One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

He nodded.

She knew it well by reputation. Though the current duke never entertained, his aunt and uncle had, and the older society matrons sometimes waxed nostalgic about the epic grandeur that was Braxton Hall. It was said to be the largest, most lavish house in East Anglia, surrounded by beautiful parklands and gardens.

She allowed herself one quiet, plaintive sigh for those gardens.

“Have no doubt that I will provide for your every material comfort. In return, I ask only that you continue to receive my attentions until such time as a son is born. And of course, I will demand your fidelity.”

She recalled his terse words last night, when he spoke of that blasted stallion: I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I do not like to share. Such words, such a tone, such an attitude of absolute entitlement—they were repugnant in reference to a horse. They were perfectly debasing, when applied to a woman. Debasing and demeaning and … God help her, arousing.

“I see,” she said, struggling for equanimity. “And may I expect your fidelity in kind?”

“Curse that Wollstonecraft woman. Very well. Until you have birthed a son, you may be assured of my faithfulness. At that time, we can revisit our arrangement. If you wish, we need not even live on the same estate.”

It only became worse. So she was not even to be possessed, but merely to be rented.

When confronted with her stunned silence, he added, “Is that not egalitarian?”

“Egalitarian, yes. Also cold, convenient, and heartless.”

“Well, you can hardly be expecting romantic declarations. They would be transparently false, and an insult to us both.”

Amelia rose to her feet and said calmly, “I do find myself sufficiently insulted for one morning.”

“My patience is also at an end.” He met her in the center of the room. “I have made you an offer of marriage. I am certain it is the most generous and beneficial offer you will ever receive—likely the last such offer you will ever receive. I have answered all your impertinent questions and made you some extremely generous promises. Now, madam, may I have your answer?”

Oh, yes. She would give him an answer.

But she would take some satisfaction from him first.

“One last question, Your Grace. You have said earlier, you would not find it a chore to bed me. How am I to be assured of the same? Perhaps I would find it a chore to bed you.”

He took a step backward, as though he needed the extra distance to properly glare at her. Or perhaps because he suspected her of carrying an infectious disease of the brain.

She smiled, enjoying the triumph of setting him on edge. “Don’t look so alarmed, Your Grace. I do not intend to squeeze your thigh.”

At this moment, she made the error of dropping her gaze to those thighs. Those very thick, very muscular thighs that looked as squeezable as granite.

“Don’t you?”

She wrenched her eyes back up to his face. “No. You see, when it comes to such matters, women appreciate a touch more finesse.”

He gave a derisive, but—she imagined—also defensive laugh.

“I may be a virgin, Your Grace, but I am not ignorant.”

“Don’t tell me. More subversive reading material?”

She ignored his feeble attempt at taunting. “Before I give an answer to your proposal, I would like to perform an experiment of my own.”

A wild panic flared in his eyes. Or perhaps that amber spark was desire?

Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. It was panic, surely panic. And she relished it.

“What sort of experiment did you have in mind?”

“A kiss.”

“Is that all?” He stepped forward, angling his head as though he would press a chaste kiss to her cheek.

She held up a hand between them. “On the lips, if you please. And do it properly.”

“Properly.” Disbelief echoed in his tone.

His gaze searched her face, and Amelia inwardly cringed as she pictured herself through his eyes. Plump cheeks, gone bright pink with a blush. Puffy eyes, certainly not improved by the purple circles under them this morning. Disheveled blond hair, hanging loose against one side of her neck. What had she been thinking, to bait him thus? Why not simply refuse his proposal and be done with it?

Because she wanted this, she admitted. She wanted this kiss. She wanted to feel wanted. In all honesty, some depraved part of her wanted to go back to his carriage and do everything differently. To find out what would have happened if she hadn’t startled and moved away, but allowed him to keep caressing and kneading her thigh. Perhaps trail his fingers up and up, to the warm, damp place between her legs …

The very thought made her weak.

His gaze settled on her lips.

She held her breath. Braced herself. Grew an inch out of sheer anticipation.

And then he took two steps away.