One Dance with a Duke (17 page)

This man is my
husband
.

This
man is
my
husband.

Surely one of these days the novelty would fade. Or at least she would learn to adjust more quickly, so each time they crossed paths in the corridor, she wouldn’t pull up short and simply stand there, open-mouthed and struck stupid.

Rather as she was doing now.

He removed his coat, unfastened his cuffs, turned up his sleeves, and lathered his hands at the small wash-stand. As he rinsed them, he asked, “You’ve eaten?”

“As much as I care to. And you?”

He nodded. “Downstairs.”

After carefully folding his coat and laying it across a trunk, he worked loose his cravat. Next he sat in one of the chairs and began on his boots. He really was remarkably self-sufficient, for a man of his rank. Amelia supposed he must not have been raised with a valet.

“You needn’t sit with me, if you’d rather be downstairs,” she said nervously. Didn’t men prefer to be down in the tavern, drinking and carousing?

He gave her a disbelieving look. “You think I’d leave you alone in a public inn? Not a chance. This is one of the better establishments, but still …” He shook his head. “At any rate, crowded alehouses really aren’t my idea of a pleasant evening.”

“Why have we stopped at an inn at all? Cambridgeshire isn’t so very far. Couldn’t we have pushed through to your estate?”

“Breaking the journey sets a kinder pace for the horses.”

Well, to be sure
, she thought to herself bitterly.
Heaven forfend we place human convenience ahead of the horses’ comfort
.

He began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Just how far did he intend to disrobe, right in front of her?

She rose from her chair. “Well, I’m rather fatigued. I think I’ll retire early.”

To her dismay, he also stood. “Excellent idea.”

Surely he didn’t mean to go to sleep
with
her. Hadn’t he promised to leave her be? “On second thought, I’m not sleepy just yet. I believe I’ll work on my embroidery.”

She went to the smallest of her trunks and unbuckled the straps, knowing her needlework basket to be at the top. She imagined she felt him ogling her bottom as she bent at the waist to retrieve it, and she straightened so quickly, all the blood rushed from her head.

She stumbled, and he grasped her by the elbow to steady her. His firm, arousing touch was of no benefit as she struggled to collect her wits. Curse this wretched infatuation that turned her into a perfect simpleton whenever she came within breathing distance of his warm, male scent. It made her want to fall straight into his arms, never mind if he was a murderer or the very Devil himself.

She was used to being around strong, protective men—her brothers—and used to being embraced and comforted by them. Now she was miles away from all of them: homesick and weary, and direly in need of a hug. It occurred to her that the duke was her only potential source of strong, engulfing masculine embraces
in the vicinity, and that thought made her sad indeed. For while she was tolerably certain he’d bed her tonight if she gave him the slightest encouragement, she knew she’d never be able to ask him for a hug.

She cringed to imagine his response, if she did. He probably didn’t even know how to give one.

He released her as she sank back into her chair. Drawing closer to the light, she busied herself unpacking linen, thread, and scissors. “What is your usual habit in the evenings, Your Grace? Do you keep country hours?”

“I keep my own hours, wherever I am. I typically retire around midnight.”

The word “midnight” sent a shiver through her. “And until then?”

“Until then?” His eyes caught hers, a glint of wry humor in their dark, entrancing depths. “You mean, in the absence of other nighttime activities?” He paused, giving her mind ample time to fill with other, very nocturnal activities. “When I’m not plotting my next vile act of treachery?”

He leaned forward. Heat prickled along her skin.

Finally, he said in a deep, suggestive voice, “I read.”

She stared at him, suddenly unable to speak.

“Books,” he added, as if for clarification.

“Oh,” she replied, as if she were stupid enough to need that clarification.

He opened a small valise, revealing it to be full to brimming with volumes of all sizes, in a variety of bindings. The sight caused a swift, surprising pang in her chest.

“My,” she remarked. “You must be a great reader.”

“Whenever I’m in London, I take the opportunity to add to my personal library.” He removed a few books, turning them over in his hands to read the bindings. “I didn’t attend university, you see. Extensive reading has been my only education.”

