One minute after eight. Amelia was now officially late. Indecision warred like a tempest within him. His first instinct urged—no commanded—that he follow through on his promise. He should march upstairs to her chamber and haul her bodily from her bed. But he didn’t believe he possessed the discipline such a task would require without wringing her beautiful neck. Then there was the matter of his family and the servants. All the commotion was sure to cause a disturbance of tongue wagging proportions. He went to his desk and gave the tasseled cord of the bell pull on the wall an impatient tug. Within seconds of the pealed summons, Johns, the second footman, appeared at the study entrance. “Sir?” Johns inquired with the proper deference. Thomas had intended to instruct him to send one of the maids to locate Amelia but quickly thought better of the idea and snapped his mouth closed. Such insolence could only be by design. No doubt she was currently tucked snug in her bed, fairly champing at the bit waiting to see just what he would do next.
