One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

And this must be Claudia. Hadn’t Spencer said his ward was visiting relations in York? But it could be no one else. The family resemblance was subtle, but clear. The cousins shared the same dark, curling hair and fine cheekbones—features that must recall their fathers’ side of the family. Claudia’s innocent features contrasted with a developed figure. She teetered on that fulcrum between youth and womanhood.

“What are you doing home?” Spencer called to her. “You’re meant to be in York another week yet.”

“Oh, I begged them to send me home early. And when the decrepit old bat refused, I simply misbehaved until she was glad to be rid of me. We sent a letter, but it must have crossed you on your journey.” The young lady tripped down the cascading river of marble that formed the front hall stairs, pale pink muslin fluttering behind her. As she hurried toward the duke, everything about her—from her fists balled in excitement to her bright, flushed expression—bespoke joy and affection. The girl clearly adored him.

“Incorrigible chit.” The words might have been a reproach, but Amelia didn’t miss the warmth softening his eyes. In his own reserved, masculine way, he clearly adored her, too.

The realization hit Amelia very queerly. It was encouraging, she supposed, to learn that her new husband was capable of genuine, tender affection. But it was also disheartening, to contrast that depth of emotion with his treatment of her.

When Claudia reached the bottom of the stairs, she rushed toward her guardian at a startling velocity. At the last second, however, she pulled up short and looked askance at Amelia. “Is this my new companion?”

Amelia’s already-upset stomach clenched further. This didn’t bode well.

“No,” Spencer said slowly. “No, she is not your new companion.”

“Of course not.” Claudia smiled. “Just from looking at her, I knew she must be the new companion’s lady’s maid, but I wanted to be certain she wasn’t the companion first. It would have been rude of me to assume otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Amelia swiveled to face Spencer, so slowly she heard her own vertebrae creak. Then she lifted her eyebrows. It was all the reaction she could manage.

Oblivious, Claudia went on, “Is my new companion traveling separately?”

Spencer clenched his jaw. “There is no new companion.”

“But …” Her brow wrinkled. “But you promised that when you came back from Town, you’d br—”

“Claudia.” At the sharp command in his voice, the girl startled and looked up at him with the bewildered eyes of a puppy that had just been kicked. Heavens, this just became worse and worse.

Spencer lifted Amelia’s hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. She stared stupidly at her own fingers, resting leaden and numb atop his arm.

“Lady Claudia,” he said firmly, obviously hoping to inspire some return to decorum, “may I introduce Amelia Claire d’Orsay Dumarque, the Duchess of Morland. She is not your new companion. She is my new bride.”

“Your …” Claudia stood blinking at Amelia. Then she turned and blinked up at Spencer. “Your …”

“My wife. The duchess. Your new cousin.” He gave her a pointed look. “The lady to whom you must curtsy and apologize. Now.”

The girl dipped in a curtsy, tripping over a few words of apology. Then she looked up at Spencer with the resentful eyes of a puppy that had been kicked not once, but many times.

“I’m …” Amelia cleared her throat. “I’m so happy to meet you, Claudia. The duke has told me many wonderful things about you.”

“How curious,” she said. “None of his letters mentioned you at all.”

“Claudia,” Spencer warned.

Amelia squeezed his arm, then withdrew her hand. “I do hope we can be friends,” she said brightly, moving forward to lay the same hand on Claudia’s wrist. It was probably futile, but she had to make the attempt.

A prolonged, awkward silence ensued. Just when Amelia thought the tension could not possibly become worse, it did.

Claudia began to cry.

“You married?” Ignoring Amelia entirely, the girl turned brimming eyes on Spencer. “Without even telling me? How could you—”

“Hush,” he muttered, drawing his ward aside. “Don’t make a scene.”

Amelia almost laughed. Too late for that bit of advice. Truly, she couldn’t blame the girl. In any normal betrothal, they would have become acquainted well before the wedding. Claudia would have had weeks or months to adjust to the idea of a new duchess at Braxton Hall, rather than having Amelia thrust upon her unawares one afternoon. No, she couldn’t fault the girl for her resentment. She faulted Spencer for it. It was just one more example of the duke making an impulsive, arrogant decision with no regard for the feelings of those affected.

“Well,” she said, “the two of you must have a great deal to discuss.” She turned her back on Spencer. “Mrs. Bodkin, would you be so kind as to show me to my chambers now? We can discuss dinner arrangements on the way.”

The housekeeper brightened. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Cook will be so pleased to receive your direction. Have you special recipes or menus?”