A Taste of Desire by Beverley Kendall Page A

cumbersome crinoline, nearly toppling the chair.
    “I-I cannot live with him at his residence,” she said, struggling to catch her breath and bridle the panic threatening to careen out of control. “Father, it wouldn’t be proper. I will be ruined.”
    “I really don’t believe it will come to that.” A flash of dimples denting his chiseled cheeks betrayed the viscount’s amusement.
    Amelia hadn’t thought it possible to despise a person more than she did him at that moment. His smile—no, it was more a taunting grin—laid that assumption to rest.
    Harold Bertram’s chest swelled beneath his black and grey checkered jacket. “Of course, I would not allow anything not sanctioned proper by society. You will be well chaperoned at Thomas’s estate. Miss Crawford and Hélène will accompany you. In addition, during a portion of your stay, Lady Armstrong and her two teenaged daughters will be in residence.”
    His words neither registered nor penetrated her horrified brain. The only thing she knew without an ounce of doubt was that she could not—would not—live with
that man.
    “Father there must be someone—anyone else—whom youcould prevail upon so I may work this ridiculous punishment off.” Never before had she pled for leniency, but the circumstances demanded she make an exception.
    Her father’s denial came with a hard shake of his head, as final and definitive as a judge bringing down his gavel. Inhaling a restorative breath, Amelia subsided right into the straight-backed chair. Arrowing a glare at the man seated next to her, she noted the barely contained look of satisfaction in his eyes. The urge to snatch up the marble weight from her father’s desk and smash it repeatedly against his skull had her fisting her hands in her lap and clenching her jaw tightly enough to grind her back teeth into enamel dust.
    “At Lady Stanton’s ball, you knew that entire time,” she said, her voice fierce and barely above a whisper. While she’d endured his touch and suffered his odious presence, he’d been relishing the prospect of soon having her at the crook of his finger.
    Her father’s gaze darted between them, his brow pleated, his expression perplexed. The viscount did not so much as blink at her accusation. “You give me far too much credit. I don’t believe anyone has ever called me a soothsayer. No, I was more than happy to take up the ribbons your father offered.”
    “Ribbons? Ribbons! Are you comparing me to an animal—a horse?” Amelia clutched the arm of the chair with white knuckles.
    “Never,” he replied too quickly. “I meant no umbrage by that. Please forgive my ill use of that word, but this is what happens when one runs a horse breeding operation.” He sent the marquess a small self-deprecating smile. In turn, her father beamed at the man as if he were the Savior sent down to restore earth to its natural order.
    “I will have you know that Thomas initially turned down my request, so I am grateful he has reconsidered.” Her father said it as if it meant something. As if she should alsobe oh so grateful for such a
magnanimous
gesture on the viscount’s part.
    Amelia yanked her gaze away, refusing to look at the blasted man, to watch the smirk lurking behind his feigned look of innocence. His reference had not been a metaphorical slip of the tongue. He did not intend to put her to work; he meant to break her just as one would do a fractious mount.
    Never.
    “How terribly considerate of him,” she said in a tone drenched in sarcasm.
    “We will return home in three days, and next month you will go to Devon.”
    Four whole months with the detestable man. While the knowledge caused her belly to clench in rebellion, Amelia sat erect, her mouth pursed in a tight-lipped, contentious line.
    “If you have nothing else to say, Amelia, you may take your leave.” With those words, her father dismissed her, much in the same manner as he always did. His attention withdrawn before she had