One Dance with a Duke (23 page)

Especially the vile, unwanted ones.

It was perverse and irrational and likely the sign of some severe mental defect—but the further Spencer displayed his gross incompetence as a sensitive human being, the more he engaged her sympathy. The worse he bungled every opportunity to put her at ease, the greater her own desire to soothe. And the longer he kept her at arm’s length—emotionally speaking, at least—the more she yearned to hold him tight.

When she awoke the next morning alone, staring up at the stamped plaster ceiling, Amelia had to be honest with herself. She’d been delaying consummation in hopes of girding her heart first. But after last night, she knew it to be a hopeless cause. That embrace had stirred her too deeply. True, Spencer had abandoned their chaste hug to press for further liberties, and his lustful aggression should have dispelled her cravings for tenderness. But when he aroused her desire with those demanding kisses and skillful hands, the longing wouldn’t stay put between her legs. It filled her, consumed her. The longer she denied him her body, the more she risked her heart.

Well, then. That was that. She would go to him today.

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.”

“You know nothing of me. Don’t speak as if you do.”

“Fair enough. At the moment, I grant that we are little more than strangers. I would like, eventually, to be your friend. But I know that’s too much to expect just yet, given the circumstances. I won’t interfere in your daily routine. I will let you be.” She reached for a tray of jam tarts from the sideboard and extended it. “But you can’t keep running away from every meal. I insist that you eat.”

“You
insist
that I eat?” The young lady eyed the pastries. Instead of taking one, however, Claudia grasped the entire tray and removed it from Amelia’s hands altogether. “Very well,” she said, stuffing a tart into her mouth. “I’ll eat.” Then she and the tray of pastries flounced from the room.

Well, Amelia would count that as progress. At least the girl would not waste away. Settling down to her own breakfast, she opened her mental recipe book and headed a blank page, “Claudia.” Under that, she noted: “Jam tarts. No kippers.”

As she ate, she wondered where Spencer had gone for the day. It shouldn’t be surprising that he had business. After spending some months in Town, surely he must have many estate matters requiring his attention. But wherever he’d gone, she wondered if he was angry with her, after last night. Or disappointed by her. Or yearning for her.

She shook herself. The man was busy. He likely wasn’t sparing her a second thought.

Amelia kept busy, too. She interviewed each member of the staff and acquainted herself with every inch of Braxton Hall—the interior, at least. The gardens would have to wait for another day. As she moved through the rooms with the housekeeper at her side, she made careful note of any fixtures that needed replacing or improvement, any arrangement of furniture that struck her as less than pleasing or efficient. After fifteen years without a mistress, the house was still well maintained but beginning to lag where style was concerned. She limited herself to the public and common rooms, not wanting to encroach on Claudia or Spencer’s privacy.

The task took her all day, and well into evening—at which point she was glad that Spencer had not yet returned and Claudia remained cloistered with her tarts, for Amelia had no time to plan dinner. Instead, she and Mrs. Bodkin shared a cold supper as they discussed modernizing the kitchen. Afterward, they began an inventory of all the household silver. Hours later, the entire dining table was covered in gleaming rows of forks, spoons, knives, ladles, tongs …

All of which began to rattle in unison, just as the clock’s largest hand neared twelve.

Amelia grasped the table edge in alarm. Beneath the low clatter of silver, the thunder of hoofbeats swelled.

“That will be His Grace,” the housekeeper explained, the corners of her mouth creasing as she suppressed a yawn.

Spencer
. Amelia’s heart kicked into a furious rhythm. Until this second, she hadn’t acknowledged how much she’d been anticipating his return. But she had. She’d been waiting for him all day, every second. Why else would she have spent the day working her fingers to nubs rather than allow herself a stray moment for
thought? Why else would she be sitting up counting silver at midnight? And poor Mrs. Bodkin, forced to keep watch with her.

“You’re dismissed,” she told the housekeeper. “We’ll just lock this room overnight and finish in the morning. Thank you so much for your help.”

