One Dance with a Duke (35 page)

The man lowered his voice, and she held her breath to make out his words. “I’d keep her close, too, were I the duke. If she flirts that shamelessly right in front of him, imagine what she’ll get up to when he’s not looking.”

“Oh, pish,” the lady said. “Amelia’s not like that. And what if they are in one another’s pockets? Nothing wrong with newlywed bliss.”

By this time Amelia was laughing so hard, her shoulders
were shaking. Spencer gave her a quelling look, and she struggled to regain her composure. She failed. She giggled helplessly into his hand for a solid minute, tears rolling down her cheeks, until the musicians struck up a livelier tune and the gossiping couple drifted back into the crowd.

She still couldn’t stop laughing. If she stopped laughing—ceased acting like everything they’d just heard was patently ridiculous—she’d have to admit how desperately she wished it all were true. If she stopped shedding helpless tears of laughter, she would just be … crying.

Is it safe to release you?
his expression asked, after a long moment.

She nodded.

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered, wiping her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but that was so …” Another inane giggle choked on a sob. “Imagine, if they only knew—”

“Knew what?” His hand shot out again. But this time he didn’t press a finger to her lips. He cupped her cheek instead, and tilted her face to his intense, searching gaze. “The truth?”

Suddenly, she wasn’t laughing anymore. She was barely breathing anymore.

“Amelia,” he whispered, “at this moment, I don’t think you’d recognize the truth if it pinched you on the bottom.”

He dropped a firm kiss on her forehead. She couldn’t decide what that kiss meant, or even whether she liked it or not.

“Here is what we’re going to do,” he said. “When this dance ends, we’re going to sneak back out of this alcove the way we came in, and we’re going to crawl out of one another’s pockets. I’m going to make my passing nod at etiquette by inviting one of those grabby Wexler twins to dance. Hopefully Flora.” She bit back a laugh, and he
brushed a fingertip over her cheek. “And after that, I’m off to find a bit of brandy and quiet, and no one will notice. I’ll come back for you in an hour, and in the meantime, you’re to dance and enjoy every minute.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue. Just enjoy.”

The music ended, and he was gone before she could object. Not two seconds had passed, and she missed him already.

She remembered her half-drunk glass of cordial. After downing the remnants in one swallow, she patted her cheeks dry and slipped out from behind the screen. Without her most striking accessory—a duke on her arm—she prepared to spend the next hour resuming her life as Just Plain Amelia. Having a pleasant, if unspectacular time. Chatting with the ladies on the fringes of the ballroom.

Blending into the wallpaper.

His wife was the center of the party.

From his shadowed gallery overlooking the hall, Spencer nursed his brandy and watched Amelia dance with her fourth partner in as many sets. She tripped gaily down the reel, smiling as she went. Once returned to her place, she exchanged a furtive remark with an adjacent lady, and several people in her circumference laughed. All ears were tuned to her remarks. All eyes were on her—on the shimmering cobalt silk that hugged her curves tight, and the yet more brilliant blue of her eyes.

To be sure, she was a duchess now, and doubtless some measure of the assembly’s collective fascination could be attributed to her new title. But a mere title wouldn’t hold them all enthralled. It was simply Amelia. Outgoing. Vivacious. Alluring as hell. Gone was the plain, retiring spinster. Tonight, her essence was uncorked and bubbling like fine champagne. Everyone wanted to be near her. To laugh with her. To get just a taste of her intoxicating charm.

And Spencer wanted it more dearly than anyone. A quality brandy enjoyed in solitude was one of life’s saving graces, no question, and he did have a hard-earned misanthropic reputation to keep up. But he hadn’t
needed
to leave. He hadn’t experienced any head-spinning or
blood-pounding to speak of tonight. In fact, he’d scarcely noticed the crowd this evening.

Like everyone else, he’d been captivated by his wife.

“What are you doing here?” The voice came from behind him.

