A Taste of Desire(57)
“So I shall be denied a shopping excursion on Bond Street? I’m in need of some personal items. What do you expect me to do?”
“Make a list, and I’ll have someone procure them for you.”
Amelia silently counted to five, resisting the urge to bash him with one of the candelabras on the fireplace mantel. “So I’m to be kept a prisoner in this house?”
“Well, let’s see. You’re confined to this house until we depart on Sunday. Yes, I’d say that’s an accurate assessment of the situation.”
He didn’t smile, and the firm set of Thomas’s jaw, the cool directness of his gaze, told her that on this, he would not grant her even the slightest bit of latitude. Just how she was to get word to Lord Clayborough of her arrival in town was growing to be a task of monumental proportions.
“If you will ready that list …”
Amelia glared at him, tight-lipped and angry. And not solely angry over his obstinacy in the current matter but at his treatment of her. When he spoke to her—as infrequent as that had been in the last several days—he did so in clipped tones to the exclusivity of instructing her on her duties. No doubt she could have paraded about the place naked for all the notice he’d taken of her. And despite repeated reminders to herself that this is what she wanted, at times her words seemed a hollow resonance of a fervent, ill-fated prayer. She wished it didn’t bother her, but the sad fact was, it did.
“Don’t bother. I shall take care of it myself,” she snapped before turning on her heels and exiting the drawing room.
The sharp click of her heels echoed loudly on the planked floors of the hallway. As she spun to take the stairs to the first floor, reflexively she darted a glance back at the drawing room entrance to find Thomas watching her. He acknowledged her regard with a slight bow, his gaze steady, his features inscrutable.
Amelia raced up the stairs, her heart beating in tandem with her footsteps.
Unlike many of the more accomplished ladies of the ton, Amelia hadn’t an ear for music, couldn’t carry a note any further than she could a piano, and would surely bleed to death if she attempted another needlepoint sampler. But she did enjoy reading, fiction novels being her greatest indulgence. So it would stand to reason she’d be drawn to the library. The works of the most esteemed and prolific authors graced the viscountess’s bookshelves. The room was a librarian’s dream, and where she found herself an hour later.
She ran her finger down the spine of The Taming of the Shrew and debated whether she’d rather a Shakespearean farce or something tragic and romantic like Jane Eyre.
The sound of someone clearing their throat startled Amelia from her reverie, causing her head to swivel sharply in the direction of the door. Framed at the threshold was the tall—very tall—footman, Jones, if she remembered his name correctly.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but his lordship begs your presence in the morning room.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she couldn’t quell the frisson of anticipation that shot through her. She gave a brief nod. “Please tell his lordship I will be there in a moment.”
“Yes ma’am.” With a stiff bow, he departed.
Thomas hadn’t gone? She’d thought he’d left an hour ago. The viscountess had told her he would be staying at his bachelor’s residence. But he was still here. And he wished to see her.
Amelia would have gone there directly if the immediacy of her response didn’t make her appear too eager and willing to bend to his will. Let him cool his heels. He couldn’t have everything to his liking. Ten minutes seemed an appropriate amount of time to make him wait.
Nine minutes later, she breeched the morning room threshold, halting abruptly at the sight of Camille Foxworth conversing with Thomas.
Leave him alone, he’s mine. Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of the woman’s presence there that stirred such a primitive reaction in her. Inhaling deeply, she ignored the voice and proceeded toward the pair.
“Ah, here she is, Camille,” Thomas said, turning his attention to Amelia.
Despite his easy manner, Amelia felt she’d interrupted a private conversation, which made her as belligerent as a child who’d had her toy taken away long before she had finished playing with it.
He wore the first smile she’d seen in days, she noted with some rancor. Apparently, Miss Foxworth brought out the bonhomie in him.
“Lady Amelia Bertram, I would like to introduce you to Miss Camille Foxworth.”