One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)

Shrugging, Jack reached for a sandwich and bit into it eagerly. “Traveling all night on the mail coach leaves a man devilish hungry. The cooks in those posting inns have nothing to match your skill, Amelia.”


“It’s only a bit of cold ham. I’ve ordered all your favorites for luncheon, though.”

“Ah, I knew you would. Even removed to Cambridgeshire, you’re the best sister a fellow could hope to have.”

As Claudia busied herself with the tea things, Amelia leaned forward and addressed him in a low, confidential tone. “The duke will join us any moment. Dare I hope this visit means you’ve raised the funds to pay him?”

“Oh, that?” He reached for a second sandwich. “That debt’s been dispatched already. Rents from the cottage, you remember.”

“Oh.” Amelia blinked. “Yes, of course. That was … fast.”

Why hadn’t Spencer mentioned this? She supposed he hadn’t yet received the payment. So much for their country house party. She hated thinking of Briarbank occupied by strangers, but it did lift a weight from her shoulders, to know that Jack was clear of debt. Perhaps that was the reason for this new lightness in his demeanor.

“How long will you stay?” she asked.

“A few weeks, if you can put up with me. Thought I’d ride over to Cambridge one of these days and see about resuming my studies.”

Her heart soared into her throat, and she swallowed her tea with difficulty. She couldn’t have dreamed of a better morning. First her conversation with Spencer, where he’d finally begun to reveal to her what a good-hearted, remarkable man he was—if inexplicably determined to hide it from the world. And now Jack’s fortuitous arrival, his intention to reform.

It was all so perfect. Jack could stay here for several weeks, away from his miscreant friends. Spencer would be such a good influence on him. Perhaps Jack could even live here when he resumed his studies—Cambridge was only a nine-mile ride away. In time, Spencer could find Jack a living somewhere: a nice vicarage, a few hundred pounds a year. It wasn’t much perhaps, but it would be a good life—and as much as the fourth son of impoverished nobility could reasonably expect. With a summer like that, she would scarcely miss Briarbank.

Brimming with optimism, Amelia nipped a lump of sugar into her tea. “Who did let it, in the end? Briarbank, I mean.”

Instead of answering, Jack rose to his feet. It took her only a moment to discern why.

Spencer stood in the salon entrance, freshly bathed and dressed in immaculate linen and dark, chocolate-brown wool.

Oh, dear. All the sensual excitement of their encounter in the stables … it rushed back in the space of a moment. When Jack had arrived, Amelia had carefully banked the fire of her lust—she’d had no choice—but beneath her every motion and every breath, desire had been quietly smoldering all the while. And now Spencer appeared, and he was … the poker, or the bellows, or the very long straw one used to light tinder—heavens, take any crude male analogy, and it fit. One glance at his tall, strong, handsome figure, and heat washed over her, instantly. Perspiration beaded in inconvenient places—the cleft of her bosom, the backs of her knees, her inner thighs. Even her mouth watered. Her choices seemed to be two: look away, or liquefy. She opted for the former, hoping to spare the silk upholstery of her chair.

“Your Grace.” Jack made an elegant bow. He did have very pretty manners, when he chose to use them.

“Mr. d’Orsay.”

“Oh, come now, Morland. Won’t you call me Jack?” Jack took his seat. “We are brothers now, you know.”

Amelia risked a glance at Spencer then. His face revealed no pleasure at Jack’s sudden familiarity. His eyes were hard and unforgiving. Magnetic and entrancing. Demanding and arousing.

Look away, look away. A good hostess doesn’t salivate.

“Well, Jack.” He strode into the room and joined their group, dropping his muscled frame onto a slender, straight-backed chair that looked, Amelia worried, rather unequal to the challenge. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, then. What is it you want?”

“What do you mean?” she said. “He’s come for a visit.”

“Oh, has he?”

Amelia couldn’t fathom the reasons for Spencer’s suddenly cool demeanor. But Jack didn’t seem overly surprised.

“Yes, of course.” Her brother chuckled nervously. “A visit. Fine way to welcome me.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows in a clear expression of skepticism.

“Perhaps I want to see how you’re treating my sister,” Jack said, his voice growing defensive. “You took her from us rather quickly, don’t you think? And there’s talk”—he leaned forward—“about you.”

“What sort of talk?” Claudia asked.

Everyone froze, surprised by the young lady’s sudden question. By appearances, she’d spent recent minutes arranging lemon slices with tiny silver tongs rather than heeding the conversation.