One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

She took that narrow window of opportunity and bolted through it. Ducking under his arm, she darted sideways and ran for the other side of the room.

With a curse, he lunged at her. Instead of skirting the bed as she had, he vaulted atop it, attempting to cut off her path of retreat. He fell to his knees on the mattress, pitching forward to grab at her as she passed. He caught only a fold of her skirt, and the fabric tore as she wrestled away.

She hurried toward the connecting door, glancing back to see him sprawled on the bed, clutching a swatch of shredded muslin and glaring pure murder.

“Damn it, don’t you run from me.”

Marshaling all her strength, she slid back the panel. The creak of wood was matched by a creak of the mattress as he hastened to rise and give chase. With a little cry of alarm, she scurried through the door and began to slide it closed. Just as the panel was nearly shut, his hand shot into the narrowing gap. But the door’s momentum and Amelia’s desperate energy were too much for him this time. The door banged home, mashing his fingers against the jamb.

Roaring in pain, he withdrew his hand, and the weight of her body propelled the panel to its resting place. With trembling fingers, Amelia fitted and secured the door’s only latch, locking herself in Spencer’s bedchamber.

Breathing hard, she turned her back to the door and melted against it with relief.

Bang.

She jumped. He pounded the door again, and then again.

“Let me in there,” he demanded, his voice muffled by the thick wood.

She swallowed hard. “No.”

“What’s to keep me from walking around and entering the other way?”

“I’ve locked that door, too,” she lied, rattling the keys on her chatelaine.

More muffled curses. Then the loud crash of something breaking against the wall.

She hugged herself tight, trying to stop trembling. Suddenly, the door panel shifted against her back, as if he’d leaned his weight on the other side.

And everything went quiet.

On the outside, at least. Inside Amelia, a whole symphony was playing. Her pulse drummed furiously in her ears. A phantom violist played frantic melodies on the taut strings of her nerves. And in her heart, a chorus of thousands sang. Hallelujah, hosanna, glory be to God on high!

Spencer wanted her. He really, truly, desperately wanted her. Her, Amelia. She wasn’t “just” a wife to him, a mother for his heirs. He’d said it himself, he could have married “just anyone” years ago. She was reason enough for a duke to debase himself by crawling through the seediest districts of London. Reason enough for the most horse-mad gentleman she’d ever known to risk the health of a valuable, favored mount.

She had pretty eyes. And delectable ears. She touched her fingers to her own earlobes, absurdly wishing she had some way to taste them and judge for herself.

He’d called her an artist. She had a remarkable brain, he’d said. He enjoyed arguing with her. He’d thought of her all day.

Oh, my. Oh my God.

She’d waited her whole life to feel this way. Really, truly wanted. Not just nice to have around, or vaguely lusted after, but desired for both her body and her mind. Joy shouted from every corpuscle of her body—and she needed to be alone with it for just a little while longer, or …

Or she would fall in love with him so hard, so fast, she would crash straight through the floor.

“Amelia?” His voice was very near, and rough with fatigue. She pressed her ear to the door to make it out. He said, “I hope you didn’t like that china shepherdess.”

She smiled a wide, secret smile. Quintessential Spencer apology.

“I’m bloody tired,” he said, sounding defeated. “I’m going to sleep in your bed now.”

The door didn’t move. So she knew, neither had he.

Turning her head, Amelia spoke softly—at a volume he could only hear if he was pressing his own ear to the door and listening very hard. “Is your hand all right?”

Moments passed.

“I think so.”

“I’ll have a look at it in the morning.”

“On second thought, it may be broken.”

Smiling again, she ceased leaning against the door and stood under her own power. With a little rattle, the panel shifted as he removed his weight from the other side. She slid back the latch and pushed open the door to find him waiting for her.

“Let me see,” she said, extending an arm.

He laid his wounded hand in hers, palm up. His breathing was a slow, seductive rasp as she made her examination. His skin was dry and warm and a little roughened with wear, but each finger wiggled easily. She noted no swelling or blood.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“I know.”