A Taste of Desire(7)
“Father, this is absolutely ludicrous. Suspend my pin money as you have done in the past. I hardly think there is any reason to go to quite these lengths to prove how exceedingly displeased you are. I can only imagine the scandal it would cause if society ever caught wind that you’d put me to work.” The barest hint of a scandal usually sent her father off to his chambers pleading a migraine. “Moreover, I know absolutely nothing of clerical work and the like.” And she had no desire to acquire that particular bourgeois knowledge.
“What is ludicrous is your behavior, and not just your last two antics, but the many more you have perpetrated over the last several years.” He eyed her grimly. “Naturally, I will ensure the members of society will not hear of this. It will be during the off-Season. Everyone will have returned to the country by then anyhow. I can only thank heavens that unlike most of those simpletons out in society, you’re at least a young lady of solid intelligence—if not temperance. You know, a head for numbers is very rare in a female. This will be a singular opportunity for you to put that God-given talent to competent use.”
Her father thought her intelligent? Amelia suppressed an unladylike snort. How odd as he currently did not believe she had the sense to choose her own husband.
“It’s really quite unfortunate that it has come to this. I promise you this however: you will do one or the other. The choice is yours.”
Choosing between two ghastly forms of punishment—one only slightly less heinous than the other—was hardly a choice. But Amelia was not a fool by anyone’s standards. She would play the clerk in some dreary back office in Wiltshire before she would willingly spend even a week with some wretched nuns—something her father was well aware of.
“I am not going to a convent,” she said, her jaw clenched tight, her hands fisted at her sides.
To Amelia’s fury, his mouth quirked in something akin to amusement, his head dipping in a sage nod. In response, she blindly averted her gaze from the satisfied expression on his countenance.
Harold Bertram flicked his hand in the direction of the door. “Yes, do go. We are finished for now. I will apprise you of the particulars of this ‘work’ situation once I can secure the position and ensure the man’s absolute discretion in the matter.”
Amelia quietly quit the room with her head held high, her back ramrod straight, and her dignity lying bruised on the study floor.
At his residence twenty minutes later, Thomas silently made his way down the corridor, divesting himself of the tailored confines of his jacket. As it was too early to commence drinking, he’d instructed his butler to have coffee brought to him in the library.
By the time he slumped onto the sofa in the sitting area, he’d escaped the prison of his cravat and loosened the top three buttons of his linen shirt. In his wake lay the dress protocol of society, draped over one Utrecht plush armchair and discarded on an oversized ottoman.
With his forearms propped on his thighs, he shot a disgruntled glance at the desk at the far end of the room. A reform bill, a stash of receipts from Tattersall’s and various documents from Wendel’s Shipping awaited his attention. But the plague that was Amelia Bertram, made it all but impossible for him to concentrate on his eminently more important tasks.
He pushed to his feet in a move that marked his impatience. From one wall of book-laden shelves to the other, he prowled the length of the room, finally permitting himself to go back there … to his introduction to the current source of his discontent. And the memory came rushing back with the kind of clarity that came with a day passing … not an entire year.
Thomas had immediately known who she was as she crossed the threshold of the ballroom at her father’s side. Harry Bertram had indicated that his daughter, Amelia, would be accompanying him to Lady Coverly’s Season-ending ball.
She had looked stunning in a glittering gold gown, her tall, slender length fashioning it better than any woman present could. She had worn her dark mane upswept, silken tendrils wisping the sides of her face. From that distance, however, he hadn’t been able to discern the color of her eyes, just finely arched brows and a slender nose set in an oval face.
Harry met his gaze over the throng of partygoers and then immediately started in his direction. Thomas took in her graceful walk with nothing short of frank male appreciation.
“Thomas,” Harry said moments later once he reached his side. With his face wreathed in a smile, the marquess proffered his right hand.
“Nice to see you in attendance, Harry.” Thomas clasped his outstretched hand and gave it two firm pumps. He then introduced him to his sister, Missy, who had joined him only minutes before.