One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

He gave her only a smile.

“Oh, dear.” She let her head fall back to the pillow. “There it went. I’ve fallen in love with you now.”

“Just now?” Chuckling, he rolled off her and came to a sitting position, resting his forearm on one bent knee. “Well, thank God for belated blessings.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been coming on rather longer than that for me.”

“What?” She sat bolt upright. “What can you mean? Since when?”

“From the first, Amelia. From the very first.”

“No. I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t you?” He cast a meaningful look at his waistcoat pocket, where a corner of white peeked out.

“Why on earth are you still clothed?” she teased as her fingertips closed over the bit of linen. Her hands went utterly useless, however, once she plucked the cloth from his pocket and stared at it. It was her handkerchief. The one she’d pressed on him that first night on the Bunscombes’ terrace. Embroidered with her initials in purple script, twined round with ivy and decorated with a single buzzing honeybee. Had he truly been carrying it ever since? Carrying a tendre for her, as well? She could never have believed it, had she not been holding the evidence in her hand.

She looked up at him, astonished. “Spencer …”

Color rose on his cheekbones, and he shifted defensively. “Go on, do your worst. You have already accused me of being a romantic and a sentimental fool. I don’t know what more you can say to discredit me.”

“You are a sweet man.”

“God, there it is.” He flopped back on the bed, as if shot through the heart. “Repeat that to anyone, and I will have you brought up on charges of slander.”

“I wouldn’t dream of telling a soul,” she said, smiling as she nestled close. “I like it being our secret.”

His arm encircled her naked shoulders as he heaved a contented sigh. “Might I be allowed an endearment now? Or will you accuse me of treating you like a horse?”

“That would depend on the endearment, I suppose. What did you have in mind?”

“My dear? My darling? My sweet?” Skepticism tainted his voice as he tested each phrase.

“No, none of those. Too overused to have any meaning.”

He rolled to face her. “What about my pearl? My blossom? My treasure?”

She laughed. “Now you’re just making fun.”

He cupped her face in his palm, and what she saw in those entrancing hazel eyes made her breath catch. A capacity for emotion so fierce and loyal, it flashed with the enduring fire of diamonds. Deeply buried, but worth any effort to reach.

All teasing fled his voice. “My wife. My heart.” He tilted his head, considering. “My dearest friend.”

“Oh.” Emotion pinched sweetly in her chest. “I think I rather like that last.”

“So do I, Amelia.” He pulled her close for a kiss. “So do I.”

Chapter Eighteen

“There’s Briarbank.”

Amelia’s mount pranced sideways as she pointed. Spencer nudged Juno forward and let his gaze follow the indicated direction, scaling down a craggy bluff and winding into a bend of the river. There, tucked against a wooded bank, sat an ancient stone cottage. Smoke puffed in welcome from its chimney, rising above the trees and hovering above the river like a miniature cloud.

“It’s a lovely prospect, isn’t it?” Her eyes swept the verdant countryside and winding valley.

It was indeed, he thought, surveying the view. Lovely didn’t begin to describe it.

The green plateau they currently occupied was home to the ruins of Beauvale Castle. The castle’s crumbling turrets had been well positioned for defense. They overlooked the valley of the River Wye, and from this high bluff, one could see for miles in any direction. Miles of forests and farmland, displaying every shade of green in Nature’s palette. Dark, mossy glens that swallowed the sunlight; fields of summer alfalfa that sparkled as a mild breeze teased the grass.

“‘Once again I see these hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines of sportive wood run wild,’” she recited quietly. “‘These pastoral farms, green to the very door.’” She gave him a smile that arrowed straight for his heart.

How could he not love her? He’d married a woman who quoted Wordsworth. And not merely to impress or sound well versed in modern poetry, but because the verse meant something to her, and she kept it in her heart.

She looked at him through her lashes. “You’re very quiet. What are you thinking?”