A Taste of Desire(45)
Rounding the desk, he advanced toward her, and with each stride forward, Amelia instinctively took one step back. She held the tray in front of her as if tempered silver was enough to ward him off.
Their dance of advance and retreat continued in silence until Amelia saw they were nearing the bookshelves along the south walls—where she would be trapped.
“Milord.” The footman announced his return, and in front of him stood a petite girl whom Amelia swiftly assessed as the kitchen help by her white food-stained apron. She carried a pail in one hand and a cloth rag in the other.
The footman directed the girl with a motion of his hand. “Anna will clean up.”
Lord Armstrong had stopped, and Amelia took that opportunity to place the tray on her desk and distance herself from him, far enough away that his presence—utterly male and overwhelming—didn’t continue to unnerve her.
“No.” The word emerged clipped and harsh. He strode over to the maid and relieved her of the bucket.
All eyes in the room snapped to him, containing varying degrees of bewilderment. With a solicitousness he’d never once shown her, the viscount removed the cloth from the maid’s hand and set the bucket on the floor. “You may leave. I shall have this dealt with.” At his nod of dismissal, the girl curtsied and scampered from the room.
“As you wish, sir.” The footman bowed before following the maid’s hasty departure.
The soft click of the door closing indicated they were once again very much alone. The viscount directed his attention to her. Only when he extended the hand holding the cloth rag, did she realize what he intended.
Stupefied, Amelia could only shake her head in mute denial. He simply could not be serious.
In response to her vigorous head shaking, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to the contrary. “Oh, yes, you will. And after every single drop of coffee is wiped clean, you may mop the entire floor.”
It would have been thigh-slapping, chortling, snorting funny had it not been quite so apparent he was serious—and obviously as mad as a hatter.
Amelia held up her hand, splayed her fingers for him to take in their unblemished, perfection and manicured nails, and then gestured to her dress, which was a color that could only be described as pale salmon. “If you expect me to get down on my knees to perform menial servant work, you, my lord, are sadly mistaken.” What would he do, physically force her to her knees? As heinous a man as he was, that seemed several levels beneath his character.
“Oh, I don’t just expect it—I shall relish it.” He tossed the rag in the water and started toward her, his movements lithe and controlled.
Amelia stood her ground, commanding her legs not to move. When he drew within several feet, she balked and stammered, “If you dare lay one finger on me, I shall create so much noise, everyone will think someone is being murdered.”
The viscount came to a smooth stop in front of her, his expression implacable. As if to test the sincerity of her threat, he stroked the curve of her cheek with his finger in a feathery caress. Amelia’s stomach plummeted the same way it had done when she had once lost her seat on her mount. She vividly recalled the terrifying feeling of hurtling forward to meet the hard earth. At least when she had hit the ground unharmed but shaken, the sensation had stopped. In this case, there appeared to be no end to her fall.
Wide-eyed, she regarded him, unable to move, incapable of protest.
He lowered his head until she could feel his breath, lemon-scented and warm, on her forehead. “This is my finger,” he whispered. “Maybe I’ve gone deaf, but I can’t seem to hear your screams.”
It took a moment for his words to register, her thinking having been momentarily suspended by the lull of his dark, silken tones. Amelia took a hasty, if somewhat jerky step backward, breaking the heated contact as she endeavored to collect herself.
Really, this whole situation was laughable—or perhaps one day she’d look back upon it and feel so.
“That’s because you are not listening closely enough.” Certainly one absurd statement deserved an equally absurd response.
Lord Armstrong answered her with one undaunted forward movement. When Amelia attempted another step backward, she encountered the hard edge of her desk.
He was going to kiss her, his intent clear in his eyes. A silent yearning had taken root within her, setting her blood pulsing wildly and starting a dull throb at the apex of her thighs. She watched, transfixed, as his mouth drew closer. Not only was he about to kiss her, she was going to permit him the liberty … again.