A Taste of Desire Page 0,31
quickly placed the glass on the table next to him with a clatter.
The viscountess patted his hand solicitously until the coughing subsided. “My dear, I didn’t mean to rattle you.”
“What on earth would give you such a notion?” he said, wheezing a bit.
“Honestly dear, it’s really the only thing that makes any sense. You are a bachelor, and she is beautiful and very much a lady. That Lord Bradford should ask you to watch his daughter is like asking a fox to guard over a chicken coop. It simply defies all logic. The only thing that does make sense is that you intend to marry her.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mother, but I have no intention of marrying anytime soon, and I can guarantee you when I do it won’t be to the likes of Lady Amelia Bertram.”
The viscountess’s brow puckered. “And just what is wrong with her?”
The trap had been so neatly set, Thomas hadn’t seen it until he hung upside down squirming at the end of the rope. A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. He had to admire a mind that crafty.
“You could simply have asked that instead of going through the pretense of believing I intended to marry her.”
His mother smiled, looking not the least bit abashed. “But if I’d asked outright, you would have tried to talk circles around me, much like you do when I inquire about the women in your life.”
“Amelia Bertram is not a woman in my life. She is merely the daughter of a friend. And you will meet the woman in my life when I decide to take a wife.” And he hoped she wasn’t holding her breath for that.
“So, are you going to tell me what is going on between the two of you?” his mother asked with exaggerated patience.
“Nothing whatsoever,” Thomas replied, shifting in his seat. “And I believe I’ve already explained Harry Bertram’s predicament with his daughter.”
The viscountess gave him the sort of arched look that had coaxed many confessions from him as a child. He was no longer a child.
“Yes, but why do I get the impression that you are conveniently omitting pertinent details?”
Thomas shrugged, picked up his drink from the table, and took a cautious sip. “I’m not certain. There is nothing else to tell.”
The viscountess continued to watch him closely, her expression dubious. “After meeting her, I’m hard pressed to believe her father couldn’t find someone more suitable to care for her. Although I had heard she was quite beautiful, I was surprised to find her so—so collected. Hardly the type of woman who would require such a close watch.”
His mother was too much the diplomat to use the more appropriate term of haughty.
“And what is this business of her coming without a chaperone? You know that I cannot, in all good conscience, leave the two of you here alone. My word, what would people say?”
Crossing his leg so his foot rested on the opposite knee, Thomas reposed back into the chair. “Yes, well, that was something that I could not have anticipated. But have no fear, I shall find her adequate supervision before you depart.”
The problem wouldn’t be in finding someone, but in keeping this saint after she met Amelia. He certainly didn’t delude himself into believing this would be an easy task. How could Harry have put him in this position without a word of warning?
But his assurance didn’t appear to appease his mother as much as he’d hoped. “And I will let it be known that Amelia is here as your guest.”
“But I will be leaving in a month.”
“And an unfortunate calamity will befall her, which will prohibit her from joining you and the girls in America. A surprise her father could not have anticipated but one that will sadly never come to pass.”
The viscountess regarded him, her green eyes flickering with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Reaching over, she patted his forearm. “You have obviously thought of everything. I just hope this whole affair doesn’t result in unwanted consequences.”
Thomas gave a hollow laugh. “You’re worrying overmuch. I will ensure nothing untoward should mar Amelia’s reputation in your absence.”
If his mother dared pick up one of the gossip rags, she’d soon learn a red mark already existed. Over a month had passed since Lady Stanton’s ball, and the London set still savored the incident with the same relish as a wine connoisseur did a glass of Bordeaux.
With a satisfied nod, the viscountess gave her skirt a pat and rose.