One Dance with a Duke (19 page)

Thud
.

She fell straight back to earth.

He lifted her by the waist, abruptly breaking the contact between their loins. “Enough,” he rasped.

Enough?
Amelia consulted her body. No. No, that was most definitely
not
enough.

Pushing her farther away, he straightened in the chair. “Ten minutes.” Red-faced, he nodded at his watch. “They’re over. The wager is satisfied.”

Was he mad? Perhaps ten minutes were up, but Amelia wasn’t nearly satisfied. And neither was he, from the looks of the straining bulge in his trousers.

Nevertheless, he rose from the chair and half-carried her into the bedchamber, abruptly releasing her. His hasty retreat left several paces’ distance—and the connecting door—between them. “Go to bed, Amelia.”

Reeling, she grasped the bedpost for support. Her whole body felt like blancmange, soft and quivering. And she ached … oh, how she ached for completion. Surely he knew how aroused she’d become, from the way she’d wantonly ridden him. Goodness, from the
sounds
she’d made. He conquered any resistance with his seductive touch and that hot, wicked mouth. Caught in that haze of lust, she would have surrendered her virtue easily.

“We agreed on ten minutes,” he said, turning away to make discreet adjustments to his trouser fall. “And I gave you my word.”

Was she to believe he was being honorable? From the moment he’d drawn out that pack of cards, he’d drawn her straight into his clutches. Literally. And now he was
walking away, leaving her a frustrated, trembling mass of thwarted desire and unfulfilled need.

“You don’t need help with your laces?” he asked.

She numbly shook her head.

“Good night, then.” He started to pull shut the connecting door, then paused to give her an enigmatic look. “I’m just here, if there’s anything you need.”

Alone in the antechamber, Spencer unscrewed the top of his flask with trembling fingers. He tossed back a quick, scorching swallow. Then another.

His movements jerky and agitated, he stripped himself of his waistcoat. He flung open a trunk, pulling out a set of clean linens and snapping them open to cover the narrow cot. As if he’d be able to sleep.

He strode to the table to light a fresh candle. When his fingers refused to work the flint properly, he cast the damn thing away. Swearing quietly into the darkened room, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches placket, untucked his shirt, and stopped postponing the inevitable. Bracing one hand on the table, he freed his aching erection with the other. He was still hard as a pike, and primed for release.

Oh, God
.

Her breasts. Her hips. Her mouth on his. Her softness and heat. Her little mewls of pleasure. The sound of his name from her lips. The taste of her skin. Her breasts again, because they bore repeating. And those nipples … God, she had the most pert, luscious nipples he had ever—
ever—
laid eyes or thumbs or lips upon. And the look on her face, when he’d carried her to the bedroom. Bewildered, mussed. Half-naked and fully aroused. She
was there, right now, in the bed. He could join her. He could have her under him. Surrounding him. Gripping him tight. Panting and writhing and—

Sweet. Holy. Merciful …

Behind his eyelids, the world went searing bright. Gritting his teeth against an involuntary cry, he came in a frenzy of brisk, tight-fisted strokes, spurting jet after jet into a loose fold of his shirt. His breath grated in and out of his chest as he clutched the table’s edge for support.

After a minute, he straightened, pulled the soiled shirt over his head and cast it aside, then flopped onto the cot to savor the numb, joint-loosening sensation of release.

Release, yes. Relief, no. For she was still fewer than six paces away, and he could be hard for her again in a matter of three minutes. Perhaps two.
Don’t ponder it overmuch
, a throb in his groin warned.

The evening really had not gone as planned. Well, it had gone as planned, up to a point. The cards, the wager, her breasts in his hands … all these he’d counted upon. He’d only meant to give her a bit of skillful stroking. Not too much. Just enough to loosen the tension in her body and offer a taste of the pleasure they could share. Just enough to prove he could be trusted, and keep her wanting more.

Well. This was clearly a different endeavor from horse-breaking.

In his best imaginings, he wouldn’t have guessed that Amelia would respond to him so passionately. He couldn’t have dreamed how strongly he’d respond to
her
. As a younger man, Spencer would have counted it with great pride, the fact that he’d taken an inexperienced lover from clothed and uncertain to half-naked and teetering on the verge of climax—all in under ten minutes. But the triumph rang a bit hollow tonight, as he realized his victory came with a forfeit.

He was left wanting more, too.

Not just more pleasure, more heat, more skin … although he did want all those things, and desperately … but more
Amelia
. He wanted to sit at the table and watch her worry that plump lower lip with her teeth as she embroidered. He wanted her to tease him for his reading choices. Most of all, he wanted to catch her staring at him, when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And he wanted the look in her eyes to be fondness, not fear.

He stared hard at the connecting door, as though he could swing the warped panel on its rusted hinges by sheer force of will.

Come to me, Amelia. You crossed a ballroom to confront me while hundreds looked on. Open that door tonight
.

But when dawn came, he awoke alone.

God had a very cruel sense of humor.

Here Amelia was, the newly minted Duchess of Morland, arriving at Braxton Hall in all its early summer splendor. Through the square carriage window, she spied endless acres of rich farmland dotted with neat barns and cottages, then a pleasing expanse of rolling green parklands, and now, as they neared the Hall, a wall of towering, manicured hedges that must contain equally well-maintained gardens. Of this prestigious, lovely, verdant estate she was now mistress.

And she was a shambles.

Amelia had never traveled well. The rolling motion of a carriage always nauseated her, and she felt the effects even more strongly in warm weather. Their first day of travel hadn’t been too distressing, but the farther they went from London, the worse the roads became. Late spring rains had left this particular dirt lane rutted and uneven, so that she had not only rolling to contend
with, but violent jouncing as well. She ached all over, her muscles stiff from long hours of bracing herself on the seat, and her head throbbing with a persistent, dull pain. Her gown—a sensible chocolate-brown traveling habit two years past its fitting—was wrinkled and coated with a fine layer of dust.

