One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

In sum, he wanted her. Quite fiercely.

He eased his hand up her thigh—one inch, perhaps two. Past the concealed ridge of her garter. Her breathing went from uneven to erratic as he began brushing his thumb back and forth in a slow, even rhythm. He applied enough pressure that his touch dragged the fabric rather than sliding over it, allowing them both to enjoy the sensation of silk and linen gliding over her bare skin. Whatever petticoat she had on was delightfully spare, worn soft and supple by many launderings. Beneath the fabric, her flesh was just the right pliancy. The taut, smooth texture of a ball of risen dough-perfect for grasping, kneading, shaping with his hands.

Erotic images flooded his mind; lust pounded in his blood. He wanted to haul her straight into his lap and wrap those creamy, abundant curves around his body. He would bury his head in that magnificent bosom and clutch her bottom with both hands as he took her, right here in the carriage, letting the swaying motion of the coach bring them closer and closer to release …

Yes, she could offer him all manner of comforts—if she were the sort of woman to oblige a man that way. Simply because she remained unmarried, it did not necessarily follow that she was untouched. In fact, some alteration in the latter condition might explain the former.

There was only one way to find out.

Spreading his fingers, he gave her thigh a light, appreciative squeeze.

With a startled cry, she wrested her skirt from his grasp and scuttled sideways like a crab. There, wedged into the opposite corner of the cab, she stared hard out the window and steadfastly ignored him.

Well, that settled that.

And now Spencer looked out his own glass and prayed for a sudden snarl of unnavigable traffic. For they were nearing Bryanston Square, and thanks to his vivid imagination, he was in no condition to be seen in public.

By the time the coach drew to a halt before an ostentatious rococo edifice, his lust had ebbed. Somewhat. Enough to restore his silhouette to respectability. Spencer alighted first and then posed at the bottom, hand outstretched to assist Lady Amelia in making her descent.

She ignored his hand. And would have walked straight past him altogether, had he not grasped her elbow.

She slowly pivoted to face him. “Your Grace, I thank you for delivering me home. I shall keep you no longer.” When he did not release her, she added through gritted teeth, “You may go.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, steering her up the stairs to the front door, which was already held open by a footman. The servant’s rose-pink livery did much to subdue any lingering carnal impulses. “I’ll see you in. I must speak with your brother.”

“Jack won’t be here. He has his own rooms in Piccadilly.”

“Not him. I meant Lord Beauvale.”

They entered the house two abreast. Only one of the two doors had been opened, forcing them to squeeze together momentarily as they stepped over the threshold. God, her body felt good against his.

“I can’t imagine why you would wish to speak with Laurent.”

“Can’t you?”

“He won’t make good on Jack’s debt, if that’s what you mean.”

The woman was obviously not thinking straight, but Spencer decided not to hold it against her. It had been a long and trying night, after all. “By all public appearances, I’ve abducted you from a ball and kept you out all night. Your brother will no doubt appreciate some explanation and assurances.”

Pulling one of his cards from his breast pocket, he flicked it on the butler’s salver. “We will await the earl in his study.” There, Spencer hoped, he might be safe from these revolting gilt plaster cockleshells hugging the ceiling like barnacles.

Once ushered inside Beauvale’s wood-paneled, shell-free study, they stood awkwardly in the center of the room. As a gentleman, he could not sit until she did—and the idea of sitting had apparently not occurred to her. Her hair had half-fallen from its coiffure, giving her a lopsided appearance. The blue silk that had so closely hugged her curves the evening previous now showed obvious signs of fatigue.

Her eyes widened at the way he was boldly appraising her form.

Spencer gave her an unapologetic shrug. “That gown has done its service, and then some. Earned its pension, I should say.”

Red bloomed from her throat to her hairline. Her jaw worked a few times. “Are you quite finished insulting me?”

“I did not insult you. That gown insults you.”

“You—” She made a gesture of exasperation. “You, sir, have no understanding of women. None at all.”

“Does any man?”

“Yes!”

Spencer cocked his head. “Name one.”

At that moment, the Earl of Beauvale entered. His hair was damp and freshly parted, and his cuffs remained unfastened. Obviously, he’d dressed in a hurry.