A Taste of Desire(68)
Ignoring the quaking of her legs and the violent turning of her belly, Amelia swallowed hard and replied in a small voice, “Dancing.”
“Do you have any idea how much this little escapade will cost you? Do you even have the sense to be terrified?”
Nothing noisy or dramatic from the viscount, he issued his threat in the kind of dangerous soft tone that undoubtedly had men—or case in point, a lady—hoping the punishment would be carried out swiftly and with minimum fuss.
Amelia had sense enough to wait until they’d exited the ballroom before trying to free herself, but she was ever conscious of the servants and the guests milling about in the hall.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, do unhand me. You’re hurting my arm, and if you’re not mindful, you’ll cause a scene,” she said in a fierce whisper.
The only indication he gave that he had heard her was to ease his hold so his fingers weren’t digging into her flesh.
“Cartwright, please inform Miss Foxworth that Lady Amelia has taken ill and I have escorted her home. When she is ready to leave, please see her safely back to my mother’s residence.” Thomas spoke with a barely controlled kind of rumble in his voice as he peered down at her, his eyes slits and two slashes of red coloring his cheekbones.
Lord Alex gestured beseechingly with his hand. “Armstrong—”
“Damn it, man, just do as I ask and don’t interfere.”
Lord Alex appeared genuinely concerned. She glanced at Thomas. Perhaps, she really did have something to fear.
Lord Alex halted abruptly. “For God’s sake, do remember she’s Harry’s daughter.” After sending her what she took to be a resigned look, he turned and proceeded back to the ballroom.
Thomas continued toward the front entrance, forcing Amelia to quicken her pace to what felt like a trot. Trotting was for horses not ladies.
Within minutes, they had donned their respective outdoor garments, Amelia’s a thick wool cloak, and the viscount’s, a black great coat.
Outside under the moonlit night sky, cold air nipped at her face, creating visible vapors of air with each exhalation. Thomas curtly dismissed the footman, his hand clasping her elbow as she mounted the step to his brougham. She glared back at him over her shoulder, her mouth drawn, her form taut.
Near the gothic front entrance with its high gables and iron finials, a movement caught her attention. Lord Clayborough watched them, half hidden behind one of the thick plaster columns. Her heart didn’t know whether to sing with joy or leap to her throat in fear. This was a confrontation she’d never anticipated, the victory leaning heavily in the viscount’s favor.
Thomas turned and followed the direction of her gaze. By then, the baron had stepped back behind the column. Humiliated, Amelia turned and allowed Thomas to herald her into the coach.
Lord Clayborough had done absolutely naught to interfere. He had merely watched her with dull, impotent eyes. Even if it would have been a losing cause, should he not have tried? Was she not worth the effort? So much for her knight in silver-plated armor.
But Amelia refused to give into her disillusionment. Her fury roared forth like a cyclone, to destroy everything in her path. One Thomas Armstrong.
She sat down and jerked her arm from his hold. “You miserable, sanctimonious bastard.” Those four words encapsulated all the emotions she’d kept in check while he had all but dragged her from the ball. “Don’t you ever lay your hands on me again.”
The viscount gave a mild start and regarded her with raised brows. Then with great deliberation of purpose, he took the seat next to her, trapping a portion of her skirts beneath him.
Amelia instantly started to rise, intent on sitting in the opposite seat—the one the gentleman should have taken—but was forestalled with his snakelike swiftness as he yanked her back down beside him.
“I am this close to tossing you across my knee,” he said softly, holding up his hand, his thumb and forefinger almost touching. “Make another move away from me and you will feel the palm of my hand.”
Despicable brute. Rage bloomed hot in her face as she freed her trapped skirt with several hard tugs, then moved to hug the cold metal door.
Thomas narrowed his gaze. “I don’t know how you managed it, but in the span of one blasted day, you’ve corrupted Camille. And for that, you will pay.”
“Pay! Pay for what? I wanted just one evening in the company of a man I actually like. I hardly think that’s a crime.”