“Didn’t you want to go to university?”

“Not especially. Even if I had, my uncle thought it best not to send me.”

“Because of what happened at Eton? When you were sent down for the brawl with Lord Ashworth?” She was guessing, but it seemed the logical explanation for both the rumors she’d heard and the strange tension she’d observed between the men.

He gave her a long, pointed look. Well, there was one of her questions answered.

“Because,” he said coolly, selecting a book and packing the others away, “my uncle’s health was already failing, and I was his heir. Estate management was a more pressing topic of study than Latin or mathematics. I continued my studies independently.”

“Ah. Yes, it’s like that for many of us.”

His brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Oh, I didn’t mean
us
, as in you and me.” Peering at her needle, she threaded the eye with a strand of blue floss. “I meant, it’s like that for many of
us.”
She patted a hand to her breast. “Women. We don’t attend university, either, but many of us still seek to improve our minds through books.”

Clearly the duke had no idea how to receive that comparison. Frowning a little, he sat down with his book. Amelia smiled at her stitches, rather pleased with herself.

“What are you reading?” she asked, feeling emboldened and just a bit coquettish.

He held up the book for her inspection.

“Not
Waverley?
I thought you called yourself a great reader. You must be the last person in England to read that book.”

“I’m not. I’ve read it already, more than once.” He riffled the pages. “I don’t have the concentration for philosophy or German this evening.”

Amelia fell momentarily silent to focus on the evenness of her stitches. At length she said,
“Waverley
. I’ll admit, I’m surprised to hear it’s a favorite of yours.”

“I can’t imagine why. As you noted, it’s a very popular book.”

“Well, yes.” She gave him a coy glance. “But it’s a romance.”

“It is not.” He held the green-covered book at arm’s length and stared at it, as though she’d said,
But it’s a pineapple
. “It’s a historical novel about the Scottish uprising. There are battles.”

“There’s a love triangle.”

He made an offended huff. “Listen, am I permitted to read the thing in peace, or not?”

Suppressing a laugh, she forced herself to be quiet and sew. Soon she lost herself in her work—in the precise, familiar rhythm of stitches, the careful selection of colored threads. The room went quiet, save for the low crackle of the fire and the occasional sound of a page being turned. As she worked, her sleepiness increased. When she sensed her stitches becoming less and less even, she knotted off one final strand of blue and cut it free before turning the whole square face-up and surveying her work.

“How did you accomplish that?” Spencer asked, reaching over her arm to indicate the rightmost section of the cloth.

Startled by his sudden nearness, Amelia jumped in her chair. When had he moved his chair beside hers? How long had he been looking over her shoulder?

“Right there,” he said, pointing to the little brook she’d stitched tumbling through a glen. “It truly looks like water. How did you accomplish it?”

“Oh, that.” A hint of pride seeped into her voice. She
was
rather happy with that bit. “It’s very thin strips of ribbon in different shades of blue, worsted with silver
thread. I twist the needle as I sew, and in that way each stitch catches the light in a different way. As sunlight might dance on a rippling stream.”

He said nothing. Likely he hadn’t been
that
interested, to warrant a needlework lesson. Well, he had asked.

The longer he stared silently over her shoulder, however, the more self-conscious she grew. “I was going to make it into a little settee cushion. Or perhaps use it as the center of a chair cover.” She turned it this way and that in her hands, tilting her head to examine the piece from different angles. Perhaps she ought to frame it in strips of velvet, and use it for a larger pillow, or—

“A cushion?” he said abruptly, pronouncing the word as though it were caustic on his tongue. “What an abhorrent idea.”

Amelia blinked.
Abhorrent?
“Wh-Why?” she stammered, taken aback. “I’ll keep it in my own room, if you don’t care for it. You needn’t see it.”

“Absolutely not. That”—he pointed at her needlework—“is never adorning a chair or settee in my house.”

“But—”

“Give it here.”

Before she could protest, he snatched the embroidered square from her hands, opened his valise again, and thrust the fabric inside before slamming it shut with a decisive motion. The nerve of the man! Rather than argue, Amelia hastily packed away the remainder of her needles and thread, worried His Grace might suddenly decide to cast the entire sewing kit into the fireplace. She could always retrieve the embroidery later. She hoped.

