One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

“No, not Hugh. None of those, actually. This was my brother Michael. He’s an officer in the Navy now.”


“Good Lord. Just how many of you are there?” Spencer regretted the question instantly. What had possessed him to ask it? Why the devil should he care?

The longer Lady Amelia went without answering, the further the accusatory hush spread through the carriage: Badly done, Morland. Badly done. Truly, he was capable of civil conversation. Just not at any time before, during, or for several hours following a ball.

At last, she answered. “There were six of us, once. Now only five. I am the only daughter.” She paused, perhaps waiting to hear what rude-mannered question would be hurled at her next. When none came, she prompted, “Please continue, Mr. Bellamy.”

“Right. Leo had ten tokens fashioned from brass and distributed them to close friends. Possession of a token entitled a man to send mares to Osiris to be mated. But as a matter of club code, the tokens could never be bartered, purchased, or given away. They could only be won in a game of chance.”

“At cards,” she said.

“Cards, dice, wagers of any sort. That handful of misshapen brass tokens became the most coveted currency in London. Everyone wanted a share of Osiris, of course. But more than that, they wanted to be a part of the club. The fraternity, the camaraderie … there’s a certain cachet now, among gentlemen of our set, to calling oneself a member of the Stud Club. Not many clubs can be so exclusive as to permit only ten members, and winning a token meant that luck or wits, or both, were with you.” Bellamy shot Spencer a cutting look. “Then Morland here came along and ruined the fun. He’s collected seven of the ten tokens now. The remaining three belong to me, Ashworth here, and Leo, of course.”

The seat cushion resettled as Lady Amelia pivoted in Spencer’s direction. “But why would he do that?”

Bellamy said, “Care to answer the lady, Your Grace?”

Spencer stared hard out the carriage window. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the horse.”

“But Mr. Bellamy has said, one token is sufficient for securing breeding privileges. Why insist on obtaining them all? Why such greed?”

Spencer heard the accusation in her voice. She blamed his “greed” for her brother’s debt. “Where Osiris is concerned, I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I don’t like to share.”

Bellamy shook his head. “There you have it, Lady Amelia. His Grace is uninterested in brotherhood, friendship, the preservation of a fixture in London society. He only cares for the horseflesh involved. I tell you, Morland—you may not like to share, but you’ll have to. You’re not getting my token unless you pry it from my cold, dead hands. The Stud Club was Leo’s creation, and I’ll not allow you to destroy his legacy.”

“But you do want me to marry his sister.”

“No. Er, yes.” Bellamy growled with frustration. “I mean, I do not want it. I wish to God there were someone—anyone—else. But there isn’t.”

Lady Amelia made a strange, inarticulate noise. Did it convey dismay? Frustration? Amusement? At least she wasn’t weeping any longer.

Clearly, Bellamy could not translate her outburst any better than Spencer could. Cocking his head, he eyed the two of them carefully. “That is, unless you are already engaged. Did we interrupt something on the terrace back there?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, laughing as she did. “Whatever you interrupted, it was not that.”

“Then, Your Grace, honor compels you to make an offer to Lily.”

“Excuse me,” said Lady Amelia, “but precisely what is honorable about deciding a woman’s future without so much as soliciting her opinion? If Lily wanted to marry, she might have done so years ago. We are not living in the Dark Ages, sirs. A lady’s consent is generally considered a prerequisite before any wedding plans are made.”

“Yes, but even in these modern times, sometimes circumstances—such as a death or impending poverty—make a lady’s decision for her.”

“I cannot speak for Lily, Mr. Bellamy. But I can tell you, I have faced such circumstances. And they have never made the decisions for me.”

So, Spencer thought to himself, Lady Amelia had received offers of marriage. And refused them. He had been wondering whether her spinsterhood was a condition arrived at by choice, or merely from a lack of alternatives.

Damn it, why was he wondering about her? Why did he feel this need to know everything about an impertinent, managing, none-too-pretty female? But he did. Oh, he did not want to engage in anything so gauche or peril-fraught as inquiry. He merely wanted a reference—the comprehensive codex of all things Amelia Claire d’Orsay. A chart of her ancestry back to the Norman invaders. The catalogue listing every book she’d ever read. A topographical map indicating the precise location of every freckle on her skin.