A Taste of Desire(54)
Damn Louisa. Why couldn’t the blasted woman leave things as they were? One beautiful, selfish, manipulative female was all he could manage at one time. Even the task of responding to her to tell her to go to blazes was more contact than he wished to have with her.
Thomas didn’t bother to read the letter—not this time—for it would only worsen his mood. Like her previous letter, this one saw its speedy demise at the hands of the flames roaring in the fireplace.
Amelia heard the familiar fall of his footsteps approaching the study. Inhaling a deep breath, she mentally composed herself for the coming encounter.
Her stomach took a little dip when she saw him. Fine, so he looked exceedingly well this morning dressed all in blue. He wasn’t the first handsome face she’d ever beheld. So why in heavens was her reaction to him so excessive, so embarrassingly visceral?
He didn’t speak immediately when he entered but caught and held her gaze as he proceeded to her desk. Then he was standing at her side with only a couple of feet separating them. An inexplicable sense of panic washed over her that she did her best to tamp down.
“Was there something else you required of me? I still have yet to complete the tasks from yesterday.” She spoke with a hauteur polished to perfection over time.
“Friday morning we will be travelling to London with my mother and sisters.” The crease in his forehead and the tightness around his mouth indicated he was none too happy about the situation.
“We? Am I to accompany you?”
“Well, I certainly can’t leave you here by yourself,” he muttered, in a tone as dark as his mood.
“As it’s clear the prospect is not pleasing to either of us, why must I go? Just what exactly do you think I’ll do while you’re gone? Abscond with your silver?” It was the most she’d said to him in a month.
“No, however, I wouldn’t put it past you to run off with one of the servants,” he snapped.
Amelia’s face burned at his snide inference to Joseph Cromwell, whose father owned two large textile factories. She endeavored to keep her pique from coming through in her voice. “I’d have thought by this time you would know my interest lies in the ranks of tradesmen and destitute aristocratic gentlemen. And certainly you of all people, my lord, should have nothing to say in regards to members of the working class. Not when I’ve heard you avail yourself to the services of women of a—dare I say—certain trade.”
The tightness around his mouth eased as he chuckled softly. “Why so coy, Princess? You’ve already accused me of having been with every whore in London. But I think it’s time I disabused you of your erroneous assumption. Despite what you believe, I have never utilized the services of a whore.”
Amelia barely contained her laugh.
“Why would I pay for something I can get for free?”
“Do you not keep a mistress? Do you not in fact have to pay for her patronage?”
The viscount’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re not trying to compare a mistress to a common whore.”
“No, not a common one, to be sure. Mistresses, I gather, have wealthier prospects and need only service one man during their contract. But I wager the price of all of those manners, sophistication, and beauty is steep indeed.”
Lord Armstrong didn’t speak for several seconds, he just stared at her, his expression shuttered. “My, you seem to know quite a bit about mistresses. Considering the option for yourself?”
He clearly meant to offend. Amelia refused to take the bait. “I might be young, but I’m not naïve. Though these things may be whispered about in society, they are hardly a secret.”
With the casualness of a personal acquaintance, the viscount pushed the documents aside and sat down on the desk—her desk—one leg dangling a hairbreadth from her arm, the other firmly planted on the floor.
“And the only thing more expensive than a mistress is a wife. But I could have had you without a mistress contract or a betrothal agreement and you’re not a woman of the streets, so what does that make you?” He spoke in a low, intimate voice, which made his question all the more outrageous.
Amelia’s breath hitched, indignation bubbling to the surface. The movement caused her hand to brush the navy fabric of his trousers. She nearly bolted from the chair. But her pride kept her rooted to her seat. She’d responded to two of his kisses, and now he thought she’d lay the world at his feet?
“Don’t flatter yourself.”