her character in such a manner. Did he think because he had the morals of an alley cat, so, too, did everyone else?
“While you are in my house, you will do as I say. Do we understand each other?”
His expression, his eyes, his entire demeanor told her he expected her to respond with a rousing display of feminine defiance. She refused to give him the satisfaction of responding to his slur.
“Oh, I very much understand,” she replied softly.
Lord Armstrong stilled and stared as if he found her ready capitulation not to his liking—and not a capitulation at all.
“Now that you have my assurance, I am asking you to leave. I pray I will at least be permitted the privacy a bedchamber should afford anyone. Even someone in your service, I daresay.” She wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover he imprisoned the servants in their chambers. But then, how many of the female servants would actually call it being “imprisoned”?
Straightening with a languid grace, the viscount retreated several steps, a lazy smile in place. “You needn’t worry in that regard.”
Grateful that he no longer crowded her with his proximity, Amelia chose to ignore the amused and knowing look in his eyes.
“Will I be permitted to eat this evening, or do you intend for me to starve?” The churning of her stomach had not allowed her to forget its current state of emptiness.
“I will instruct one of the servants to bring you something this time. Beginning tomorrow, I expect to see you in the dining hall.”
To respond as she wanted would simply delay his departure, so Amelia remained mute.
Lord Armstrong was at the door in long, fluid strides. Before exiting, he turned to her and said in a clipped, unyielding tone, “Be in the study tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. If you keep me waiting for even one minute, whether you’re dressed fit for company or not, I will come and fetch you myself.” He paused and without so much as a glimmer of amusement said, “On second thought, don’t sleep in a stitch tonight, that way that little exercise will rouse us both.”
He left her standing stock-still by her bed, eyes wide and mouth agape, fairly reeling at his audacity. But his words conjured up an image in her mind that left her flushed and hot for an altogether entirely different reason.
Supper with his family had been a relatively quiet affair. Eaten up with curiosity, his sisters had set upon him, firing question after question about their newly arrived guest. To their questions, he’d replied, “You can ask her yourself when you meet her tomorrow.” After receiving five such responses, Emily and Sarah had lapsed into silence.
Now retired to the library blissfully alone, Thomas crossed over to the sideboard and set about pouring himself a much desired—much needed—glass of port.
Soon he was settled in his favorite chair where he could freely assess his problem. One, Amelia Bertram. As evidenced by her behavior thus far, this might prove an even greater challenge than he’d imagined.
Thomas took a swallow of the drink. His plan had been simple enough. Make her eat her words. And he’d manage this by not actually bedding her. He imagined a kiss or two would be called for, perhaps even one heated embrace, but that was all. Just enough to leave her yearning for something she’d never get—at least not from him.
The logical part of his brain told him a smart man would send her to Westmorland as soon as the sun rose tomorrow and let the sisters deal with her. However, the part ruled by his pride demanded her requital must come at his hands. It was only fitting. And if that meant he’d have to put on a performance that rivaled the best the St. James Theatre had to offer, so be it. Though given his body’s response to her, the physical intimacy aspect of it wouldn’t require any acting on his part. She was desirable, he’d give her that.
“I thought you had already retired,” came his mother’s voice from behind him.
Angling his head, he watched as she made her way toward him, the skirts of her mauve gown fluttering around her.
“Not as yet.”
“Good, because I would like to speak to you about Lady Amelia,” she said, taking a spot on the adjacent sofa. “Are the two of you planning to marry?”
In the midst of taking a swallow of his drink, the port went down the wrong passage, sending Thomas into a paroxysm of coughing. He