One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

As they turned the corner onto a smoother drive, Amelia glimpsed the Hall’s brick-and-limestone façade in the distance. She hastily patted her face and smoothed stray wisps of hair, anxious to make herself presentable before facing Spencer again.

Dear Lord, how would she face him? A blush scalded her cheeks at the mere idea. What had happened last night, at the inn … Those ten minutes in his lap had been a sensual thrill the likes of which she had never thought to experience. And by undeniable, abundant evidence, his desire for her had not been feigned. She hadn’t felt sorry-looking in his arms last night, but attractive and wanton. Until he’d abruptly called a halt to the evening, leaving her confused and frustrated instead. Had he truly meant to respect their agreed-upon boundaries, or to punish her for setting them?

The carriage door opened, and harsh sunlight flooded the velvet-lined interior. Her headache renewed with double force. She hadn’t expected the sun to be so strong in late afternoon. But as she accepted the footman’s hand and alighted from the coach, Amelia realized it was not the direct rays of the sun that blinded her, but rather their reflection off the gleaming white marble entrance to Braxton Hall.

Blinking, she raised her hand to shield herself from the stabbing attack of grandeur. Briarbank was covered in ivy and moss, and it never made her wince. In a defensive move, she turned her head to the left. No marble there. Just an endless façade of crimson brick, glittering limestone, and glazed windows that faded into the distance, most likely somewhere near Cambridge. She swiveled her head to the right. An equally impressive, equally long façade fronted the Hall’s east wing, seeming to stretch half the distance to the sea.

And it was hers. All hers to manage, to make both a showplace and a home. Amelia battled the urge to hop up and down with delight.

She confined herself to a discreet twirl instead, turning just in time to watch Spencer dismount from his horse in one smooth, elegant motion. Of course, he looked magnificent. A touch of dust dimmed the shine on his Hessians, but it only enhanced his masculine appeal, as did the healthful glow of physical exertion and the bronze cast to his complexion after two days spent in the sun. As he handed the reins to a waiting groom and exchanged a few words with the man, she noticed a relaxed, easier way to his manner. He was even smiling.

Then he turned and caught her eye. The smile disappeared.

“Good Lord.” His boots clicked against stone as he covered the distance between them, and just as Amelia was learning to expect, he took what could have been a mildly awkward situation and made it twelve times worse. “You look dreadful.”

She squirmed under his gaze. “I’m sorry. The carriage …”

“Yes, obviously. Come inside and rest.” Laying a hand to the small of her back, he guided her up the marble steps toward the open door. The muscles flanking her spine were bunched and stiff. His thumb found the worst of the knots and traced firm circles over it. She sealed her lips over a grateful moan.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he chided her. “You might have ridden part of the journey, if you’d liked.”

“I don’t ride.”

He halted, looking down at her. “You don’t ride,” he repeated in a tone of disbelief. “At all?”

“No,” she said, chastened.

“Surely you’re joking. I know your family epitomizes noble poverty, but don’t the d’Orsays have some cattle to their name?”

“Of course we do. I just never cared to learn.”

He merely shook his head and resumed guiding her up the stairs and into the house. The butler and housekeeper came forward to greet them.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.” The silver-haired butler bowed to the duke. He then turned to Amelia and made the same gesture of respect to her. “Your Grace.”

“I gather you received my express,” Spencer said.

“Yesterday morning, Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtsied. “Our congratulations on your marriage. Her Grace’s chambers are aired and readied.”

“Very good. Her Grace is unwell. See that she rests.” In a brisk tone, he introduced the servants as Clarke and Mrs. Bodkin.

“What a lovely entrance hall,” she said, by way of indirect compliment. She hoped to make the housekeeper a quick ally. Peering at one of the dozen gilt-framed paintings on the far wall, she wondered aloud, “Is that a Tintoretto?”

“Yes,” Spencer answered.

“I thought so.” Her family had owned one quite like it, once. It had fetched enough at auction to pay their expenses for a year.

“Spencer!”

Amelia’s gaze jerked to the top of the staircase, where a young woman stood clinging to the banister.

“Spencer, you’re home!”