“Enough reading and needlework. We’ll play cards,” he said, drawing out a deck of cards and sitting down. “Piquet.” He split the deck and began to shuffle the cards effortlessly. He moved so rapidly, fingers and cards were nothing but a colorful blur. The effect was entrancing, and subtly erotic.

He noticed her staring. One dark eyebrow rose in question.

“You’re quite adept at that.”

He shrugged. “I’m good with my hands.”

He was indeed good with his hands. But Amelia knew that already. She remembered with near-painful clarity the exquisite pang of yearning she’d experienced when he’d pulled them free of his gloves that day in Laurent’s study. She remembered the way those strong fingers had unpinned her hair, then tilted her face to receive his kiss. And some moments later, clasped her bottom, bringing her body flush against his …

Thwack
. He rapped the deck against the table to square the edges, jolting her from her reverie.

“Perhaps just one hand,” she said.

“You do know piquet?” he asked, beginning to deal.

“Yes, of course. Though I cannot claim to be an expert.”

“I hope not. If you were, you should have taught your brother better strategy.”

Amelia’s anger spiked at the mention of Jack and his gaming debt, chasing away any lingering fatigue. “I thought it was brag you played.”

“It was, the night he lost the four hundred.” He gathered his cards.

She likewise retrieved the pile of cards in front of her and began sorting them in her hand. “So it was not just the once, then? You played together several times?”

“I would not say several. On a few separate occasions.” He selected four cards from his hand and discarded them.

She exchanged three of hers. He immediately declared his point to be forty-one, signaling he held one of the strongest hands possible in piquet.

“Drat,” she muttered.

“I see you don’t like to lose any more than your brother does.”

“No one likes to lose.”

When it came to games and sport, Amelia did have a competitive streak. Losing always put her in a foul temper. Therefore, her temper grew increasingly short as the hand progressed, for Spencer, after building an insurmountable lead in the reckoning of points, went on to take nearly every trick. But it wasn’t simply losing the hand of cards that had her frustrated. No, it was everything else she’d lost thanks to this man. If not for the duke’s equine obsession and luck with cards, at this moment she could have been packing her belongings for a summer at Briarbank. And Jack would have been coming with her.

Once her defeat was confirmed—confirmed, and then underscored—Amelia quietly gathered the cards and began to shuffle them anew.

“I thought you only wanted to play one hand,” he said dryly.

She spared him no word—just a brief, sharp look. As if her pride would allow her to walk away after that drubbing she’d just been handed.

“You should have discarded the knave of hearts,” he told her as she dealt. “Don’t aim to collect sets, aim to win the tricks.”

Discard the knave
, indeed.

But though she hated taking his advice, she did so. Once again, she had two knaves in her hand; this time she discarded both and reaped a king in return. Spencer still won the game, to her chagrin, but by a much narrower margin.

“Better,” he said, as he gathered the cards for his deal. “But next time, lead with your ace.”

And so it went, over several hands. She gained on him slowly, coming closer and closer to victory—but each
time still falling short. After each hand, he offered her a point of strategy, which she begrudgingly incorporated into her own play. At last, on one of his turns as dealer Amelia reaped a very lucky hand of cards, including two aces and a septième. Falling silent to marshal all her powers of concentration, she discarded strategically, played her cards in the most advantageous sequence, caught a stroke of luck when he had no red king … and won.

“I won,” she said, staring with disbelief at the played-out cards on the table.

“You did. This once.”

She smiled. “Watch me do it again.” She reached out to gather the cards for her deal, but he put out a hand and trapped hers against the table.

“Care to make it interesting?”

His hand was heavy atop hers, and warm. Amelia’s heart began to beat a little faster. “Do you mean a wager?”

He nodded.

“Four hundred pounds,” she said impulsively. If she could win back Jack’s debt, her brother would not have to avoid Spencer any longer. Perhaps he could even come to Braxton Hall for an extended, wholesome country holiday, away from London and his wastrel friends.