One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

“I told them that you would need time to absorb this news, time to grieve. I tried to persuade them against presenting you with such decisions tonight, but I do not know if I was successful.”


More accurately, she did not know if Mr. Bellamy’s threats had been successful in removing Morland’s reluctance. She hoped not. And not because she would be jealous. No, envy had nothing to do with this. Whatever her own physical attraction to the duke, Amelia was wise enough not to confuse it with esteem for his character. This evening alone, she’d witnessed more than enough evidence of that gentleman’s callous attitudes toward debt, death, society, friendship, and marriage to know she would not wish such a husband on any woman she called friend.

“Oh dear,” Lily said weakly. Her head sank to the table again. “Don’t tell me. This has to do with that absurd club Leo started, with the horse.”

“Yes.”

“What a ridiculous name he gave it. The Stud Club. I told him, he should have asked me for ideas. I could think of a dozen better things to call it. What’s wrong with the Stallion Society?”

Amelia bit back a laugh, then dipped her head to catch Lily’s attention. “If you like, I’ll send them away. I’ve stood up to them all once already tonight, and I’m not afraid to do it again.”

Pride strengthened her voice as she said this. And why should it not? At some point this evening, between surrendering her last few coins to Jack and claiming the Duke of Morland’s hand, Amelia had stepped outside herself, somehow. Or stepped outside that quiet, unassuming, plain, and proper shell she’d been inhabiting all her life. Scolding a trio of intimidating men was only part of it. She’d confronted a duke, even flirted with him during a sensual waltz. With no success, but still—it went beyond anything she’d dared before. Add to all this, she’d departed the ball under mysterious circumstances, and right now the gossips were probably debating precisely when that well-bred d’Orsay girl had become such a brazen adventuress.

Why, at the stroke of midnight, of course. That was the moment Amelia had ceased to be a pumpkin. And no matter what tomorrow brought, she was proud of herself for that.

“I’ll go chase them off now,” she said, pushing back from the table.

“No,” Lily said. “I’ll speak with them. I know they are grieving, too, and they mean well. Men do have that incurable need to try their hand at fixing things. Even things that can never be mended.”

“I told them you’d want to see Leo.”

“Thank you. Yes, I would.” Her voice was polite and remote. Amelia knew she had entered that numb void of unreality that followed a great shock. For all Lily insisted she’d sensed the truth hours ago and had grown accustomed to the idea in the interim, Amelia knew Leo’s death would not become real to her for some time yet. And when it did, the pain would be near unbearable.

She would not press Lily to confront that grief now. Let her float in that dark nothingness as long as she could.

“Shall I come upstairs with you and help you dress?”

“No, thank you. I’ll do. My maid is awake.”

“Then I’ll wait with the gentlemen until you’re ready. May I direct your cook to have a cold supper sent in? The beasts may prove more docile after a feeding. And if you can manage it, you should take some food, too.”

“Yes, of course. Direct the servants however you think best.” Bracing both hands flat on the table, Lily pushed back her chair and slowly stood. “I’m grateful you’re here, Amelia. You are so very good.”

An hour later, the array of cold meats and cheeses laid out on a serving cart remained largely untouched. The duke sat in a winged armchair in the farthest reaches of the library, impatiently leafing through the pages of a book. If he had looked up once in the past hour, Amelia had not noticed it. And, to her frustration, she found herself watching him a great deal.

The only one of the gentlemen to eat anything had been Lord Ashworth, and he now lay reclined on the divan, eyes closed and massive boots propped on the studded leather ottoman. His attitude of repose did not strike her as disrespectful, however. She might have described it as prudent. A military trait, she assumed. Ashworth was clearly a man who did not allow death to interfere with the unceasing work of survival. He would not waste an opportunity to eat, drink, or rest when it presented itself.

By contrast, Mr. Bellamy had not ceased moving since Amelia entered the room. He’d prowled the floor so many times, she feared he would wear a groove in the parquet. When the doorbell rang, he dashed to answer it himself. The caller was an investigator, Amelia gathered through scraps of overheard conversation, charged with tracking down the footpads who’d murdered Leo.

“Some news?” the duke asked, when Bellamy reentered.