He turned. “I ought to ask you that.”

“I’m watching the party, of course. Just like you.” Claudia stepped forward to join him at the gallery rail, and together they stared down at the dancers. “I’m weary of Bea Grantham. She’s a very silly girl.”

“I thought she’s the same age as you.”

“Not in any way that counts.” Leaning on the balustrade, she propped her chin in one hand. “Amelia looks rather pretty tonight.” There was surprise in her voice.

“Yes, she does.”

Hm. Now he had the answer to his question.

The night they first met, if someone had asked him to describe Amelia d’Orsay, he would have called her plain. Unremarkable, at best. By the morning, he’d come to think of her as passable, even lovely in the most flattering light. He’d always found her alluring, in a voluptuous, sensual way.

But when she’d emerged in their suite earlier, dressed in that gown … Good Lord. He’d felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. His heart had stuttered, and then there’d been an ache that settled in his chest. He’d realized, quite suddenly, that he now must count her among the most beautiful women he’d ever known. When had that happened? He’d spent the evening puzzling—was the change in her, or in him?

He had his answer now. It was her, all her. Perhaps she hadn’t changed, but she’d been revealed.

“She’s very popular with the gentlemen, isn’t she?” Claudia’s voice took on a cheeky tone. “Perhaps I’ll apply to her for advice.”

An uneasy feeling welled in his gut. Ever since Amelia had suggested Claudia might be envious of Spencer’s marriage, he’d felt uneasy around his ward. He doubted Amelia’s supposition was true, but he was afraid to ask and find out. In general, he just didn’t know how to talk to Claudia anymore. Not that he’d ever been especially proficient at it, but lately she was so prickly and difficult. He hated that she was growing up, and growing further away from him.

“It’s past your bedtime,” Spencer told her.

She sighed dramatically. “Do you plan to treat me like a little girl forever?”

“Yes. That’s what guardians do.” To her sulky pout, he replied pointedly, “Good night.”

Once Claudia had gone, he turned to find Amelia in the crowd again. It wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was look for the knot of slavering men.

He wasn’t alone in his admiration of her, and he couldn’t pretend to be pleased. Humbling as it was to admit, he’d rather liked believing she had no better alternatives than marriage to him. That even if he bungled everything—which he was obviously wont to do—he needn’t worry about losing her to another man.

He tossed back another swallow of brandy. Tonight, he was worried. Very worried. Behind that screen she’d looked up at him with such heartrending doubt in her eyes. Didn’t she have any idea what she meant to him? For God’s sake, he was here. At a party. In Oxfordshire. For her. That ought to tell her something.

Evidently it didn’t tell her enough. There was no way around it. He was going to have to explain a few things to her. Very slowly, and in some detail. And for a man who’d long ago vowed never to explain himself to anyone …

Spencer was rather looking forward to it.

He descended the stairs and entered the hall just as
the first strains of a waltz began. Amelia was already partnered with another man—some local gentleman farmer whose name he’d forgotten already—but Spencer didn’t give a damn.

“I believe this is my dance,” he said, extending his hand right in front of the waiting man’s.

Amelia gave him a reproving look, but the farmer was already gone. Taking her in his arms, Spencer swept his wife onto the dance floor.

“Is it midnight already?” she teased.

“Near enough.” He took her through a brisk series of turns. “I owe you an answer, from earlier.”

“Oh, no,” she stammered. “No, please. I was so silly to even—”

“I’ve been staring at you all night, you said.”

“Just … just a little.”

“Oh, I have been. So has every man here. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“They’re only drawn by the novelty.”

“Is that what you’re calling them tonight?” He cast a glance at her cleavage.

She blushed. “I suppose a well-cut gown does do wonders for a girl’s confidence.”

“Hm.” He tightened his arm around her waist. “No, Amelia, I don’t believe it has much to do with the gown, or the novelty. It’s just you. They’re drawn to you. You’ve been courting notice tonight. Flirting and dancing and laughing with every man to pass your way. And you’ve been enjoying their attention. Don’t deny it.”

