A Taste of Desire(4)
Thomas issued Harry a curt nod. “Yes, I expect you will.” He returned his attention to her. “And as always, Lady Amelia, it was a pleasure,” he said, managing to remain quite straight-faced, for surely Judas could not have told a grander lie.
For a brief moment, something sparked in her blue eyes, breathing life into the flawless, glacial beauty of her countenance and hinting at a slumbering fire. If he gave a damn—which he most assuredly did not—it’d give him cold satisfaction to see her icy hauteur reduced to a puddle on the floor.
“Yes, but as we are both well aware, if I claimed likewise it would be a blatant untruth.”
The cheeky little piece!
The sound of Harry’s sharp intake bounced off paned glass and dark paneled walls. “Amelia—”
Thomas held up his right hand to forestall Harry’s coming reprimand. She must always have the final word. God, he’d sooner strip naked and immerse himself in a vat of leeches than spend a minute in her company, which meant he’d already remained in her presence at least four minutes too long.
“That’s quite all right, Harry. I certainly wouldn’t want your daughter to lie.”
“I’m glad we can agree on that,” she said tartly.
Not trusting himself to issue her another word—at least not a civil one—Thomas dipped his head in a shallow bow, giving her one final glance. Lord, what was it about her that always had his control splintering under the weight of her acerbic tongue? And just what was her grievance against him? In dealing with him, she was more than merely cold—as was her reputation. She wore the requisite pointed black hat and rode about perched on a broom like her sisters of the dark craft.
Women, ladies, matrons, the female population as a whole, simply did not despise him on sight.
Lady Amelia had.
Many claimed even children were not immune to his brand of wit and charm.
Lady Amelia most definitely was.
Annoyed at the direction of his thoughts, as if he gave a damn about her opinion, Thomas turned to address Harry. “I will see myself out. Good day, Harry … Lady Amelia.” He then calmly took his leave.
If Amelia was one to indulge in tears, she might have wept in relief at the sight of the broad back of Lord Armstrong exiting through the doorway. And then whooped in exhilaration when his long, unhurried strides traversed the polished hardwood floors of the corridor until he vanished from view.
Arrogant, insufferable swine.
“You were unconscionably rude to Lord Armstrong,” her father said, disapproval a heavy stamp across his dignified features.
The clock on the fireplace mantel measured her lack of response in even strokes. When it became evident none would be forthcoming, Harold Bertram emitted a sound of displeasure. Amelia had long grown accustomed to the nuances of that particular sound.
As he raked a hand through his hair, he made his way to a small circular table in the corner of the room, on which sat crystal decanters containing some of the most expensive port in all of England. After loosening his neckcloth with three sharp tugs and then tossing it on the nearby sofa, he poured himself a drink. It was ten in the morning.
“Father, you wished to speak with me?”
He moved to stand in front of one of the windows and tipped the glass to his mouth. For several seconds he appeared to contemplate the yellow azaleas bordering the garden, his face presented to her in profile. Slowly he swiveled to face her, his eyes devoid of all perceptible emotion.
As Amelia regarded him, it struck her that she hadn’t really looked at her father since her eventful arrival. She’d never seen him thus: his waistcoat unbuttoned, his hair tousled. And his recently discarded neckcloth made his incessantly adorned neck look barren and out of sorts. One could go so far as to say he appeared elegantly unkempt. For a man who was usually groomed in a manner that would have tailors on Savile Row bending at the waist to concede to his superior taste, this anomaly could push the sordid tale of Lady Grable’s affair with her footman off the front page of the gossip sheets.
“How many times do I have to ask you to please not address me in that tone? It wasn’t so long ago you called me Papa.”
The latter statement he seemed to make to himself. Perhaps a wistful musing? Amelia dismissed the thought with a self-preserving kind of haste before it succeeded in penetrating the walls guarding her heart. The part of her that had once cared what he felt for her was long gone. Hit broadside by a frigate and shredded by its screw propellers.