One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

“I do.” A genuine smile warmed Amelia’s face. Here was some consolation. “An entire book of them.”


The handful of hours between Amelia’s arrival at Braxton Hall and dinner were a whirlwind. Ill or no, she had little time to rest. This was her first evening in residence as the Duchess of Morland. She might have entered the house looking like a poorhouse case, but by the time she descended those marble stairs for dinner, she was resolved that she would look and act the part of a duchess.

No one would mistake her for a paid companion, or worse, a lady’s maid.

Dinner plans were no simple task. She was forced to rely on Mrs. Bodkin’s estimate of the kitchen stores and devise an elegant yet simple menu that could be prepared from available foodstuffs within the allotted time. Fortunately, the housekeeper seemed overjoyed to assist in any way. After sending the older woman off to the kitchens with a list of dishes, a few custom recipes, and many verbal instructions for the cook, Amelia permitted herself ten minutes’ rest on a chaise longue covered in sumptuous brocade. Her entire suite of rooms—she’d counted six of them so far—was decorated in positively regal shades of royal blue, cream, and gold. From where she lay, she studied the intricate Greek key pattern trimming the plastered ceiling. If she let her head fall to one side, she saw four exquisitely turned wooden legs supporting a polished stone tabletop, which held a blue-and-white Chinese vase, which in turn accommodated a large arrangement of fresh-cut flowers.

Orchids. At last, she had her orchids.

The entire tableau was one of beauty, elegance, and harmony. Merely gazing upon it filled her with quiet joy. After years of living with Winifred’s ostentatious displays of pink shells and overfed cherubs, Amelia reveled in the abundant evidence of her precursor’s restraint and good taste.

For ten minutes. And then she went back to work.

Once the maid had drawn her bath, Amelia sent her off to press the new pearl-gray silk from her wedding. The gown was unquestionably the best she had, and this occasion demanded her best.

Amelia could manage a bath on her own—she’d done so for years—but time was short, and she couldn’t be late for dinner. This was what she’d been waiting for all her life, to be mistress of her own house. She would show Spencer and Claudia both. Soon they would adore her. They would wonder how they’d ever survived without her. One well-planned, satisfying meal, and the duke would realize his immense fortune in marrying a plain, unassuming spinster. He might even rise from his seat, walk the length of the table, and humbly kneel at her side, gazing up at her with sheer worship in his eyes. Amelia, he would say, in that husky, thrilling voice of his, I don’t know how I’ve lived without you. You’ve made our house a home. I’ll do anything, say anything. Just promise me you’ll never, ever leave.

Or so it was amusing to dream.

Working quickly before the water could go cold, Amelia wrestled out of her traveling habit. Stripped down to chemise and stays, she then stood in the center of the room, uncertain what to do with the dress. She didn’t want to just throw the whole dusty mess atop a clean bed. Another lady might have dumped the garments in a heap on the floor, but Amelia’s sense of tidiness and her respect for good fabric just wouldn’t allow it. Surely this room had a closet with a hook or two …

Turning slowly in place, she spied a sliding wood panel to one side of the bed. It blended so perfectly into the wainscoting, she hadn’t noticed the closet on first inspection.

Enjoying the way the carpet’s thick pile cushioned her bare toes, she hurried to the door. It was heavier than she’d expected, but by leaning her full weight into the effort, she managed to slide it open.

On the other side was Spencer.

Upon seeing her, he froze—right in the middle of removing his shirt.

“Oh!” Mortified, Amelia dropped the entire bundle of fabric. Which only increased her embarrassment, since she now stood before him in just her shift and stays. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. Her eyes riveted to the rippling muscles of his abdomen and the line of dark hair bisecting them. “I … I thought this was a closet.”

Lowering his shirt, he flicked a bemused glance at the room behind him. “No. Not a closet.”

“Of course not.” Her face burned. Obviously it was the duke’s bedchamber—an exact mirror of her own, but done up in rich, masculine colors and fabrics—and this sliding door connected the two suites. “I just wasn’t expecting … I mean, this arrangement is very—”

“Convenient?”

“Unusual. That’s what I meant to say.”

She shifted her weight uneasily. His gaze dipped to her bosom.

She added, “I mean, I’ve never seen this sort of papering before, done up in such complimentary colors. It’s so clever, the way the gold in my room is mirrored with a dark blue in yours, but both carpets have the same pattern of …”