One Dance with a Duke (16 page)

“Well, then. Is it so inconceivable to request a few days’ delay?” She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. It took no small amount of courage, to set him a hurdle like this. But if she did not assert herself now, she knew she would never have a chance. “Leo’s death, our betrothal, now the wedding—it’s all happened so fast. Too fast for my comfort. I see it angers you, that I cannot take you at your word. It disappoints me, too. A wife
should
be able to trust her husband implicitly. If you gave me some time, allowed me to understand you better …” She bit her lip. “Maybe tonight, we could simply talk.”

“Talk,” he echoed.

“Yes. You know, chat.”

“Chat.”
From the disdain in his voice, one would think she’d suggested they quilt, or polish silver. For heaven’s sake, what was so revolutionary about the concept?

Perhaps it was just a matter of choosing the right topic. Even Michael, the quietest of the d’Orsay men, could go on about celestial navigation until the stars faded at dawn. “To begin with, why don’t we talk about horses? Why is owning Osiris so important to you?”

“I don’t want to talk.” He relocked the box of tokens and shoved it aside. “I don’t want to chat. About horses, or murder, or anything else. I want to bed my wife and then get some sleep.”

Leaning forward, he prowled across the cushions that separated them until he had her body caged between his broad, muscled arms. With a swift tug, he robbed her of the blanket she clutched. His long fingers roughly encircled her thigh, branding her flesh through the thin chemise. “As your husband, I am entitled to certain rights.”

“Yes.” Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she swallowed hard around it. “And it would certainly tell me something of your character, if you mean to take them by force.”

“The same way I ‘forced’ you to embrace me in Beauvale’s study?”

His grip on her leg went slack, but he didn’t release her. Rather, he began dragging teasing arcs with his thumb, caressing her inner thigh. Her skin burned beneath his touch.

When he spoke, his voice was firm but husky. Deeply arousing. “Do you truly want to know me, Amelia?”

She nodded.

“Then know this.” Lifting his hand from her thigh, he trailed his fingertips over her collarbone, dipping to trace the neckline of her shift. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all damned day.”

The words alone left her breathless. And then his mouth took hers in a dizzying kiss.

She kissed him back. Imprudently. Wantonly. Foolishly. Passionately.

This was exactly the paradox that had landed her in this situation. She never would have consented to marry him, if not for this kiss. Whenever he spoke, he used that wide, sensuous mouth to dismiss and insult her. But
when his lips met hers, he became a different man. Solicitous, considerate. He afforded her respect, never overpowering her with his strength. He encouraged her cooperation with gentle sweeps of his tongue.

And he made it far too easy to imagine there was something besides mere lust behind this kiss.

Don’t think it, she told herself. In his own words, this was a business transaction. Her security for his heir.

But as he deepened the kiss, she sighed. Her hand went up to clasp his neck.

She teased her bare fingertips through his damp, luxuriant curls, and he rewarded her with a guttural moan that echoed and swelled in her most feminine places. Her aching breasts. The damp cleft between her legs. Her heart.

He could claim them all, far too easily. She knew herself too well to believe otherwise. Already her blood pounded with lust for him, with the bone-jarring force of an army marching out to war. With the slightest encouragement, her affection would no doubt traipse blithely behind, like the village idiot. As the only woman in a family of five brothers, unreasoned devotion to undeserving men came all too naturally to her.

The enormity of the day’s events struck home with sudden force. She’d married a virtual stranger. Given him license to possess her body, but taken no precautions to safeguard her soul. With a twenty-seven-hour betrothal, she simply hadn’t had time to prepare. To draw the boundaries that would protect her in this cold, impersonal bargain they’d struck.
Within these borders lies the essential Amelia: You may come this far, and no further
.

“Amelia.” He breathed her name against her ear. “I must have you.”

She began to tremble, and a whimper caught in the back of her throat.

The sound gave him a start. He pulled away and stared hard at the slope of her shoulder, where her flesh quivered under his touch. “You are truly frightened.”

“Yes,” she said honestly. “You frighten me.”

“Damn it, I didn’t kill anyone. You’ve no reason to fear me.”

“Oh, I do. I have every reason.” And none of those reasons had a whit to do with Leo’s death. Her fears were originated right here, in the heat between them and the veiled emotion in his eyes. Could she dare put them into words?

I’m afraid of imagining you feel more for me than you do. Afraid of wanting too much, needing you more than you’ll ever have a use for me. I’m terrified that there’s more to you than I suspected, but you’ll never let me see it all. That I’ll give you everything I have, and you won’t even offer a few answers in return. And I need some time—just a little time—to learn how to offer you my body without risking my foolish, fragile heart
.

“Leo’s token,” she whispered. “When it’s found, I’ll know you’re blameless.”

His eyes hardened as he withdrew his hand. “Very well. While Leo’s killers walk free, I’ll not come to you. But once that token is recovered and I am proved innocent, there will be no further delay. And when I do take you, I will have all of you. Touch all of you. Taste all of you. You’ll deny me nothing.”

She stared up at him, paralyzed with longing and fear.

“Say yes, Amelia.”

“Yes,” she managed. What a devil’s bargain she’d just sealed.

He rose to his feet and made to leave the bedchamber. Amelia fell back against the pillows and pressed her thighs together, attempting to ease the sweet, maddening ache in her womb.

At the door, he stopped. “And Amelia? Even though I’ve pledged not to come to you, there’s nothing to keep you from coming to me.” With one last burning glance, he reached for the door handle. “The door’s unlocked, if there’s anything you need.”

Juno’s hooves danced under him as Spencer eased into the saddle. He exchanged a nod with his outrider. The groom had been walking her for most of the morning, but now the mare had reached the end of her patience. As had he. A good, hard ride was what they both needed. They’d outpace the carriages for this last leg of the day’s travel and he’d see about procuring rooms at the inn.

