One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

Bolting upright in bed, she threw off her coverlet. She wrapped a light blanket around her shoulders and moved to the edge of the mattress, sending her bare toes down to scout the carpet for her slippers.

Inwardly, she resolved to banish all craving for romance. And even if that resolve faltered—what was the worst that could happen, really? She would waste a few months’ unrequited affection on him; he would remain indifferent to her. The world had seen graver injustices. Before long, a baby would fill the void. And the sooner she shared Spencer’s bed, the sooner that baby would come along.

Softly, she padded across the carpet. Now that she’d made the decision, she didn’t want to wait. Nighttime encounters were too personal, too intimate. Surely the act would feel anything but romantic in the bright light of morning. She wouldn’t even bother to brush her hair.

Putting her muscle into it, she slid open the connecting door to Spencer’s room.

He wasn’t there.

A woman was. Two women, actually—a pair of chambermaids, briskly making the bed. Each froze instantly, pillow in hand, to gawp at Amelia. Behind them, a curtain fluttered in the open window, silently mocking her surprise.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the maids said, curtsying briefly before returning to their work.

Amelia firmed her spine and cleared her throat. “My husband …”

“Oh, he’s not here, ma’am. Mr. Fletcher said business took His Grace away early this morning,” said the younger girl. “Before dawn, even.”

Crisp linen snapped. The elder maid gave her partner a stern look, but the young girl chattered on. “The duke’s not expected back until very late, is what I heard.”

“Yes, I know that,” Amelia said firmly, even though she’d had no idea. She made a mental note to speak with Mrs. Bodkin about the staff gossiping, and to question why this Mr. Fletcher was having predawn words with a fresh-faced chambermaid. “What I meant to say was, my husband’s bed linens should have no starch. Remove those, and start again.”

She made as graceful an exit as she could, considering the circumstances. At least she managed not to shut her wrapper in the door. It hadn’t been a lie, that bit about the starch. When she’d removed Spencer’s shirt last night, she’d noticed reddened skin at his throat and wrists—no doubt he was sensitive to whatever starch was being used on his collar and cuffs. She’d speak with his valet later about using an alternate preparation.

If she was going to be mistress of this house, she was going to do it right.

Since she’d worn her gray silk the evening previous, she was forced to select a frock from her own faded, worn wardrobe today. Even the best of her summer dresses—a striped muslin done up just last year, with sage grosgrain ribbon trim—looked drab here at Braxton Hall. Most un-duchessly.

It didn’t help matters when Amelia entered the breakfast room to encounter Claudia dressed in a remarkably similar high-waisted striped muslin frock, except hers boasted lace-trimmed flounces. Two of them. She truly was a lovely girl, with the prospects of becoming a great beauty. But she needed someone to gently guide her behavior, and clearly Spencer wasn’t up to the task.

“Good morning.” Smiling, Amelia laid a plate of kippers and eggs on the table and prepared to seat herself.

Claudia stared at the plate, her features contorting in disgust. Before Amelia’s bottom even touched the chair, the girl shot to her feet and made for the door, two lace flounces bobbing pertly in her wake.

“Claudia, wait.”

She halted, one hand on the doorjamb.

Amelia squared her shoulders. “It may not be my place to say it. But whether you dine with family or strangers, it’s unacceptable to leave the table without excusing yourself.”

“I am ill,” she said mulishly. “And it’s not your place to say it.”

Amelia sighed. The girl was so … so fifteen. And desperately in need of a hug. “You look very well, to my eyes. Won’t you sit down? We need to have a talk. An honest one, woman to woman.”

Claudia let go the doorjamb and slowly turned. “Whatever about?”

“I know you resent me.”

“I …” The girl flushed. “Why, I’m sure I don’t—”

“You resent me. Of course you do. I’m a stranger who has invaded your home without warning and taken your late mother’s role. Perhaps the role you wished to one day assume?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Claudia blushed as she studied the carpet.

“I can’t fault you for being angry,” Amelia said calmly. “I’d feel the same, were I in your place. And to be perfectly honest, I cannot claim to be any better. If it helps at all, I rather resent you, too.”

She looked up. “You? Resent me? Whatever have I done to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But you’re young and pretty, and you look better in stripes than I ever have or will.” She smiled gamely. “When I look at you, I can’t help but see myself at fifteen, when the world was all marvelous, romantic possibility.”