One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

“Drat,” she muttered.

“I see you don’t like to lose any more than your brother does.”

“No one likes to lose.”

When it came to games and sport, Amelia did have a competitive streak. Losing always put her in a foul temper. Therefore, her temper grew increasingly short as the hand progressed, for Spencer, after building an insurmountable lead in the reckoning of points, went on to take nearly every trick. But it wasn’t simply losing the hand of cards that had her frustrated. No, it was everything else she’d lost thanks to this man. If not for the duke’s equine obsession and luck with cards, at this moment she could have been packing her belongings for a summer at Briarbank. And Jack would have been coming with her.

Once her defeat was confirmed—confirmed, and then underscored—Amelia quietly gathered the cards and began to shuffle them anew.

“I thought you only wanted to play one hand,” he said dryly.

She spared him no word—just a brief, sharp look. As if her pride would allow her to walk away after that drubbing she’d just been handed.

“You should have discarded the knave of hearts,” he told her as she dealt. “Don’t aim to collect sets, aim to win the tricks.”

Discard the knave, indeed.

But though she hated taking his advice, she did so. Once again, she had two knaves in her hand; this time she discarded both and reaped a king in return. Spencer still won the game, to her chagrin, but by a much narrower margin.

“Better,” he said, as he gathered the cards for his deal. “But next time, lead with your ace.”

And so it went, over several hands. She gained on him slowly, coming closer and closer to victory—but each time still falling short. After each hand, he offered her a point of strategy, which she begrudgingly incorporated into her own play. At last, on one of his turns as dealer Amelia reaped a very lucky hand of cards, including two aces and a septième. Falling silent to marshal all her powers of concentration, she discarded strategically, played her cards in the most advantageous sequence, caught a stroke of luck when he had no red king … and won.

“I won,” she said, staring with disbelief at the played-out cards on the table.

“You did. This once.”

She smiled. “Watch me do it again.” She reached out to gather the cards for her deal, but he put out a hand and trapped hers against the table.

“Care to make it interesting?”

His hand was heavy atop hers, and warm. Amelia’s heart began to beat a little faster. “Do you mean a wager?”

He nodded.

“Four hundred pounds,” she said impulsively. If she could win back Jack’s debt, her brother would not have to avoid Spencer any longer. Perhaps he could even come to Braxton Hall for an extended, wholesome country holiday, away from London and his wastrel friends.

“Very well. If you win, I will pay you four hundred pounds.” He released her hand. “And if I win, you will come sit on my lap and lower your bodice.”

Oh dear. Her hands curled into tight fists—one still on the table, the other in her lap. “I … I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. If I win this hand, you must come sit on my lap, lower your bodice, and expose your br**sts to me.”

“And then what will you do?”

One of his dark brows lifted in a clear signal of carnal intent. “Whatever I wish.”

Amelia’s mind whirled. Dare she take his wager? The odds were against her. He was clearly the superior player, despite her gains of the last hour and this one paltry victory. But she wanted so badly to clear Jack’s debts on her own.

Even more than that, she wanted to best Spencer at his own game and watch that superior look slide straight off his smooth-shaven face.

But another part of her—a heated, yearning, deeply feminine part of her—perversely wanted to lose. To sit on his lap and strip this dress from her body and feel those strong, sculpted hands cup her bared br**sts. And that ought to have been the strongest argument for getting up and leaving the table that instant.

“You will remain clothed?” she asked. She was an utter fool.

“But of course.”

“There must be a time limit.”

He nodded his agreement. “A quarter hour.”

“Five minutes.”

“Ten.” He removed a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the table.

Her fists uncurled, and she ran one damp palm over her skirts before reaching for the cards. “Agreed.”

With trembling fingers, Amelia began to gather the cards. The duke’s small discard pile lay off to one side, with the result that she reached for it last and added it to the bottom of the pile. As she turned the deck on its side to divide it for shuffling, the card she saw gave her a violent start.

The ace of spades.