One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

If they were to become acquainted, Spencer could think of no more logical beginning than to know one another in the biblical sense, as God and Nature intended.

Fortunately, Spencer had considerable experience winning over wary creatures, undoing the damage wrought by other men. It had been nearly two decades since he’d broken his first mustang to halter in Canada, and at his stud farm he’d gentled countless horses since—most notably Juno, the mare carrying him now. The trick of it was knowing when to walk away. He’d give a fearful horse a few minutes’ tenderness—stroke her behind the ears, murmur encouragement, give her a reassuring pat on the withers. Nothing too bold. Just enough attention to keep her wanting more. The moment the horse began to relax and enjoy his touch, Spencer would walk away. The next time he entered the enclosure, the once-frightened horse would approach him, eager and unafraid. The technique never failed.

Of course, he’d never plied it on a woman before. He’d never needed to. He knew some men took perverse excitement in conquering a reluctant lover, but he wasn’t one of them. He liked his bed partners to be just that—partners. Willing, engaged, aware of themselves. He’d wanted Amelia because she not only possessed the virtue and lineage he required in a wife, she met his ideals for a lover. When he kissed her, she responded with an instinctive, inventive passion that made his bones weak.

Until those damned accusations planted doubt in her mind, and she’d trembled. Not with pleasure, but with fear. Oh, he could have persuaded her into consummation if he’d wished. But she would have despised him for it this morning, and he wouldn’t have liked himself much, either.

He would coax her out again. It might take a few days—time he really didn’t want to bide—but he was a man of self-discipline. With cards, horses, negotiation … He knew how to be patient when the situation required it, and how to elicit the desired response. Before a week was out, his wife would come willingly, eagerly to his bed.

The key was all in knowing when to walk away.

Amelia surveyed the rooms Spencer had procured. If indeed these accommodations truly counted as “rooms.” The inn’s best suite consisted of a small bedchamber and an even smaller antechamber. The antechamber was furnished with a table and two chairs, plus a sleeping cot, likely intended for servants. Yet both her and Spencer’s trunks had been carried up to the suite, so she assumed he meant to join her.

What he meant to do then, she was afraid to imagine.

One of the inn’s serving girls had brought up a dinner tray. After a day of rough coach travel, the mere smell of stewed beef had Amelia’s stomach roiling. She managed to choke down a bit of bread and tea. Her next thought was to undress quickly and slip into bed before the duke even returned. Surely he wouldn’t disturb her if she was already asleep. Just to be safe, she’d barricade the connecting door with her trunks.

Before she could act on the plan, however, the door opened with a rude creak. In came the duke. He had to fold nearly double to avoid hitting his head on the doorjamb, and with the addition of his imposing presence, the “rooms” shrank further.

A curt nod was his only greeting. And, as he’d caught her with a mouthful of tea, her reply was an audible gulp.

Lord, he was so handsome. She didn’t understand it, but somehow she forgot, when they were apart, what a fine-looking man he was. And every time she reencountered him, the simple fact of his masculine beauty startled her again with fresh, sudden force.

This man is my husband.

This man is my husband.

Surely one of these days the novelty would fade. Or at least she would learn to adjust more quickly, so each time they crossed paths in the corridor, she wouldn’t pull up short and simply stand there, open-mouthed and struck stupid.

Rather as she was doing now.

He removed his coat, unfastened his cuffs, turned up his sleeves, and lathered his hands at the small wash-stand. As he rinsed them, he asked, “You’ve eaten?”

“As much as I care to. And you?”

He nodded. “Downstairs.”

After carefully folding his coat and laying it across a trunk, he worked loose his cravat. Next he sat in one of the chairs and began on his boots. He really was remarkably self-sufficient, for a man of his rank. Amelia supposed he must not have been raised with a valet.

“You needn’t sit with me, if you’d rather be downstairs,” she said nervously. Didn’t men prefer to be down in the tavern, drinking and carousing?

He gave her a disbelieving look. “You think I’d leave you alone in a public inn? Not a chance. This is one of the better establishments, but still …” He shook his head. “At any rate, crowded alehouses really aren’t my idea of a pleasant evening.”

“Why have we stopped at an inn at all? Cambridgeshire isn’t so very far. Couldn’t we have pushed through to your estate?”

“Breaking the journey sets a kinder pace for the horses.”