One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

“Spencer?”


His boot thunked against the brick-tiled floor. He looked up, and there, framed by the tall, square entryway, was Amelia. Or some new, luminous version of her.

“You …” His voice died as he remembered he just wasn’t the sort of man to blurt out By God, you look lovely in the middle of a horse barn. Or anywhere. He cleared his throat. “You came.”

“You sound surprised.” Lifting her eyebrows, she gave him a coy smile. “Thank you,” she added, dropping a hand to her skirt. “For this.”

Spencer rebuffed her thanks with a wave of his hand. Really, he should be thanking her. He didn’t recall specifying a color for her riding habit, but he couldn’t have possibly chosen better. The dark blue velvet skirt was cut and draped to stunning effect. The jacket was pieced together like mother-of-pearl inlay, angled and sewn so that each panel’s brushed nap caught the light differently, and the result was that Amelia shone. Sparkled, really, like an expertly cut and polished sapphire, offset by the gold filigree curls of her hair, and—

And bloody hell. When had he started thinking like this? About anything?

The longer he stood there, staring and not speaking, the further her smile widened.

“I’m ready for my first lesson,” she said. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Though his lips formed the word easily enough, his boots seemed rather bolted to the floor.

As she approached him, Spencer realized he’d been utterly wrong—it wasn’t anything about the new dress that made her look so appealing. The allure was all in the way she wore it. The way those curvaceous hips traded her skirts back and forth as she walked. She was cloaked in sensual confidence, and by God, she wore it well.

He cleared his throat. “We’re going to take this slowly. Of course I don’t intend to put you in a saddle today, not after …” He cleared his throat again. His face felt hot. God, could he truly be blushing?

“Is this a bad idea?” she said, looking suddenly self-conscious and unsure. “Perhaps we should wait for another day.”

“No, no. It’s a very good idea. Every lady should know how to handle horses. For her own safety, if nothing else.”

And it was a good idea for other reasons, he admitted to himself. He looked forward to spending time with her, outside of a bed. Showing her this important part of his life, so that she might come to understand what the stud farm meant to him, as well as what it didn’t. Gratifying as it had been to view her jealousy last night, he didn’t wish to awaken to her resentment every morning.

She craned her neck, surveying the vaulted ceiling. “This place looks very different in daylight. Would you give me a tour?”

He released the breath he’d been holding. “Certainly.”

He offered his arm, and she took it. They ambled slowly through the stables and outbuildings as Spencer told her of the history of the structure—built by his grandfather, expanded by his uncle, improved yet again by him—and explained the operations of the stud farm. Her comments and questions were few, but they reflected genuine interest and appreciation. No polite “I see”s or disingenuous “How very interesting”s, but rather “Is this brick locally produced?” (Yes), and “Do you breed your mares every year?” (No), and “Have you foals? Please, may we go see the foals?”

Well, of course. He should have known to start with the foals. Good Lord, the way she cooed and fawned over the ribby, spindle-legged creatures … As she crouched in the grass to stroke a white filly through the fence, Spencer considered putting the animal on a ribbon and letting it follow him around Braxton Hall. At least he’d be assured his wife’s warm reception whenever he entered a room.

“How old is she?” Amelia clapped with delight as the filly made a gangly dash for the far side of the paddock.

“Going on three months. And showing off already.”

“She’s beautiful. Can I have her?” She turned and smiled up at him. “For my riding lessons, can I choose her?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her brow wrinkled in disapproval.

“As a yearling, she’ll fetch a thousand guineas, at least,” he protested. “She can’t be saddled for a year, and even then she wouldn’t be a safe mount for you. She’s from racing stock, bred for short bursts of reckless speed. Her dam’s last colt won at Newmarket. What you need is a mature, steady gelding.”

“Do you at least have a pretty one?”

He chuckled. “Take your pick, and I’ll have the grooms braid ribbons in his mane.”