One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

The Duke of Morland filled the doorway. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Irate.

Not even the brown-black curls at his temple had the temerity to rebel this morning; they appeared to have been ruthlessly subdued with comb and pomade. His impeccable black topcoat and Hessians were matched by an equally dark expression. The duke looked angry, commanding, arrogant—and so intensely attractive it actually pained her to look him in the face. Truly, Amelia felt as though she’d swallowed all three of his nimble little seamstresses, and they were currently stitching the lining of her stomach into pleats.

From behind the duke’s imposing figure, Laurent made a chagrined expression. “Beg pardon. I tried to prevent him.”

“Good heavens, what is it?” In a defensive move, Amelia crossed her arms over her chest. Then she impulsively uncrossed them and clasped her trembling hands behind her back. He was just a man, she reminded herself. Just a mortal, imperfect man. She couldn’t let him cow her—not now, not ever.

“Lady Amelia,” he accused, “you are …” He raked her with a glance, and beneath the pearly silk, a thousand pins pricked her skin. “You are late.”

“Late,” she echoed, disbelieving.

“Eight minutes late.” Striding into the room, he drew a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “The wedding was to begin at half-ten. It is now ten thirty”—he raised an eyebrow and paused dramatically—“nine. Nine minutes late.”

Struggling to remain calm, Amelia advanced to meet him in the center of the room. “Your Grace,” she muttered, “you have allowed me a betrothal of precisely twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours, in which to reorder my life from that of an unmarried woman to that of a duchess. Now you would begrudge me nine minutes’ delay?”

He glowered at her. “Yes.”

Laurent crossed to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder, drawing her away. “Amelia,” he said quietly, “it’s not too late. You needn’t do this, you know.”

At the warm solicitude in his voice, her resolve nearly crumbled. For something like twenty-six hours now, Laurent had been urging her to reconsider this whole enterprise. If she said no, even at the last moment, Amelia knew her brother would support her decision. He’d done the same ten years ago, when she’d been unable to stomach marriage to that horrid Mr. Poste. Never mind the money, he’d insisted, your happiness is worth more than gold.

When she’d been granted that reprieve, Amelia had felt nothing but relief. At the age of sixteen, she never could have conceived that Papa’s debt would balloon so catastrophically, nor that a country widower’s suit would be the last she’d entertain.

Amelia lowered her voice to a whisper. “This is an opportunity, Laurent. An opportunity for us. Once I am a duchess, I can help our brothers in ways even you cannot. The alliance will greatly improve Michael’s chances of marrying well. Perhaps I can secure a living for Jack, get him out of London and away from his unsavory friends.”

Her brother shook his head. “I fear Jack may be a lost cause.”

“Don’t ever say that. If Mama were here, could you say that to her face?”

“If Mama were here, could you marry this man? She wouldn’t have wanted this for you. She wanted her children to marry for love.”

“And yet you defied her,” she said gently.

After Papa died, the debts had mounted higher and higher still. Laurent had made the very sacrifice at which Amelia had once balked: he’d married, sensibly and disaffectionately, to secure the d’Orsay family’s future. She loved him for it and often despised herself for leaving him no other choice. “I can’t cry off this time, Laurent. It isn’t only about the family. I want my own household, my own children. This may be my last chance. I’m not sixteen any longer.”

No, she was older and wiser—and undeniably lonelier. And disagreeable as his demeanor might be, the Duke of Morland compared favorably to Mr. Poste. Morland wasn’t thirty years older than she. He had straight teeth. He didn’t reek of tallow and sweat. He knew how to kiss. Properly.

And he was a duke. A duke with six estates, who would settle twenty thousand pounds on her, and some property besides. In her shortsighted, selfish girlhood, she’d let slip one chance to help her family. If this man saw fit to offer her security and children, Amelia supposed she could promise him punctuality in trade.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Laurent cast a wary glance at the duke. “I’ve no compunction about tossing him out on his ear, if you like.”