Amelia rushed from the room, smoothing her upswept hair and shaking the wrinkles from her skirts. How much time did she have before Spencer would enter the house? Surely he would just hand his horse off to a groom and come inside. Pausing in the corridor to check her reflection in the glass covering the clock face—not much to see, but at least the dim light confirmed her features had not suffered any dramatic rearrangement—she went to the entrance hall and waited.

And waited. Several minutes passed, and no sign of him. Could he have come in through another door? Perhaps by the kitchens … he would be hungry, after a long ride.

She walked toward the rear of the house, crossing into a narrow gallery that connected the main residence with the service wing. It was tiled in marble and lined with windows on both sides, which made it rather cold at night. Amelia hugged herself and quickened her pace. She supposed she might have simply gone up to her suite and awaited Spencer there. But that would mean choosing between her bedchamber and his, and she wanted to meet him on neutral territory. She was going to keep this calm and cool. As emotionless as possible.

Step one: A smoothly delivered, dispassionate declaration.
Your Grace, I thank you for your patience. I’m now ready to consummate the marriage
.

Step two: Lie back and think of Briarbank.

Through the blackened gallery windows, a flash of torchlight drew her eye. She halted and turned toward
it, walking up to the window and cupping her hands around her eyes to peer into the darkness. Down a gravel-packed lane lined with intermittent lamps sat a low, ranging building with a sloped roof. Golden light emanating from the building’s interior outlined a wide, square door and men moving within. The coach house, she discerned, and stables. Perhaps Spencer had taken the horse in himself.

Eyes still straining out into the night, Amelia took slow paces sideways. She discovered that toward the far end of the gallery, one of the tall windows was not truly a window at all, but a door. She still had a set of house keys tied at her waist, and she tried each of them in turn until one slender finger of metal turned the tumblers of the lock. The door swung open with a creak, and she walked outside.

She didn’t follow the drive, but walked straight across the green, not caring to draw attention to herself. The grass was damp with nighttime dew, and it wanted clipping. The blades brushed her exposed ankles as she walked, ticklish and cool. Moths fluttered out of her path.

The stables drew her like a lodestone. She wanted to see this place that merited so much of Spencer’s effort and attention. It was certainly the largest horse barn she’d ever seen. In construction and outward appearance, it looked finer than most houses she’d ever seen.

A few grooms milled in the entryway, talking to one another. They didn’t notice her as she skirted the main entrance and plunged into the shadows at the side of the building. Barns always had more than one entrance. Before long, she came upon a human-sized door. She ducked inside and found herself in a dimly lit, meticulously kept tack room. The smells of leather and clean horse mingled in air heavy with the dust of hay. Amelia pressed her hands to her face and sneezed into them.

In the ensuing silence, she froze—waiting for someone
to have heard her and come looking. No one did. However, she did hear a voice echoing from the rafters—a low, calming murmur much like the sound of rushing water, coming from somewhere nearby.

She moved through the tack room and into a wide aisle lined with stalls, taking care to make her steps light. A recumbent horse whickered softly as she stepped toward the low, mesmerizing voice and a flickering light at the far end of the aisle. She paused at the edge of the last stall, well out of the golden aura cast by a single hanging carriage lamp. Cautiously, she craned her neck around the post.

This was a larger, open area, designed for grooming. And in the center was Spencer, rubbing down a regal dark filly. Amelia observed the pair in silence, digging her fingers into the wooden post to keep her balance.

The horse was freed of saddle and bridle, restrained only by a simple halter tied to a ring. Spencer was dressed in an open-necked shirt, knee boots, and breeches of tight-fitting buckskin. Both man and beast were damp in places. Perspiration shone a glossy black on the horse’s flanks, just as it matted the dark locks of hair at Spencer’s nape. The inseams of his breeches were dark with sweat, too. The sight did strange things to her, in analogous places.

The horse’s breathing was audible, and Spencer rubbed the filly’s withers and back with a towel, wiping the lather from her coat in a smooth, confident rhythm. And as he worked, he spoke. Crooned, really. Amelia could scarcely make out his words, but they were soft and tender. Affectionate.