lengthening silence. If the viscount had been at all affected by the kiss, his expression revealed none of it.
“I need to change.” His gaze flickered down to her skirts. “And so do you.” With that, he strode from the room.
Amelia glanced down, and on her silk skirt, plain for all to see, was a large coffee stain.
Chapter 13
That evening under the light of the tallow candle in her bedchamber, Amelia penned a letter to Lord Clayborough. The pen pierced the paper in several places as if her words weren’t enough to convey her growing sense of urgency. And she despised that feeling of desperation.
Amelia was also tempted to write to Elizabeth, but could not bring herself to burden her with the horror of her circumstances when her friend, the Countess of Creswell, happily awaited the birth of her first child in four months.
After sealing the letter and placing it on the bedside table to give to the footman to post, Amelia crawled into bed doing something she rarely did: she fretted. She’d always thought it was nothing but a wasted bit of emotion signified by heavy sighs and persistent worry, which accomplished little and solved nothing. However, she had to concede that the matter of her physical reaction to Thomas Armstrong did call for something, if not fretting itself, then something close in association.
The truth of it was she couldn’t trust herself around him—alone with him. Nothing seemed to be able to change that. The kiss that morning had punctuated that point quite emphatically and her dress—the coffee stain raising not an eyebrow from Hélène—acted as a glaring reminder. She was no better than the women he’d taken to his bed. In actuality, she was worse, for hers hadn’t been a courting with the expected flowers, pretty words, or gestures of adoration. No, he had her succumbing when only two minutes before she would have gladly seen him hung, drawn, and quartered. Embarrassment didn’t come close to describing her feelings.
If only she could send the letter to Lord Clayborough by messenger as she had done in London. A story of a farmer who’d found two bags of letters near his barn—letters two years old—had circulated through London two months ago. Since then, Amelia hadn’t fully trusted the post. However, this wasn’t her house and these weren’t her servants to utilize at will. Moreover, she’d never be able to manage something like that with the viscount in residence.
The morning following, Amelia had been at her desk a full fifteen minutes before the viscount arrived. With yesterday’s kiss still vivid in her mind, Amelia kept her gaze focused on the papers in front of her, feigning a concentration that had all but abandoned her the moment he’d stepped foot in the study.
“Good morning, Amelia.”
The way her senses responded to his polite greeting—the words tripping over every nerve end—one would have thought there’d been an intimacy in his tone. Amelia sent him a quick glance and issued a brisk nod. Two things about his appearance registered immediately, the first of which she’d have done well not to notice: His dimples made him look ridiculously appealing. Secondly, he was wearing riding clothes, which suggested he would be spending most of the day down at the stables instead of in the study with her. Certainly a comforting prospect.
“Put away the contracts,” he said, striding over to his desk. “We are going riding this morning.”
Amelia’s head snapped up to stare at him wide-eyed. He gazed across at her, a mild smile shaping his mouth.
“I would rather not,” she said in lemon-tart tones, having recovered from her bewilderment.
He chuckled. “Think of this as part of your duties, although I thought you’d enjoy the fresh air. Your father spoke many times of your skill on a horse. I rather thought you’d be eager to take up the reins again.”
That her father had anything kind to say about her was preposterous. The viscount was fabricating things as usual.
“I do not recall going riding with you listed on the duties you presented me with when I arrived.”
He laughed again, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. “I believe I mentioned there would be additional tasks. Think of this as one of those.”
Amelia viewed the work on her desk and then the accursed filing drawers. This was like being asked to choose between strawberries and cream drizzled with chocolate and boiled mutton and potatoes; there was no question as to preference. “I’m hardly dressed to go riding.” She gestured at her flowered