One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

“You’re mad.”


“You’re sickening,” Bellamy said. “My gut twists, to think I almost allowed you to marry Lily. And it makes perfect sense, why you wouldn’t. Imagine, sitting across the table from her every day for the rest of your life, knowing you were responsible for her brother’s death. Keeping company with your own damning guilt.”

“Stop this,” Lily said. “Julian, you don’t know what you’re saying. This is nonsensical. We have no reason to believe that missing token had anything to do with Leo’s death. And simply because His Grace declined to—”

Bellamy ignored her. “Couldn’t stand the thought of it, could you? No, you’d sooner pay Lily off.” He jerked his chin toward Amelia. “And shackle yourself to the first available female just to settle the matter.”

It had been fourteen years since Spencer had lashed out at a man in a moment of blinding white fury—but he hadn’t forgotten how to land a punch. His knuckles made a satisfying thwack as they connected with Bellamy’s jaw, sending the man sprawling. The bank draft fluttered to the carpet as Bellamy struggled to his feet.

Spencer hauled back his fist for another punch, but before he could swing, Beauvale leapt forward to grab his arm.

“You see?” accused Bellamy, rubbing his jaw. “He’s dangerous. He wants to kill me, too.”

“I do now,” Spencer ground out. He shrugged out of Beauvale’s grip.

“And need we guess who’s next? Everyone knows what you did to Ashworth at Eton.”

“Oh, do they?” Spencer turned to the soldier. “And what, precisely, did I do to Ashworth at Eton?” Damn it, he’d been sent down for that fight. He’d tacitly accepted all the blame. The blackguard had better not sell him out at his own wedding.

Ashworth shrugged. “Obviously something less than killing me.”

“Julian, please.” Lily went to Bellamy’s side. She touched a finger to the corner of his mouth, where blood oozed from his cracked lip. “I know you are hurting and angry. I know you want someone to blame, some means of avenging Leo’s death. But surely you’re mistaken.”

“Am I?”

The room went quiet. Uncomfortably quiet, as all eyes trained on Spencer. He felt the keen scrutiny of every person in the room: Bellamy, Lily, Ashworth, Beauvale, the curate … Amelia.

She spoke first. “You are mistaken, Mr. Bellamy. I was there when he learned of Leo’s death. It took His Grace completely by surprise, I assure you.”

Bellamy dabbed his bleeding lip with the back of his hand. “Forgive me, but your assurances aren’t worth much.”

The knave. Spencer wanted to grind him into this revolting pink carpet and cast both pieces of refuse out onto the street. But he wouldn’t waste the effort. There were more effective ways of wounding a man. Julian Bellamy came from nothing. In the eyes of the ton, he was nothing. And there was no one so well positioned to remind him of it as the fourth Duke of Morland.

“You will refrain,” he said with crisp, aristocratic diction, “from addressing my bride in that familiar manner. You will refrain from speaking to her at all, unless you afford her the respect and deference her superior rank demands. Know your betters.”

A flash of jealous hatred crossed Bellamy’s face, and Spencer knew his cut had slashed deep. Obviously the man harbored a poisonous mix of envy and loathing for the social elite. Someone ought to inform him such an attitude was a grave weakness, ripe for exploitation. But that someone wouldn’t be Spencer.

“As to the value of Lady Amelia’s assurances,” he continued in a low voice meant for Bellamy’s hearing alone, “I assure you, they are worth far more to me than your miserable life. Disparage her again, and you will find yourself at the point of a blade.”

“Spoken like a murderer,” Bellamy growled.

With a careful appearance of nonchalance, Spencer bent to retrieve the bank draft from the carpet. “If Harcliffe’s token is missing, I also have an interest in locating his killers. In one hour’s time, meet me at the mews where Osiris is stabled. We’ll discuss the matter further. But for now …” He carefully pocketed the bank draft, then finally had the satisfaction of speaking the words he’d been longing to say since Bellamy entered the room. “Get out.”

“No, wait.” Amelia clasped her hands together. “Don’t leave. We still need a groomsman.”

Unbelievable. Spencer blinked at her. “Are you seriously suggesting this … this cur should witness our wedding?”

Bellamy put in, “After all you’ve heard and seen, are you still seriously planning to marry this villain?”

“Do I have a choice?” Amelia tilted her face to Spencer’s and studied him quietly.