A Taste of Desire Page 0,28
been vexed beyond comprehension and the next she’d stood fidgeting under his perusal, his green eyes glittering with a brilliant intensity. His look hadn’t held the scorn, annoyance, or gloating satisfaction she’d grown accustomed to from him. What it had held was something infinitely more dangerous, for it had had the power to unnerve her enough to forget herself. What remained back in that study was her poise, plain and simple.
Amelia gave her head a shake hard enough to cause a thick lock of hair to spill down her back. Pushing off the door, she crossed the room to the mahogany four-poster bed.
The viscount might be able to charm all the women of London, but his attractions were lost on her. She knew that with unshakable certainty. But her reaction to him was troubling. For over a year, she’d managed minimum contact with him. And it had been a mutual avoidance. On the rare occasions they’d both attended the same ball, no less than a league was sufficient distance enough to separate them.
However, the circumstances were quite different now. There would be no avoiding. And with every minute she remained in his company, it grew ever apparent this wasn’t just a man she should steer clear of but one that should have her running pell-mell in the opposite direction.
Passing the three trunks sitting at the foot of the bed, Amelia dispensed with her petticoats, kicking them onto the carpeted floor, and clambered onto the mattress.
It was clear the two days of travel had finally taken their toll. It hadn’t been him she’d been reacting to but the circumstances. Obviously, what she needed was some rest. Perhaps when she woke her world wouldn’t seem like it was whirling out of control and she’d be herself again.
Four hours of sleep taken at midafternoon should have left Amelia pleasantly rested. Instead, she awoke long after the sun had made its descent below the horizon, still weary, her head pulsing behind her eyes.
Squinting, she inventoried the room, noting her trunks now sat beside the large wardrobe against the wall and her toiletry lay spread on the adjacent vanity. Hélène had unpacked and put away her belongings without disturbing her, a sign of a truly efficient lady’s maid.
No sooner had Amelia made the observation before a knock sounded at the door and Hélène bustled into the room.
“Ah, oui, you are awake,” her maid said with a smile. Striding over to the wardrobe, she threw both doors open and immediately began to contemplate several of Amelia’s supper dresses, her fingers skimming over one with a gauzy, pale yellow skirt.
“Shall I pick out a dress pour vous, mademoiselle?”
Coaxed by a headache that had gone from a dull throb to sharp and unrelenting, it took only seconds for Amelia to make up her mind. “No, I would like you to convey my most contrite apologies to Lord Armstrong that a malady will prevent me from joining the family for the evening meal.” And as that was the truth, there wasn’t much he’d be able to say or do about it.
Hélène’s head jerked in her direction. “You are unwell, mademoiselle?”
“No need to look so alarmed. ‘Tis just a headache, nothing more. A good night’s sleep should set things right.”
Nodding, Hélène dropped her hands from the tulle silk dress, and closed the wardrobe doors. “As you please, mademoiselle. Shall I ask a tray be brought up pour vous?”
It was at that moment her stomach voiced its protest, churning indelicately—and quite loudly. Lord, she hadn’t eaten a thing since before luncheon time. “Yes, please do. Apparently, lack of food is contributing to my migraine.”
Hélène’s mouth edged up slightly at Amelia’s grumbled response. With a nod, she turned and exited the room, her departure coinciding with the chiming of the supper bell.
Five minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Amelia called out while sliding her legs from the bed onto the floor, her feet sinking into the plush pile of Brussels carpeting. The food had arrived much faster than she had anticipated. Her stomach growled its approval.
The door opened, but no servant greeted her bearing the much anticipated tray of food. The viscount himself stood framed in the doorway like Apollo on the cusp of the Trojan War—sans the bow and arrow. He had changed, now more formally attired in a sage jacket and waistcoat and tan trousers. The white cravat knotted about his neck contrasted sharply with the gold hue of his skin. An irrelevant observation, but one she’d