One Dance with a Duke (28 page)

“What’s all this?” she asked her lady’s maid.

“Your new wardrobe, Your Grace. Only now arrived from London.”

This
was the delivery?

Amelia inspected one of the parcels and immediately recognized the lavender ribbon binding. These packages were from the London dressmaker who had fashioned
her wedding gown. Spencer must have ordered an entire wardrobe for her, but of course it could not have been completed in one day. It was a small miracle that it had been completed in a week. She surveyed the growing mountain of boxes. They must contain at least a dozen dresses. And if the new gowns were even one fraction as fashionable and lovely as the pearl-gray silk she’d been married in, she likely now qualified as the best-dressed lady in Cambridgeshire.

Giddiness rose in her as she pulled at the first ribbon bow. She was going to open each package on her own, and she was going to do so slowly. This was better than a lifetime of birthdays.

“Your Grace?” An apologetic maid interrupted her little party. She extended a folded note.

Amelia opened and read it.

Somewhere in these, you will find a riding habit. Join me in the stables at ten.

  —
S
.

Amelia stared at the note for a long time. His handwriting transfixed her, just as it had the first time she’d seen it, on the parish register they’d signed after exchanging vows. He didn’t follow any of the rules well-bred English children were taught by schoolmasters and governesses. Nevertheless, his writing was eminently legible—also strong, vigorous, unapologetic. Every pen stroke displayed confidence. She found it oddly arousing, then and now.

But most entrancing of all was a stray mark just before the word “join.” As though he’d begun a word, then thought better of it. Amelia studied the diagonal slash, capped with the beginnings of a loop … to her eye, it looked like an aborted “p.” And even though she knew there were probably ten thousand words in the
English language that began with the letter “p,” she could not help but speculate the unthinkable had occurred.

Spencer had nearly written “please.”

“Oh, she’s ready, Your Grace. A bit nervous, as she’s a maiden yet.” With an abrupt whinny, the mare danced sideways. The groom corrected her with a word and a flick of the halter. “She’s an anxious one.”

Spencer shook his head. His own cattle were meticulously trained, and it annoyed him no end when gentlemen sent their unprepared horses to his stables. If any animal had a natural instinct to please, it was the horse. An owner failing to secure his horse’s trust and cooperation was, to him, as unfathomable as failing to feed or water the beast.

He reached out and patted her bay withers, murmuring low. “Did you give the teaser a pass at her?” he asked the groom.

“Aye,” the groom replied. “She was receptive enough, but reared up when he tried to cover her. We’ll need to hobble her, else she’ll kick.”

Spencer nodded his assent, moving to scratch the mare behind one dark-tipped ear. Teaser stallions were used to test a mare’s readiness for mating, so as not to fatigue or endanger a valuable stud horse. The teaser would chase her about the paddock, go through the motions of equine courtship, test the mare’s receptivity to being mounted—and then the handlers would pull him back before the deed could be accomplished. It was standard operation for a stud farm, and Spencer had never thought much about it. But this particular morning found him unusually contemplative.

On the one hand, he wondered if the practice could be detrimental to his stallions’ health or sanity. His own constitution felt remarkably improved, now that he was
no longer playing the part of teaser himself. On the other, he felt it as a silent yet stern rebuke, that Amelia’s accusations had been true. He gave more consideration to the comfort of his broodmares than he had his own wife. Remembering the way he’d pounded her against the mattress last night, on their very first time together … it made him wince with guilt. It also made him semi-hard within seconds.

He sighed, resolving to turn his thoughts to something else.

The groom led the mare away, and Spencer leaned against the wall, making a show of kicking the straw from his boots and trying not to look as though he were waiting. The world waited on a duke, not the other way around.

“Spencer?”

His boot thunked against the brick-tiled floor. He looked up, and there, framed by the tall, square entryway, was Amelia. Or some new, luminous version of her.

“You …” His voice died as he remembered he just wasn’t the sort of man to blurt out
By God, you look lovely
in the middle of a horse barn. Or anywhere. He cleared his throat. “You came.”

