A Taste of Desire(44)
The viscount didn’t immediately respond, his attention focused on ostensibly searching for something on his desk. When he spoke, he sounded distracted. “But I want you to do it. Every morning Mr. Wendel’s secretary brings him his morning beverage. It is not an uncommon practice.”
“I do not particularly care what occurs in Mr. Wendel’s office,” she said, bearing down on her back teeth.
Lord Armstrong lifted his head to regard her. “You are correct. The only thing that need concern you right now is bringing me my coffee. Two cubes of sugar with just a dash of cream. And Amelia, make no mistake about it—this is not a request.” He returned his attention to the clutter on his desk, effectively dismissing her.
Amelia silently cursed him in English, French, and the smattering of Italian she’d learned from an Italian governess. But damn it, she had little choice but to do as he said. He had her at a disadvantage. This was his estate, his family, his bloody everything. Here she was nothing but another servant in the guise of a guest. Imprisoned for having a mind of her own and wanting a life of her own.
Although she took pains not to glance in his direction, she felt the intensity of his gaze as she rose and crossed the room to the door, her pride smarting with her every step. Like everything else, she’d attempt to get through this with as much aplomb as she could muster.
In the hall, Amelia immediately located the butler, a dour, portly man with graying hair, who treated her request for the beverage with a monotone “Yes ma’am.” He summoned a footman from the drawing room and dispatched him to the kitchen. The confusion came when she insisted on taking the coffee to the study herself. Puzzled looks were exchanged between the two men until with a nod, the butler permitted the footman to hand her the tray.
The same silence of her leave-taking met her return to the study. Lord Armstrong stopped what he was doing to watch her approach, his expression shuttered.
If she was truly the hoyden he and her father believed her to be, he wouldn’t be drinking the hot liquid; he’d be wearing it.
The sequence of events that followed would make that very thought appear as rehearsed as anything performed in Her Majesty’s Theatre, the execution the stuff of accolades. In trying to find a place for the tray amongst the clutter of papers, books, and various writing accoutrements, one corner of the tray tilted and sent the cup careening like a drunken sailor in a storm. All of her frantic efforts could not prevent what happened next: hot coffee—fixed to the viscount’s specifications—all over his lap.
A roar and a series of blistering curses added to the carnage as he bolted to his feet and toppled his chair to the wood floor. The empty cup landed on the rug but miraculously came through the fall unscathed, leaving only one human casualty.
“I-I-I’m dreadfully sorry.” Amelia gulped, flustered and out of sorts. She stared at him—his wet, coffee-stained trousers an untrammeled horror.
“You little brat, you did that deliberately,” he ground out, and pulled open one of the many drawers of his desk, yanking out a white handkerchief.
“I swear to you, I didn’t mean to—” Amelia abruptly broke off when her mind fully comprehended what he had called her. Stiffening, she drew her shoulders back.
Brat?
And here she was practically tripping all over herself to apologize. “Well if you’re going to be a boar about it, I shall withdraw my apologies.”
“Milord.” The breathless address came from behind her.
Amelia turned to see a footman hovering anxiously at the doorway.
“I heard—” The footman broke off when he saw the nature of the calamity that had sent a string of colorful expletives echoing down the corridors.
“I will send someone from the kitchen directly,” the young man said, before disappearing back through the door.
“If the desk wasn’t such a mess, this would not have occurred. Where was I to put this?” Amelia gave the tray she still held in her hand a pointed look.
Lord Armstrong growled low in his throat. “You should have taken the damn cup off the tray is what you should have done.” With one last dab of the once-white handkerchief at a wet spot on his upper thigh, the viscount tossed the soiled linen on the floor with a hiss of disgust.
“My lord, you are in the presence of a lady, whether you will admit the fact to yourself or not. Please do keep a check on your tongue,” she reproached him in her frostiest tone.
His head jerked up, and suddenly his green eyes glowed with predatory intent. “Me? I am the one who needs to check my tongue?” he asked softly.