“Very well, I won’t.” Her expression turned wary. “Are you displeased?”

An excellent question. He’d been asking himself the same thing. But he couldn’t begin to give an answer here.

“We need to leave,” he said. “Immediately.”

Her eyes widened with concern. “Oh. Oh, of course.
You’re ill.” She lowered her voice. “Can you last to the end of the waltz? It will be less noticeable if—”

“Immediately.” He brought them to a swift halt.

“Very well, then. You go ahead, and I’ll just make our excuses to Lady Grantham.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“But I must—”

Damn it, when would she learn to stop arguing with him? With an impatient sigh, Spencer tightened one arm behind her back, bent to slide the other behind her knees, and straightened, lifting her into his arms. Her breathy gasp of surprise heated his blood.

Around them, all dancing ground to a halt.

It was a struggle to keep from grinning as he said, “We’re leaving. Together. Now.”

The man was a barbarian.

Amelia could see it in the eyes of the party guests. Because, of course, every eye in the room was on her and Spencer. The guests’ expressions mingled shock and glee. A display like this was exactly what they’d come hoping to see, and she pitied poor Lady Grantham, because this excitement would herald a swift end to the evening. The guests would empty the hall immediately, desperate to go home and discuss it amongst themselves, write letters, regale their servants with the tale. Rumors of Spencer’s uncivilized nature would double within hours of their exit from this ballroom.

He truly was a genius.

As he carried her past a slack-jawed Lady Grantham, Amelia attempted to take their leave. “Thank you so much for a lovely evening. We’ll see you at breakfast, then.”

Spencer tightened his grip on her body and said, loud enough for all to hear, “Don’t make any promises.”

Amelia couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

And with that, he carried her from the room.

As they headed for the stairs, she expected him to put her down. Obviously, if he’d needed to leave the room so quickly, he must be feeling ill. How brilliant of him, though, to let everyone believe he simply couldn’t exist another moment without carting his wife up to bed. It was true, newlyweds were forgiven all manner of rude behavior. And she counted it as a small victory, that Spencer would let a roomful of gawking dancers believe
she
was his weakness, rather than appear simply haughty and rude. The whole scene was immensely satisfying.

“Really,” she whispered as they mounted the stairs, “I can walk from here.”

He gave a dismissive snort and continued carrying her, taking the risers two at a time. Amelia ceased arguing. This was enjoyable, too.

He did put her back on her feet at the entrance to their suite, and after they reached the bedchamber and closed the door, he stalked off across the room, tugging at his cravat.

Wanting to give him some space to recover, Amelia went to the dressing table and removed her gloves. She undid the clasp of her bracelet and laid it on a gilt tray. “Thank you for tonight,” she said quietly, watching Spencer’s reflection as he tore off his coat and cast the garment aside. “I know what a trial it must have been.”

“Do you?” Stripped down to his waistcoat and shirt, he came to stand behind her.

Their gazes locked in the mirror. His eyes were dark and intense.

Swallowing self-consciously, Amelia reached for the clasp of her earring.

“Leave them on,” he said.

Frozen in place by the brusque command, she stared at her husband’s reflection. He didn’t look pale or ill in
the least. To the contrary, he radiated strength and virility. The only one perspiring or trembling was Amelia.

“Leave the pearls,” he repeated, settling his hands on her hips. “I want you looking just as you looked down there, in the hall.”

She dropped her hands, pressing them flat atop the dressing table. The posture pitched her forward on her toes.

“Yes.” The word was a husky groan. “More. Give me a nice, full view of what you’ve been showing the other men all evening.” He yanked her hips back, so that her weight canted onto her arms. The posture thrust her bosom forward, and in the mirror, the twin swells of her breasts puffed for attention. Even she couldn’t look away.