One Dance with a Duke (45 page)

“You feel that way about Amelia?”

“Yes,” he said simply. No matter how many differences he’d had with his father and his uncle, here was one thing they shared in common. He was a Dumarque man at his core. He would love one woman until he died, and there could never be another. God help him if she didn’t feel the same.

Claudia looked askance at him. “If you truly feel that way, you could do a better job of showing it.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I could do a better job of it with you, too. I plan to improve.”

Her eyes shimmered. “Do you plan to start soon?”

When he was seventeen years old, Spencer had spent five miserable weeks aboard a two-masted brig to cross the Atlantic Ocean. That trip had been a pleasant afternoon jaunt compared to the arduous journey he made now. He rose from his chair, crossed the vast expanse of the library carpet, and sat down beside his ward.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever you decide, Claudia, you will always have a home here. And you will always be loved.”

She started to weep. He hoped they were a good sort of tears. Regardless, he slid his arm around her shoulders and gathered her into a hug.

He felt rather proud of himself for it, but evidently he still needed practice to perfect the art. After a moment, Claudia sniffed and said, “I miss Amelia.”

He gathered her even closer then, because he needed to be hugged back. “I miss her, too.”

“When is she coming home?”

“I don’t know. She may not come back to Braxton Hall.”

Claudia straightened, pulling back to stare at him. “Whatever do you mean? Go fetch her!”

“But … I’m not certain exactly where she is at the moment.”

“You’re the Duke of Morland. Find her!”

“I’m not sure she wants to be found.” He could scarcely believe he was discussing this with Claudia … but then again, who else did he have to ask? “I bullied her quite a bit at the outset, and I don’t want to make the same mistake again. I miss her, yes. But I want her to be happy most of all. If she comes back, I want her to come freely. Willingly.”

Her eyes went wide. “Then
convince
her. Fall at her feet and grovel. Make some grand gesture of apology. Tell her that sweet little story you just told me and profess your undying love. Really, Spencer, don’t you know anything about romance?”

It was a fine summer morning on the Bristol docks, and for once a ray of fortune was shining on the d’Orsays. A merchant brigantine called the
Angelica
sailed with the tide, bound for Boston.

Jack would be on it.

Amelia’s nose wrinkled as she squinted at her brother through the blaring midday sun. She wished she’d thought to purchase him a hat with a wider brim. With his fair skin, he’d be crisped to currant red after one day at sea.

“Well?” he said.

In a last sisterly gesture, she smoothed the lint from Jack’s coat sleeves with her gloved hands. “What a grand adventure you’re going to have. I believe Hugh would be very envious.”

“I like to think he’s coming with me.”

“Perhaps he is.” She threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tight. “I love you,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t ever dream otherwise. But I just can’t take care of you any longer. It’s time you learned to take care of yourself.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

She pulled back and withdrew a small bundle from her reticule. The knotted handkerchief contained a heavy
clutch of coins. “Your passage is already paid. This is all I have to give you for expenses.”

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the makeshift purse of gold and silver. “I’ll do my best not to lose it the first night out from land.”

She tried to laugh, but she knew the danger of him doing just that was great. She kept her hand on the handkerchief, refusing to let him take it yet.

“If you do lose it, don’t write me for more. If you wander home a few months from now, having landed yourself in trouble again and looking for my help … I won’t give it.” Much as it pained her to speak those words, she knew she had to say them.
Cut the leading strings
. Perhaps if Jack understood she wouldn’t be there to catch him, he might take greater precautions not to fall. “This is the very last time I save you, do you understand? I will pray for you and always love you. But after this, not a penny more.”

With that, she let go of the handkerchief. It was much easier to release her grip on that bit of linen than it was to let go of her responsibility for him. But she had to do both. She deserved to be happy, too, and she couldn’t imagine happiness without Spencer. She simply couldn’t risk letting Jack come between them again.

Spencer was right; she did have to make a choice. But this wasn’t a matter of deciding between her brother and her husband. It was a matter of deciding to seize happiness and let go of guilt.

Amelia was choosing herself.

“I’d best be going, then.” He glanced over his shoulder at the
Angelica’s
gangplank. “I hate to leave you alone here. Is Morland coming for you?”

She shook her head. “He’s taken Claudia home to Cambridgeshire. I’ve sent an express to Laurent. He’ll help me close up the cottage, and then we’ll travel back to London together.”

“Amelia?” He chucked her under the chin. “When I said no one’s good enough for you, I meant it. And I include myself. I know I haven’t deserved half the help you’ve given me, but …” His lips twitched at the corner, tugging on Amelia’s heart. All the d’Orsay men made that face when they were struggling not to cry. “I’m grateful for it. Thank you for loving me, even when I’ve done my devil’s best to be unlovable.”

The look in his eyes, the catch in his voice … her heart squeezed. She was a breath away from flinging her arms around his shoulders and vowing to take him back home, solve all his problems for him.

Taking a step backward instead was quite possibly the bravest thing she’d ever done. But she knew in her heart, it was best for them both.

“Goodbye, Jack,” she said. “We’ll miss you. Please take care.”

Then she turned on her heel. Took one step. Then two. Every pace she took away from him felt like a step taken on wobbly foal legs, but as her boots clopped hollowly on the planked dock, she slowly gained in coordination and confidence. It had taken a little time and much sorrow, but she’d finally mastered the lesson Spencer had given her the night they first met:

Turn those hapless d’Orsay fortunes around. Learn when to walk away
.

“Where shall I take you?” As they neared Charing Cross, Laurent turned to her on the carriage seat. “Home?”

Home
.

Amelia mused on the word. She wondered which house her brother referred to: the Duke of Morland’s, or his own? Which one was “home”? That was the question for her to decide, she supposed.

