One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

He’d been miserable at Eton. He was seventeen, and one of the oldest students there, but his Latin lagged behind that of the second-form boys. Then there was his little problem to contend with: breaking into a cold sweat in crowded classrooms. The only boy who’d rivaled him for surliness was Rhys St. Maur—one year younger than Spencer, but already two stone heavier. The two of them had waged a silent competition for the title of Worst Boy in School. Spencer had no idea why Rhys made so much trouble, but on his side, the rabble-rousing was intentional. If he misbehaved enough, his uncle might send him back to Canada. Or so he’d hoped.

Then the letter came that day. It was February and sunny, yet still cold as a bitch. He’d been happy, initially, to be summoned from a Greek lesson to receive the missive. Inside, he found the news that his father had died in Canada, a month before. He’d been an orphan for a month, and he hadn’t even known. And now it didn’t matter how much he misbehaved. There was no going back home. There was no home to go back to.

He’d been devastated. Angry with himself, his father, his uncle, God.

And Rhys St. Maur had picked that day to start a brawl.

“Fighting fate?” Rhys asked. “You never struck me as that stupid. A man can’t win against fate.”

“Perhaps not,” Spencer said. “In the end I can’t say I’m sorry I lost.”

Whatever regrets or guilt Amelia might harbor about her past, he had none. Here he was, a duke with every material advantage and a thriving business concern to boot, married to a clever, desirable woman who also happened to be his best friend. He wouldn’t change a damn thing. He only wished his wife felt the same.

God, he was a greedy bastard. A few weeks ago, he would have thought nothing could make him happier than to hear Amelia say she loved him in the same selfless, devoted way she loved her brothers. Now he’d heard it. And it wasn’t enough. He wanted to be first in her life. First, last, and everything in between.

Rhys pulled in another salmon. “There’s three.”

“Excellent,” Spencer replied, reeling in his line. “Now we can go up to the house, and Amelia will be satisfied.”

“Are you going to tell her I caught them all?”

“Of course not. And neither are you, if you want your fifteen thousand.” Spencer opened the tackle box. “It’s a fair bit of money, fifteen thousand. Enough to take a wife.”

“A wife?” Rhys scowled as he helped Spencer untangle the lines. “You should confine your strategy to the card table. That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Why? Because you might start smiling?” He persuaded the box’s stubborn latch to close. “Bellamy may be an ass, but he may have been right about one thing. Perhaps Lily could benefit from a husband’s protection.”

In retrospect, that was Spencer’s one regret: the rudeness with which he’d rebuffed the idea of marrying Leo’s sister. At the time, he’d simply rejected the idea on instinct, without questioning why it felt so unthinkable. No one could have seen it then—least of all him—but he’d already been half in love with Amelia.

Rhys snorted. “Oh, Lily has a protector. Good Lord, that was a miserable ride today, with the two of them in the coach. Never saw a man working so hard at looking disinterested and failing so completely.”

So Spencer had been right. There was something between Bellamy and Lily Chatwick.

Rhys gave him a devilish look. “Perhaps I’ll threaten to marry her anyway, just to watch Bellamy’s reaction.”

Oh, now that would be amusing.

“Do me a favor,” Spencer said, picking up the rods in one hand and the tackle box in the other. “Make sure I’m in the room when you do.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Is it my imagination?” Amelia said, kneading a taut lump of bread dough. “Or are matters tense between you and Mr. Bellamy?”

Lily laughed, propping her elbows on the kitchen table. “Tense does not begin to describe matters between us. Julian won’t stop pressuring me to marry.”

With a floury hand, Amelia brushed back a wisp of stray hair. “But it’s barely been a month since …” She bit her tongue.

“Since Leo died,” Lily finished. “I know. And his heir has yet to arrive from Egypt. He probably hasn’t even been notified yet. The town house and estate are mine to live in for months, but Julian insists I need a protector.” She tilted her head at the lump of floured dough. “You make your own bread?”

“Only on special occasions.” Or in this case, when a fit of nerves had caused her to accidentally consume, in its entirety, one of the loaves Cook had prepared that morning. She had an old habit of eating when she was anxious.

On the other side of the wall, Julian Bellamy attacked the drawing room pianoforte with vigor. Dark, furious chords shook the plates on their shelves. She wished he had gone angling with the other men, but he seemed unwilling to leave the house. Interesting, that he would choose to occupy himself at the pianoforte. It kept him close to Lily, without her knowing it.

“I can hear him,” Lily said, as though reading Amelia’s thoughts. She cast a glance at the wall separating the kitchen from the drawing room. “Or rather, I can feel him. He always plays with a great deal of passion, but he used to play happier tunes.”

“How can you—”

“Tell the difference?” She glanced up at the shelves. “Happy tunes don’t rattle the plates.”

Amelia gave the bread dough a thoughtful pat. “Lily, have you considered that Mr. Bellamy might be in love with you?”