One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

He peered out the coach window into the gray-amber dawn. The London streets swarmed with fruit and fish vendors, live-out servants and laborers on their way to their posts. The early-morning bustle slowed the coach’s progress considerably.

But then, he was in no great rush. The two other men and Leo’s grieving sister had already been deposited at Harcliffe Manor. He and Lady Amelia were the sole passengers remaining, and the coachman was welcome to take his time. For once, Spencer was not eager to be alone.

“This has been a most extraordinary night,” he said softly, almost to himself.

“Indeed,” she replied.

Fatigue, coupled with the incredible nature of the night’s events, had left him in a strange state. He had taken Lily’s exhortations to heart. Harcliffe’s death was indeed an effective memento mori, as the medieval saying went. “Remember that you will die.” Were something to happen to him, Spencer would not want Claudia caught in Lily’s predicament. Fortunately, there were concrete actions he could take to avoid such an outcome, and he intended to see to them directly.

This very morning, as a matter of fact.

“It was a very grave shock,” he said. “But Lily seems to have taken it well.”

“Perhaps it seems so, to you. But I know better. Leo’s death is only now becoming real to her. When the shock wears off, she will be stricken with grief. I will call again this afternoon. Perhaps offer to stay with her for a few days.” She shot him a look, her blue eyes catching a sharp gleam from the window glass. “Only until other arrangements can be made.”

He tried to understand the anger in her tone, and failed. It was becoming a maddening habit, this trying to understand her.

“Your Grace, if I may speak freely—”

“I haven’t yet managed to prevent you.”

“Your ‘offer’ to Lily last night was unconscionable. I have never encountered a person so vain, arrogant, presumptuous, self-absorbed, and utterly heartless.”

Her charges surprised Spencer, but they did not wound him overmuch. When spoken in such a distraught, irrational tone, words were easy to dodge—like so many china shepherdesses hurled in a fit of pique.

She continued, “From all evidence, you care more for horses than for people.”

“You have concluded wrongly.”

“Oh, have I concluded wrongly?” she said, mocking his deep tone. “How so?”

“It is true that I find the average horse more pleasant to be around than the average person. Most true horsemen would agree. But it does not follow that I value all horses above all people. And I am not pursuing ownership of Osiris simply because he is a horse, but because he is the horse I am determined to have, at any cost.”

“Precisely,” she muttered. “At any cost, including that of friendship, dignity, honor.”

Spencer shook his head. It would be futile to explain his reasons for wanting that horse. She couldn’t comprehend them, even if he tried.

The carriage rattled on, and their elbows rattled against each other. They sat sharing the front-facing seat. Spencer supposed he might have crossed to the opposite seat, once the others had alighted. That would have been the proper thing to do. But he hadn’t felt like moving. Lady Amelia was leaning against him, just slightly—no doubt fatigued and chilled. And once again, he found himself enjoying the soft weight of her body against his.

As that pleasure gathered and spread, so did his unbiddable curiosity. He could not rid his mind of it, this desire to keep speaking with her, to listen to whatever she might say. To discover, to know, to understand.

He said, “You disdain the importance I place on horses.”

“I do. With all due respect to the horses.”

“What is it then, that’s most important to you?”

“My family,” she replied instantly. “And my home.”

“A house in Bryanston Square?” Spencer could not mask his surprise. From the direction she’d given, he knew it must be one of those newer, boxy town houses. Not the sort of history-rich, time-faded abode in which he would picture Lady Amelia d’Orsay.

“No, not that house. That is Laurent’s house, built to his wife’s tastes. I refer to our ancestral home in Gloucestershire. Beauvale Castle is in ruins, but we have a cottage where we summer. It’s called Briarbank, for its position directly overlooking the River Wye.”

“A pleasing prospect.”

“It is. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a house more happily situated. Mama and I, we used to walk out every morning to gather lavender and fresh—” She sniffed. “All my fondest memories are of Briarbank.”

“Will you be leaving Town soon, to summer there?”

She tensed. “Not this year. This year, my brothers intend to let the cottage out. You see, Your Grace, my brother Jack has a debt to pay.”

“I see,” he said, after a pause. “So this is the true root of your anger, my refusal to forgive your brother’s debt. Not my offer to Lily.”