One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

He said evenly, “When you draw that comparison, you demean us both. I have many fine mares in my stables, and yet there is not a one of them I would allow to mother my children or manage my household, much less introduce my cousin to society. No, I do not want a broodmare. I want a wife. A duchess.”


At that moment, the magnitude of his offer struck Amelia with sudden force. It was fortunate she was still sitting down. This man would make her the Duchess of Morland. If she accepted him—barbaric, unfeeling creature that he was—she would become one of the highest-ranking, wealthiest ladies in all England. She would host grand parties, move in the most elite circles of society. And at last—oh, her heart turned over at the thought …

“I would be mistress of my own house,” she whispered.

“In point of fact, you would be mistress of six. But I almost never travel to the Scottish one.”

Amelia gripped the arm of the chair, hard. As if she might slide right off it and fall into wedlock if she didn’t hold on with all her strength. Good heavens, six estates. Surely one of them could use a vicar. She could convince Jack to resume his studies and take orders, see him settled in a wholesome country vicarage, far away from his ruffian friends …

No, no, no. There were a thousand reasons why she must refuse the duke. There had to be. She just couldn’t think of them right now.

“But …” she stammered, “but we scarcely know one another.”

“In the past several hours, I have observed you at a social event, witnessed your composure during a difficult ordeal, and engaged you in conversation that hovered some distance above the usual banalities. I am familiar with your ancestry, and I know that you come from a family rife with sons, which bodes well for my purposes of getting an heir. For my part, I am satisfied. But if you wish, you may ask me questions.” He cocked an eyebrow in anticipation.

She swallowed. “What is your age?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Have you other close family, besides this cousin?”

“No.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Of course. She is Lady Claudia, fifteen years of age.”

“Is she here with you, in Town?”

“No. She has spent the past few months in York, visiting her mother’s relations.”

Amelia paused, uncertain where to go from here. What sort of questions did one ask a gentleman of his stature? It would seem absurd to inquire after a duke’s favorite color, or preferred glovemaker. Finally she blurted out, “Do you object to cats?”

He grimaced. “Only in principle.”

“I should like to keep cats.” She perked in triumph. Here it was, her escape route from this bizarre proposal.

He tapped a finger on the desktop. “If you can keep them out of my way, I suppose that desire can be accommodated.”

Drat. No escape there.

She tried again. “What is the last book you read?”

“A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, by Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“You are joking.”

“Yes, I am.” The corner of his mouth curled in a sly, sensual manner. “Actually, I read that book some years ago.”

“Truly? And what did you think?”

“I think …” He pushed off from the desk and stood, regarding her with cool challenge in his eyes. “I think you are stalling, Lady Amelia.”

Her pulse did stall, for a moment. Then it jolted back to life, pounding feverishly in her throat. Why didn’t God apportion fine looks in equal accordance with deserving personalities? A horrid man ought to be horrid-looking. He should never be gifted with dark, curling, touchable hair; nor the noble, sculpted cheekbones of a Roman god. He most especially should not possess entrancing, deep-set hazel eyes and a wide, sensual mouth that was near devastating in repose, but even further improved by the presence of a knowing little smile.

Time for desperate measures.

“If I marry you, will you forgive Jack’s debt?”

Say no, she willed silently. Please say no, or I cannot be responsible for my actions. If you say yes, I may be driven to embrace you. Or worse, give my consent.

“No,” he said.

Waves of relief and disappointment crashed within her, leaving Amelia feeling rather adrift. But her course was now clear. “In that case, Your Grace, I’m afraid I cannot—”

“I will, of course, settle a substantial sum on you, as part of the marriage contracts. Twenty thousand, I should think, and some property. In addition, you would receive a generous allowance for your discretionary spending. Several hundred pounds.”

“Several hundred pounds? A year?”

“Don’t be absurd. Quarterly.”

Amelia’s mind blanked. In recent years, she’d become expert at counting up small sums of money, down to the last ha’penny. Two shillings, ten pence at the draper’s, and so forth. But sums so large as these … they simply weren’t in her arithmetic.

“Your allowance will be yours to spend as you wish, but I would advise against wasting tuppence on your brother. Even if you pay his debt, you won’t be summering at your cottage. You’ll come to my estate in Cambridgeshire.”

“Braxton Hall.”