“You sound surprised.” Lifting her eyebrows, she gave him a coy smile. “Thank you,” she added, dropping a hand to her skirt. “For this.”

Spencer rebuffed her thanks with a wave of his hand. Really, he should be thanking
her
. He didn’t recall specifying a color for her riding habit, but he couldn’t have possibly chosen better. The dark blue velvet skirt was cut and draped to stunning effect. The jacket was pieced together like mother-of-pearl inlay, angled and sewn so that each panel’s brushed nap caught the light differently, and the result was that Amelia shone. Sparkled, really, like an expertly cut and polished sapphire, offset by the gold filigree curls of her hair, and—

And bloody hell. When had he started thinking like this? About anything?

The longer he stood there, staring and not speaking, the further her smile widened.

“I’m ready for my first lesson,” she said. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Though his lips formed the word easily enough, his boots seemed rather bolted to the floor.

As she approached him, Spencer realized he’d been utterly wrong—it wasn’t anything about the new dress that made her look so appealing. The allure was all in the way she wore it. The way those curvaceous hips traded her skirts back and forth as she walked. She was cloaked in sensual confidence, and by God, she wore it well.

He cleared his throat. “We’re going to take this slowly. Of course I don’t intend to put you in a saddle today, not after …” He cleared his throat again. His face felt hot. God, could he truly be
blushing?

“Is this a bad idea?” she said, looking suddenly self-conscious and unsure. “Perhaps we should wait for another day.”

“No, no. It’s a very good idea. Every lady should know how to handle horses. For her own safety, if nothing else.”

And it was a good idea for other reasons, he admitted to himself. He looked forward to spending time with her, outside of a bed. Showing her this important part of his life, so that she might come to understand what the stud farm meant to him, as well as what it didn’t. Gratifying as it had been to view her jealousy last night, he didn’t wish to awaken to her resentment every morning.

She craned her neck, surveying the vaulted ceiling. “This place looks very different in daylight. Would you give me a tour?”

He released the breath he’d been holding. “Certainly.”

He offered his arm, and she took it. They ambled
slowly through the stables and outbuildings as Spencer told her of the history of the structure—built by his grandfather, expanded by his uncle, improved yet again by him—and explained the operations of the stud farm. Her comments and questions were few, but they reflected genuine interest and appreciation. No polite “I see”s or disingenuous “How very interesting”s, but rather “Is this brick locally produced?” (Yes), and “Do you breed your mares every year?” (No), and “Have you foals? Please, may we go see the foals?”

Well, of course. He should have known to start with the foals. Good Lord, the way she cooed and fawned over the ribby, spindle-legged creatures … As she crouched in the grass to stroke a white filly through the fence, Spencer considered putting the animal on a ribbon and letting it follow him around Braxton Hall. At least he’d be assured his wife’s warm reception whenever he entered a room.

“How old is she?” Amelia clapped with delight as the filly made a gangly dash for the far side of the paddock.

“Going on three months. And showing off already.”

“She’s beautiful. Can I have her?” She turned and smiled up at him. “For my riding lessons, can I choose her?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her brow wrinkled in disapproval.

“As a yearling, she’ll fetch a thousand guineas, at least,” he protested. “She can’t be saddled for a year, and even then she wouldn’t be a safe mount for you. She’s from racing stock, bred for short bursts of reckless speed. Her dam’s last colt won at Newmarket. What you need is a mature, steady gelding.”

“Do you at least have a pretty one?”

He chuckled. “Take your pick, and I’ll have the grooms braid ribbons in his mane.”

“A thousand guineas,” she said thoughtfully, propping
one fist on a fencepost. “For one foal … Why, this farm must bring in a fortune each year.”

“We do well. Well enough that I haven’t raised my tenants’ rents in six years.” Spencer couldn’t keep a hint of pride out of his voice. His uncle had disagreed with him over expanding the stud farm. The late duke had thought the large pastures a waste of good farmland—land that could have been earning rents. Spencer had insisted that the stud farm would more than pay for itself, and time had proven him right. “I also employ a small army of local men, and more than a few farmers make their annual income just supplying our oats and hay. But none of it would be profitable if we didn’t produce the finest racehorses in the country. They don’t admit it aloud at their Jockey Club meetings, but England’s wealthiest racing enthusiasts all bring their custom to me.”

