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the heat of his perusal. Was it her or had the temperature in the ballroom risen several degrees since the waltz had commenced?
    Minutes and too many thundered heartbeats later, when the final notes of the waltz arrested the air, Amelia could hardly believe her punishment was over. That was it, only one dance for her insult? She’d receive no reprimand or belittlement on her conduct as a lady?
    In a state of bemusement, she allowed him to escort her off the dance floor. And she dared not look up at him for fear her relief was too palpable to be disguised. Poking a sleeping lion while within moments of escape would be the height of stupidity.
    “Come and join me. It would be a shame not to take this time to get to know one another better.” Cupping her elbow in the palm of his hand, Lord Armstrong steered her in the opposite direction of where Miss Crawford stood alone next to a large potted fern.
    Amelia started at his words, instinctively tugging her arm back. “No thank—”
    “Uh-uh, perhaps you think I’m issuing you an invitation.” He shook his head, his manner awash in the kind of parental admonishment that instantly caused everything in her to rebel against his authority. “No, that was an order.” He retained a firm hold on her arm while keeping his tone conversational and smiling down at her with a hard, unyieldingglint in his green eyes. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? I fear you’ll have to suffer my presence a little longer.”
    As much as Amelia despised surrendering control, she gave up the fight almost as abruptly as it had begun. The man outweighed her by at least six stone, and she’d discovered during their dance that under the cut of the finely spun fabric of his evening jacket were hard, muscled arms.
    “Whatever for? I’m quite certain you don’t actually wish for my company,” she said, endeavoring to keep her tone neutral.
    Lord Armstrong laughed in amusement. “The first true thing I’ve heard come from your mouth this evening,” he said, as they threaded through the crowd toward the refreshment room. “What I am attempting to do is save your father from embarrassment. I believe he’s been through enough this past week, wouldn’t you agree?” He cocked one eyebrow and leveled her with a censuring look, which effectively wilted her indignation.
    The heat suffusing her face told Amelia she’d added a new hue to mortification. Of course, he knew. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Who else would her father have confided in when she’d run off with Lord Clayborough but the man who had usurped her in her father’s affections and the man he no doubt wished was his flesh-and-blood son? She could well imagine what else her father had told him. Another wave of heat washed over her. Blast her father, and double blast this wretched man.
    He kept her tight by his side as he retrieved two glasses of punch from a liveried footman. He thrust one into her hand. “Here, it appears you need this. You look quite flushed. Perhaps this will cool the fire in your cheeks … and other such places.” He directed a pointed look at her décolleté, raising her ire
and
color, the latter to her consternation.
    It required every bit of control she possessed to stop herself from throwing the contents in his face. She managed bya gossamer thread, taking a sip of the tepid punch to occupy her mouth, lest she say something else she would regret that evening.
    Lord Armstrong didn’t spend nearly the amount of time drinking his punch as he did eyeing her neckline. In two trips to his mouth, his glass came away empty while hers remained hardly touched. His arrogance, his proximity, his presence had obliterated her thirst.
    “It’s not every day that I have a woman cast aspersions on my abilities in the bedchambers, especially in such a public venue.” So casual was his tone, he could have been speaking of the weather.
    Some might have winced in embarrassment at having uttered