of a wall of teak bookshelves casually examining the spine of a leather-bound volume.
Her heart took off on a wild gallop as the dark corniced walls of the study seemed to close in on her, sucking all the air out in the process. The embodiment of her worst nightmare turned his regard to her, his air one of artless detachment. How was it possible she hadn’t sensed him the moment she crossed the threshold when his presence permeated every crevice of the room?
“Good morning, Lady Amelia.” His placid greeting rolled off his tongue as smooth as velvet.
“Lord Armstrong.” She managed the address between tight lips, giving a vague nod in his direction before swivel-ing back around.
She hadn’t actually thought he would do it. However, here he was, the dew on the grass barely dissipated by the early morning sun before he’d rushed to tell her father the tale of last night’s incident. He was worse than the gossiping matrons of the ton, she thought, silently railing him with a string of epithets.
Unable to bring herself to look at her father, she cast her gaze about blindly. Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried to focus on something—anything else—she sensed the moment Lord Armstrong came within feet of her. He approachedwith the stealth of a jungle cat, but his scent heralded his proximity just as loudly as a blast from a trumpet. Sinking his long length into the armchair beside her, he splayed legs encased in a forest green fabric before him.
“I told you I would apprise you when I found a situation appropriate for you during my stay in America,” her father began, his words commanding her attention with mind-boggling swiftness.
Dread and disbelief coalesced on a wave in her belly.
“And Lord Armstrong has kindly consented to take you on.”
An enraged gasp tore from her throat as she shoved white shaking hands into her lap, her fingers clutching swaths of sky blue pyramid silk.
Take me on!
As though she were some—some
thing
to be managed. She tamped down a cauldron of emotions and stared back at her father while endeavoring to keep her expression void of emotion
and
make sense of the utterly senseless.
He intended she remain in London and work at the shipping company? The idea was preposterous. It actually went beyond that, trampling unhindered into the completely asinine realm. Wasn’t she to remain in Westbury at Fountain Crest?
“But, Father, really, Wendel’s Shipping? Surely—”
The marquess’s hearty laugh filled the study, his shoulders shaking in mirth. “Good heavens, do you really believe I would send you anywhere near those docks?”
Finding nothing particularly amusing about any of it, Amelia narrowed her gaze. “But this makes no sense a’tall. Lord Armstrong isn’t involved in any other business enterprises—is he?” She addressed the question to her father as if the viscount wasn’t sitting a mere foot away and hadn’t the capacity to answer for himself.
“As a matter of fact, I run a very lucrative horse-breeding farm.”
Humph. Figures it would have to do with breeding.
Her caustic observation was accompanied by a sidelong glance in Lord Armstrong’s direction, where she encountered his bland, green-eyed stare.
“In Westbury?” The deadly calm in her voice did not belie the emotion surmounting her disdain, overtaking her, and rendering her insensate with horror.
Harold Bertram drummed blunt fingers against the surface of the desk. “I think perhaps you misunderstand the situation.”
Amelia’s narrowed regard swung back to him. “What am I misunderstanding, Father?” Her tone sharpened with each word.
The viscount cleared his throat, bouncing her attention from her father back to him like a spectator at a tennis match.
“What your father is trying to tell you, Lady Amelia, is that my farm is in Devon and you will be residing there on my country estate with me.”
Chapter 6
Amelia shot to her feet amid the rustle of silk and one rather
Her heart took off on a wild gallop as the dark corniced walls of the study seemed to close in on her, sucking all the air out in the process. The embodiment of her worst nightmare turned his regard to her, his air one of artless detachment. How was it possible she hadn’t sensed him the moment she crossed the threshold when his presence permeated every crevice of the room?
“Good morning, Lady Amelia.” His placid greeting rolled off his tongue as smooth as velvet.
“Lord Armstrong.” She managed the address between tight lips, giving a vague nod in his direction before swivel-ing back around.
She hadn’t actually thought he would do it. However, here he was, the dew on the grass barely dissipated by the early morning sun before he’d rushed to tell her father the tale of last night’s incident. He was worse than the gossiping matrons of the ton, she thought, silently railing him with a string of epithets.
Unable to bring herself to look at her father, she cast her gaze about blindly. Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried to focus on something—anything else—she sensed the moment Lord Armstrong came within feet of her. He approachedwith the stealth of a jungle cat, but his scent heralded his proximity just as loudly as a blast from a trumpet. Sinking his long length into the armchair beside her, he splayed legs encased in a forest green fabric before him.
“I told you I would apprise you when I found a situation appropriate for you during my stay in America,” her father began, his words commanding her attention with mind-boggling swiftness.
Dread and disbelief coalesced on a wave in her belly.
“And Lord Armstrong has kindly consented to take you on.”
An enraged gasp tore from her throat as she shoved white shaking hands into her lap, her fingers clutching swaths of sky blue pyramid silk.
Take me on!
As though she were some—some
thing
to be managed. She tamped down a cauldron of emotions and stared back at her father while endeavoring to keep her expression void of emotion
and
make sense of the utterly senseless.
He intended she remain in London and work at the shipping company? The idea was preposterous. It actually went beyond that, trampling unhindered into the completely asinine realm. Wasn’t she to remain in Westbury at Fountain Crest?
“But, Father, really, Wendel’s Shipping? Surely—”
The marquess’s hearty laugh filled the study, his shoulders shaking in mirth. “Good heavens, do you really believe I would send you anywhere near those docks?”
Finding nothing particularly amusing about any of it, Amelia narrowed her gaze. “But this makes no sense a’tall. Lord Armstrong isn’t involved in any other business enterprises—is he?” She addressed the question to her father as if the viscount wasn’t sitting a mere foot away and hadn’t the capacity to answer for himself.
“As a matter of fact, I run a very lucrative horse-breeding farm.”
Humph. Figures it would have to do with breeding.
Her caustic observation was accompanied by a sidelong glance in Lord Armstrong’s direction, where she encountered his bland, green-eyed stare.
“In Westbury?” The deadly calm in her voice did not belie the emotion surmounting her disdain, overtaking her, and rendering her insensate with horror.
Harold Bertram drummed blunt fingers against the surface of the desk. “I think perhaps you misunderstand the situation.”
Amelia’s narrowed regard swung back to him. “What am I misunderstanding, Father?” Her tone sharpened with each word.
The viscount cleared his throat, bouncing her attention from her father back to him like a spectator at a tennis match.
“What your father is trying to tell you, Lady Amelia, is that my farm is in Devon and you will be residing there on my country estate with me.”
Chapter 6
Amelia shot to her feet amid the rustle of silk and one rather
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