At Juno’s impatient whicker, he nudged the mare into a canter. As the horse found her pace, a fresh breeze whipped through his hair—a refreshing burst of coolness on this warm afternoon. He ought to have been taking in the pleasant countryside, Spencer supposed, but instead all he saw was Amelia, as she’d appeared last night. The soft gold of her unbound hair, burnished by firelight. The enticing pink curves of her flesh, covered by the sheerest white muslin.

Her clear blue eyes, filled with fear.

Devil take it. That fear had come as a stab to the heart. Her courage and sensible nature were what attracted him to her in the first place. From her teasing during that that cursed waltz, to the kiss she’d demanded before accepting his proposal—she infuriated, intrigued, and aroused him, all because she refused
to be intimidated. Just as she’d said that morning after Leo’s death, in the carriage: When they were alone, they were just a woman and a man.

Not anymore, evidently.

Now, thanks to the esteemed membership of the Stud Club, they were a woman and an alleged murderer. This morning ought to have found him a well-satisfied bridegroom, and instead he was frustrated in every way. All because Julian Bellamy had an irrational hatred of aristocrats, Rhys St. Maur had been a hot-tempered youth, and Leo Chatwick had had the poor sense to go walking in Whitechapel alone at night. Now Amelia feared him.

And then—of all the addled feminine notions—to remedy the problem, she’d suggested they sit up all night and
chat
. She wished to submit him to her own version of the Spanish Inquisition, examine his sins, his failings, his family history and moral principles.

Good God. He couldn’t imagine a worse strategy for earning her trust. How, precisely, would that interview go?

Very well, Amelia. I’ll answer your questions. Yes, I spent a wild youth in Lower Canada, disappearing into the wilderness for weeks at a time with people you’d consider heathen savages, causing my excellent father no end of grief. Yes, during my first year in England, I nearly pummeled Rhys St. Maur to death at Eton. Yes, I ruined your brother’s fortunes in pursuit of a horse, for reasons you will find inexplicable and unforgivable. There, now. Can’t you see I’m not a villain?

Oh, that would go over splendidly.

And if she thought he would
ever
discuss his true reasons for abducting her from that ballroom … well, she would wait in vain. If there was one indisputable advantage to being a duke, it was never having to explain himself to anyone.

That didn’t mean they couldn’t know one another. Ever since their waltz, he’d been seized by an intense desire to know everything about Amelia Claire d’Orsay. Hell, he’d married her in part to assuage it. He just didn’t see why words must be involved. He wanted to learn his new wife from the inside out, starting with the sweet cleft of her womanhood and working his way to her delicate fingers, which he’d discovered last night to be capped with neat round calluses from needlework.

If they were to become acquainted, Spencer could think of no more logical beginning than to know one another in the biblical sense, as God and Nature intended.

Fortunately, Spencer had considerable experience winning over wary creatures, undoing the damage wrought by other men. It had been nearly two decades since he’d broken his first mustang to halter in Canada, and at his stud farm he’d gentled countless horses since—most notably Juno, the mare carrying him now. The trick of it was knowing when to walk away. He’d give a fearful horse a few minutes’ tenderness—stroke her behind the ears, murmur encouragement, give her a reassuring pat on the withers. Nothing too bold. Just enough attention to keep her wanting more. The moment the horse began to relax and enjoy his touch, Spencer would walk away. The next time he entered the enclosure, the once-frightened horse would approach him, eager and unafraid. The technique never failed.

Of course, he’d never plied it on a woman before. He’d never needed to. He knew some men took perverse excitement in conquering a reluctant lover, but he wasn’t one of them. He liked his bed partners to be just that—partners. Willing, engaged, aware of themselves. He’d wanted Amelia because she not only possessed the virtue and lineage he required in a wife, she met his ideals for a lover. When he kissed her, she responded
with an instinctive, inventive passion that made his bones weak.

Until those damned accusations planted doubt in her mind, and she’d trembled. Not with pleasure, but with fear. Oh, he could have persuaded her into consummation if he’d wished. But she would have despised him for it this morning, and he wouldn’t have liked himself much, either.

He would coax her out again. It might take a few days—time he really didn’t want to bide—but he was a man of self-discipline. With cards, horses, negotiation … He knew how to be patient when the situation required it, and how to elicit the desired response. Before a week was out, his wife would come willingly, eagerly to his bed.

The key was all in knowing when to walk away.

Amelia surveyed the rooms Spencer had procured. If indeed these accommodations truly counted as “rooms.” The inn’s best suite consisted of a small bedchamber and an even smaller antechamber. The antechamber was furnished with a table and two chairs, plus a sleeping cot, likely intended for servants. Yet both her and Spencer’s trunks had been carried up to the suite, so she assumed he meant to join her.

What he meant to do then, she was afraid to imagine.

One of the inn’s serving girls had brought up a dinner tray. After a day of rough coach travel, the mere smell of stewed beef had Amelia’s stomach roiling. She managed to choke down a bit of bread and tea. Her next thought was to undress quickly and slip into bed before the duke even returned. Surely he wouldn’t disturb her if she was already asleep. Just to be safe, she’d barricade the connecting door with her trunks.

Before she could act on the plan, however, the door opened with a rude creak. In came the duke. He had to
fold nearly double to avoid hitting his head on the doorjamb, and with the addition of his imposing presence, the “rooms” shrank further.

A curt nod was his only greeting. And, as he’d caught her with a mouthful of tea, her reply was an audible gulp.

Lord, he was so handsome. She didn’t understand it, but somehow she forgot, when they were apart, what a fine-looking man he was. And every time she reencountered him, the simple fact of his masculine beauty startled her again with fresh, sudden force.