrodite immortalized, she couldn’t have looked more dubious. “I can’t imagine anything better than being pretty enough to attract a gentleman.”
In response, he placed his utensils down, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a serviette and gave Miss Roland a measured look. Obviously a man so filled with his own self-importance, he expected Miss Roland to accept his every word as fact.
“I really must disagree. I’ve met my share of beauties who would have made a tour of duty seem like a picnic. Without divulging the name of a certain lady of the ton, I will tell you a story about my introduction to her the year past.”
The ting of utensils against the white porcelain plates halted. All eyes were riveted on the viscount, who needed only his crown to claim his position as the noble prince. The hairs on Amelia’s nape reared up as her unease began its ascent.