“But you’re not a member of the Jockey Club yourself? You don’t race any of the horses?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re a stone’s throw from Newmarket.”

He shrugged. “Never wanted to. I don’t like attending the races.” When she looked as though she might question him further on the subject, he quickly added, “I’m not interested in the glory.”

“And you don’t really need the money. So why do it?”

“Because I’m good at it. And I enjoy it.”

She rested her chin on her hand, in an attitude of reflection. “Two ways of saying the same thing.”

“I suppose they are.”

As they watched the foals a minute longer, he warmed inside. Somehow he’d known, from the moment she pressed that meticulously embroidered handkerchief into his hands, that she would comprehend this. The deep satisfaction that came from doing something exceptionally well, with both care and skill, regardless
of public acclaim. And he understood, suddenly, why she kept angling to plan meals, host guests, nurture everyone around her. These were the things she did well; the things that brought her true enjoyment.

“And Osiris?” she asked. “You’re so determined to have him for your own—or at least reduce the number of the club. That’s to protect the superiority of your breeding stock, I assume? If he’s too widely available, the demand for your horses could decrease.”

He loved how quickly her mind worked. She’d grasped the business rationale instinctively. Spencer often purchased retired racehorses he had no intention of breeding, just so their offspring wouldn’t dilute his own stock’s value. And he gave them an idyllic pension in open pasture, so it worked out well for the horses, too.

“Yes,” he said, “limiting his breeding will be one benefit.”

“But it’s not the real reason you want him. That benefit can’t be worth tens of thousands of pounds.”

Suddenly he realized how far this conversation had strayed, and how it was now on course to collide with some long-held secrets. His body stiffened, as though encased in armor. “How does this pertain to riding lessons?”

“It doesn’t. But I’m not truly here for the horses. I just want to know you, Spencer. I want to understand.”

She laid a hand next to his on the fence rail. Her little finger just barely grazed his, but the warmth in that touch went a long way toward melting his resistance. His conscience tore down the rest.

Long before his uncle died, he’d made a bargain with himself. Yes, he would assume the title and do his duty, but he’d do it on his own terms. To the devil with what people said or thought. He wasn’t going to explain himself to anyone. But cards aside, he had a keen sense of fairness. On their wedding night, he’d demanded her
body, her loyalty, her trust. In return, she’d asked only some answers. Now that she’d given him everything so freely, it felt wrong to deny her this.

“Very well.” He offered his arm, and she took it. “I can better explain inside.” Keeping her close, he led her back into the horse barn and down to the farthest end. She tensed against his arm as they neared Juno’s stall, and he knew she was remembering his harsh words to her the night previous.

“I regret shouting at you,” he said, stopping a few feet from the mare’s stall, “but I was concerned for your safety. As I’ve said, Juno bites. And kicks, as you saw last night. She doesn’t like new people. Or most people, for that matter.” He sighed heavily. “She’s the devil’s own nag, is what she is.”

Amelia cast a wary glance at the mare, and Juno released a gruff snort, as if in confirmation. “Then why do you keep her?”

“Because no one else would. She’s the first horse I ever bought in this country. My father left me a small legacy, and when I came of age, I took the funds to an auction and came home with this creature. I was young and stupid—made my decision based on pedigree without taking temperament into account. She was four years old and had noble bloodlines and some modest racing success. Thought I’d made a fine bargain. What I didn’t know was that she’d always trotted the line between spirited and flat-out dangerous, depending on her rider, and she’d spent the previous year boarded at some country estate, in the care of an incompetent stable master. She’d been kept tethered in a dank stall, barely groomed, beaten often.”

He stopped and drew a deep breath. Even now, he felt the old fury rising in his chest. When he’d mastered his voice, he went on, “By the time I bought her, her trust in men had been completely destroyed. No one could
saddle her. No one could even get near her without risking his fingers. Clearly we’d never be able to breed her. My uncle wanted to put her down, but I wouldn’t allow it.”