One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

He blinked, wounded. How could she say that? Perhaps he was reserved with everyone else, but he was different with her. She’d pulled him out of that insular, smug, goddamned lonely existence and made him yearn to be a part of this—this family, this home. Why couldn’t she see that he wanted it not just for her, but for them?

“Amelia …” As he began, his voice broke. He cleared his throat and started again, clearly and calmly. It shouldn’t be so hard to say this. “You are everything to me. The world is welcome to know it.”

“How would they? Because you’ve carried me out of a few ballrooms and tend to throw punches when I’m around? You’re wrenching this house away from my family. Uprooting it from centuries of d’Orsay history.” A sob caught in her throat. “Meanwhile you’ve been using me and my love for this place, just to gain custody of a horse. And now you’d cast my brother out, again.”

He caught her by the shoulders. “Damn it, you are the one who is letting Jack come between us. You’re so invested in this selfless martyr role. Somewhere inside you is that sixteen-year-old girl who believed she deserved her own happiness. The woman who has captivated me from the first time I held her and found I couldn’t let go. I’ve done my best to be understanding, but—”

“Your best? Oh, Spencer. I know you too well to believe that. If you would accuse me of denying myself, then please queue up for your share of the blame. I’ve never known a man so remarkable, so complex and caring … and so determined to hide it from the world. If I were ever so lucky as to glimpse your true, shining best, I’d probably expire where I stood from the brilliance.”

If she’d intended those words as a compliment, they damn well didn’t feel like one. They felt like brilliant shards of glass.

He sighed. “Say what you will, Amelia, you can’t deny that I’m making an effort. And I’m tired of coming in second to Jack for my pains. At least I’m trying to secure your happiness.”

“My happiness? How can I possibly be happy, when I know my brother is living on the London streets, brushing sleeves with danger every moment of the day?”

“I don’t know, but you’ll have to learn. Because Jack isn’t going to change.” He tipped her chin and lowered his voice. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to decide where your loyalties are. With him, or with me?”

She stared at him as though he were some sort of monster. Damn it, he wasn’t a monster. He was human. He wanted to know his wife loved him above any other man. Wouldn’t any husband want the same?

“If you knew me at all,” she said in a shaky voice, “you would understand how dearly I love my family. And if you ask me to deny them … you’ve made the choice yourself.” She grabbed the sheaf of legal papers from the table and clutched them to her chest. “These aren’t signed yet. So long as this house belongs to the d’Orsays, my brother is welcome in it. Jack stays.”

“Nothing good will come of it,” he warned. “He’ll only hurt you again.”

“Not half as much as you’re hurting me now.”

“Amelia …” He slowly stretched a hand toward her, but she flinched away before he’d halved the gap.

“Go,” she said, jerking her chin toward the library. “Go win your damn horse. We both know where your loyalties are.”

She was so prickly and emotional and filled with wrongheaded notions … he couldn’t even conceive of how to argue with her.

So he did what she’d asked. He went.

The library was small, and they huddled around the desk to play. Their game was brag. Piquet was Spencer’s forte, but it was only a two-player game.

It took time to lay a trap, and no small amount of patience. The first and most difficult task was to create the illusion that chance had a seat at the table. For the first hour or so of play, Spencer won a few hands and purposely lost several others. On a few occasions, his opponents’ superior play truly caught him off guard. He knew he ought to be using this time to observe Bellamy carefully. Every man, even the best of players, gave unconscious physical clues to what sort of cards he held. But Spencer just couldn’t focus on the arch of Bellamy’s eyebrow or the tapping of his finger. Memories of Amelia kept distracting him. He kept seeing her lovely blue eyes marred by redness. He heard her bitter words rattling in his ears. And other parts of him recalled the way she’d lavished her passion on him earlier that day, as he’d sat in this very chair. She had him more than distracted. He was damned confused.

She was right, to some extent. He had manipulated her with this holiday, along with everyone else. Purchasing the cottage in secret, conspiring with Rhys to get Bellamy to the card table. But did Amelia truly think her own imagining of this house party would have culminated in success? In her fantasy, she would open her house, her arms, and her heart to everyone, and Spencer would reveal a few long-held, mildly embarrassing secrets. Add in a week of angling and parlor games … conflict resolved. The three men would emerge as friends.

A naïve, impossible notion. Wasn’t it?