She was the sorriest-looking duchess to ever live, she was sure of it.

As they turned the corner onto a smoother drive, Amelia glimpsed the Hall’s brick-and-limestone façade in the distance. She hastily patted her face and smoothed stray wisps of hair, anxious to make herself presentable before facing Spencer again.

Dear Lord, how
would
she face him? A blush scalded her cheeks at the mere idea. What had happened last night, at the inn … Those ten minutes in his lap had been a sensual thrill the likes of which she had never thought to experience. And by undeniable, abundant evidence, his desire for her had not been feigned. She hadn’t felt sorry-looking in his arms last night, but attractive and wanton. Until he’d abruptly called a halt to the evening, leaving her confused and frustrated instead. Had he truly meant to respect their agreed-upon boundaries, or to punish her for setting them?

The carriage door opened, and harsh sunlight flooded the velvet-lined interior. Her headache renewed with double force. She hadn’t expected the sun to be so strong in late afternoon. But as she accepted the footman’s hand and alighted from the coach, Amelia realized it was not the direct rays of the sun that blinded her, but rather their reflection off the gleaming white marble entrance to Braxton Hall.

Blinking, she raised her hand to shield herself from the stabbing attack of grandeur. Briarbank was covered in ivy and moss, and it never made her wince. In a defensive move, she turned her head to the left. No
marble there. Just an endless façade of crimson brick, glittering limestone, and glazed windows that faded into the distance, most likely somewhere near Cambridge. She swiveled her head to the right. An equally impressive, equally long façade fronted the Hall’s east wing, seeming to stretch half the distance to the sea.

And it was hers. All hers to manage, to make both a showplace and a home. Amelia battled the urge to hop up and down with delight.

She confined herself to a discreet twirl instead, turning just in time to watch Spencer dismount from his horse in one smooth, elegant motion. Of course, he looked magnificent. A touch of dust dimmed the shine on his Hessians, but it only enhanced his masculine appeal, as did the healthful glow of physical exertion and the bronze cast to his complexion after two days spent in the sun. As he handed the reins to a waiting groom and exchanged a few words with the man, she noticed a relaxed, easier way to his manner. He was even smiling.

Then he turned and caught her eye. The smile disappeared.

“Good Lord.” His boots clicked against stone as he covered the distance between them, and just as Amelia was learning to expect, he took what could have been a mildly awkward situation and made it twelve times worse. “You look dreadful.”

She squirmed under his gaze. “I’m sorry. The carriage …”

“Yes, obviously. Come inside and rest.” Laying a hand to the small of her back, he guided her up the marble steps toward the open door. The muscles flanking her spine were bunched and stiff. His thumb found the worst of the knots and traced firm circles over it. She sealed her lips over a grateful moan.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he chided her.
“You might have ridden part of the journey, if you’d liked.”

“I don’t ride.”

He halted, looking down at her. “You don’t ride,” he repeated in a tone of disbelief. “At all?”

“No,” she said, chastened.

“Surely you’re joking. I know your family epitomizes noble poverty, but don’t the d’Orsays have some cattle to their name?”

“Of course we do. I just never cared to learn.”

He merely shook his head and resumed guiding her up the stairs and into the house. The butler and housekeeper came forward to greet them.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.” The silver-haired butler bowed to the duke. He then turned to Amelia and made the same gesture of respect to her. “Your Grace.”

“I gather you received my express,” Spencer said.

“Yesterday morning, Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtsied. “Our congratulations on your marriage. Her Grace’s chambers are aired and readied.”

“Very good. Her Grace is unwell. See that she rests.” In a brisk tone, he introduced the servants as Clarke and Mrs. Bodkin.

“What a lovely entrance hall,” she said, by way of indirect compliment. She hoped to make the housekeeper a quick ally. Peering at one of the dozen gilt-framed paintings on the far wall, she wondered aloud, “Is that a Tintoretto?”

“Yes,” Spencer answered.

“I thought so.” Her family had owned one quite like it, once. It had fetched enough at auction to pay their expenses for a year.

“Spencer!”

Amelia’s gaze jerked to the top of the staircase, where a young woman stood clinging to the banister.

“Spencer, you’re home!”

And this must be Claudia
. Hadn’t Spencer said his ward was visiting relations in York? But it could be no one else. The family resemblance was subtle, but clear. The cousins shared the same dark, curling hair and fine cheekbones—features that must recall their fathers’ side of the family. Claudia’s innocent features contrasted with a developed figure. She teetered on that fulcrum between youth and womanhood.

“What are you doing home?” Spencer called to her. “You’re meant to be in York another week yet.”

“Oh, I begged them to send me home early. And when the decrepit old bat refused, I simply misbehaved until she was glad to be rid of me. We sent a letter, but it must have crossed you on your journey.” The young lady tripped down the cascading river of marble that formed the front hall stairs, pale pink muslin fluttering behind her. As she hurried toward the duke, everything about her—from her fists balled in excitement to her bright, flushed expression—bespoke joy and affection. The girl clearly adored him.

“Incorrigible chit.” The words might have been a reproach, but Amelia didn’t miss the warmth softening his eyes. In his own reserved, masculine way, he clearly adored her, too.

The realization hit Amelia very queerly. It was encouraging, she supposed, to learn that her new husband was capable of genuine, tender affection. But it was also disheartening, to contrast that depth of emotion with his treatment of her.

When Claudia reached the bottom of the stairs, she rushed toward her guardian at a startling velocity. At the last second, however, she pulled up short and looked askance at Amelia. “Is this my new companion?”