“I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.” No house felt
like home without Spencer in it. And though he would still be at Braxton Hall, she couldn’t abide the thought of rattling around that cavernous town house alone.

“Of course you’re welcome. Winifred’s planned some sort of party tonight. Lucky for me we’re returning in time for it. She’d have my head if I left her alone to host.”

“Is it a large party?” Now this might change Amelia’s mind. After two days of carriage travel and a week’s worth of melancholy, a busy social gathering wasn’t really how she wished to spend her evening.

“No, no. A few couples over to dinner. Perhaps a bit of cards and dancing after, you know.”

Well, that didn’t sound too dreadful. As a matter of fact, dinner itself sounded most welcome. And as for the amusements afterward—she could easily plead a headache and slip upstairs. It wouldn’t even be a falsehood. She’d done so much ruminating and pondering and reconsidering in the past two days, her brain ached.

“Did I do the right thing?” she asked her brother, for likely the tenth time since Jack had sailed with the
Angelica
. “Will he be all right?”

“I don’t know how he’ll fare,” Laurent answered, reaching for her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “But you did absolutely the right thing.”

“I just still feel guilty, letting him believe his debts will remain unpaid.”

“You know he never would have left otherwise.”

“I know.” She bit her lip. “Will you have a difficult time finding another buyer?”

“I don’t expect so. It’s a choice piece of land, even if the cottage is modest. The Earl of Vinterre expressed some interest in it. Wants to tear down the place and build an Italianate palace overlooking the river.”

“Oh, dear. I may vomit.”

Laurent passed her the basin. It wouldn’t have been
the first time she’d been ill on this journey. Nor even the second, or fifth. Apparently her unborn child didn’t enjoy coach travel any more than she did.

Afterward, he soothed her back. “Don’t be upset. I’ll find another buyer.”

“No, don’t.” She pressed her sleeve to her mouth. “I think it would be easier to see Briarbank razed than inhabited by another family. Sell it to Vinterre, and do it quickly.”

The sooner all the dealings were completed, the sooner Jack’s debts could be paid. And the sooner that happened, the sooner Amelia could return to Braxton Hall, pockets empty but heart undivided. She would set about convincing her husband that she was devoted to him, above all.

The coach made its creaking turn into Bryanston Square and soon lurched to a halt before the house. Laurent helped her alight from the carriage.

At the door, they were met by a wild-eyed Winifred. After sparing Amelia a brief nod, she latched on to Laurent’s arm. “Oh, thank goodness you’re finally home. I’m beside myself, utterly. We need to order more wine—whole casks of it, likely. And spirits for the gentlemen.” She pulled her husband into the house, and Amelia followed them over the threshold.

“The fish course is a horrid dilemma. Naturally this would happen on a Monday, when there’s no decent fish to be had for gold or silver. Naught but common oysters in the market.” Her voice pitched a half-octave closer to hysteria. “I can’t serve oysters to a duchess!”

Amelia laughed. “I shall do just fine with oysters, thank you. You’ve served them to me many a time before.”

Her sister-in-law turned to her, wearing a puzzled expression. “Forgive me, Amelia. But of course I didn’t mean
you.”

Of course not. Amelia sighed.

Winifred’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Hampstead will be joining us for dinner. I’ve just received the note from one of my dinner guests, Mrs. Nodwell. Her cousin is married to Her Grace’s nephew’s adopted brother, you see?”

Amelia didn’t, but she nodded politely anyway.

Winifred turned back to Laurent, pulling him into the Rose Salon, where servants were removing porcelain cherubs from the shelves and pushing the furniture to the sides of the room. “Obviously,” she said, “I couldn’t decline. And then Mrs. Petersham sent a note round, asking if she might bring her cousins visiting from Bath. I couldn’t say no to them, either. And now these cards keep coming …” She gestured toward the row of calling cards propped on the mantel. “I do believe tonight we’re going to be overrun with Quality.”

“But …” Amelia shook her head to dispel her confusion. “At this time of summer? Why?”

“For you, of course! They all assume you and Morland will be in attendance. Everyone is desperate to see your first public appearance in London since the marriage.” She lifted an eyebrow. “There are some very interesting”—she pronounced each syllable distinctly,
EEN-ter-est-ting—
“rumors coming out of Oxfordshire, you know.”

A bittersweet smile curved Amelia’s lips. She’d known there would be gossip, after that display at the Granthams’. The memory of that night—the dancing, the lovemaking, the conversation and sweet embraces lasting into morning—it wrung her heart with surprising ferocity. The pain made her think of Spencer’s broken ribs. She hoped they were healing well.

Lord, she missed him, with everything she had.

Moving to the side of the room, she took a seat on a recently relocated footstool. “Well, I fear your guests
will be disappointed,” she told Winifred. “I’m not feeling well enough for socializing this evening, and the duke is not even in Town.”

“But he is!”

Amelia’s jaw dropped. “He is?”

“Yes, he arrived this very morning in Mayfair, and the news has already appeared in the afternoon papers.” Winifred snapped her fingers at a footman. “Not there. By the window.”

Amelia quietly reeled, trying not to betray the magnitude of her shock. Spencer was here in Town? Could he have any idea of her own arrival? And what about Claudia? Where was she?

As Winifred went into another flurry of instructions for the servants, Laurent crouched at Amelia’s side. “Shall I have the carriage take you to Morland House?”

“No, no.” She couldn’t see him like this, not yet. She wasn’t prepared. She wasn’t even certain he’d
want
to see her. “I will send him a note.”

With a few more snaps of Winifred’s fingers, a lap desk and quill materialized before Amelia. The paper was a terrifying expanse of white. She was afraid to lay her pen to it at all, fearful of marring that blank perfection with the wrong word and mucking up everything again. In the end, she simply wrote: