One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

Amelia took the nudge, rousing herself to make conversation. “Lord Ashworth,” she said, “how do you find the scenery?”


Thick eyebrows knitted in a frown. “I’m not a man inclined to flowery description, but if pressed … I think I might use the word ‘charming.’”

“I understand you have an estate in Devonshire,” she said.

“Yes, in the heart of Dartmoor. The countryside cannot be called charming. Forbidding is probably the word.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve passed that way, when visiting cousins in Plymouth. What a study in contrasts the area is. Such beauty and such desolation.” Amelia turned to Bellamy. “And you, Mr. Bellamy? Where were you raised?”

Bellamy took a slow draught of wine. When he put down the glass, he looked dismayed to see Amelia patiently awaiting a response, fork poised in midair.

“Farthest reaches of Northumberland,” he said. “Middle of nowhere. Don’t suppose you’ve any cousins there.”

Spencer put in, “Actually, I’ve land in Northumberland.”

“Really.” Bellamy’s tone was bored.

“Yes, really. Mines. Did your people work in mining?”

Bellamy said, “What else is there to do, in Northumberland?”

“Coal, I suppose?”

Bellamy gave him a cold, slashing look, and Spencer leaned forward in anticipation. He’d been waiting to catch this fraud in the act.

“No. Copper.”

“Bollocks. There’s not a vein of copper in all Northumberland.” Spencer’s knife clanged the edge of his plate. “And if yours is a Northumberland accent, then I speak like an Ottoman King. Where do you get off, accusing me of crimes? You’re nothing but a petty swindler and a fraud.”

Bellamy’s eyes went to Lily.

Spencer repeated his words, making sure the dark-haired woman could read his lips clearly. “You are a lying bastard, Bellamy.”

“Now look here—”

“Just how have you been spending my money?” Spencer asked. “That massive investigation I’m funding has yielded precious little in the way of results.”

“Perhaps that’s because the killer isn’t in Town,” Bellamy said, his voice tight. “Perhaps that’s because the culprit’s been hiding out in Cambridgeshire.”

Ashworth groaned. “For God’s sake, can we move on from this? Morland isn’t a killer. It’s not in him.”

“How would you know?” Bellamy said.

“Because if he were, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d have died fourteen years ago.”

The room went silent.

Spencer stared at the scarred, hulking warrior. “Are you talking about Eton?”

He remembered the way their fight had dragged on, blow after blow, while boys ringed them and cheered and the schoolmasters stood passively by—helpless to stop it, since both he and Rhys were larger and stronger than any adult there. They were both big youths, but Spencer’d had the advantage of age and the force of grief and anger behind his blows. But no matter how many times he smashed Rhys to the dirt, the mad bastard wouldn’t stay down. He’d kept dragging his bleeding carcass off the ground and coming back for more. Until he hadn’t even been throwing punches of his own, just lumbering forward on shaky legs to receive Spencer’s next punishing blow. At the time, he had interpreted Rhys’s persistence as foolish pride, and as he’d been in the mood to keep dealing blows … foolish pride seemed as worthy an offense as any.

But when Rhys staggered to his feet yet again, with one eye swollen shut and his chest hunched over broken ribs—on his last blow, Spencer had heard them cracking under his fist—he just couldn’t stomach the idea of hitting the idiot one more time. It had become a matter of his own pride, to walk away.

Rhys’s expression told Spencer they were recalling the exact same scene. “I wanted you to kill me,” he said.

Around the table, eyes widened. Wineglasses tipped.

“Pardon the bluntness.” Rhys addressed the group in a diffident tone, forking another bite into his mouth. “I never did master the art of genteel dinner conversation.”

“You wanted me to kill you,” Spencer repeated.

“That’s why I kept getting up. I wanted to die, and I knew if I kept putting my face in front of your fist, you had the strength and fury to do me in.” He looked to Bellamy. “But he didn’t.”

“That’s disgusting,” Spencer said. “You would have left me with that guilt all my life, believing I’d murdered you in cold blood? What the devil is wrong with you?”

Rhys shrugged. “Too many things to list tonight. You were the first I tried that with, but not the last. Took me a long time to give up on the strategy of picking fights in hopes of getting pummeled into my grave.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.” Rhys cocked his head. “Until a month or so ago? In the infantry, they kept decorating me for it. Finally realized only the good die young. At any rate, Bellamy, I can assure you His Grace isn’t capable of murder.”