One Dance with a Duke (24 page)

“Softly, then,” he said, coming to stand before the horse and carefully wiping the animal’s nose and ears with a corner of the towel. “Hold just a moment, my sweet.” The horse snorted, and Spencer gave an easy, good-natured laugh that resonated in Amelia’s bones.

He kept up the steady stream of words as he hung the towel on a hook and bent to check each of the horse’s hooves. Each time he asked the horse to raise a hoof, he did so with more patience than Amelia had ever seen him ask a person for anything, with words like, “This one, if you please,” and “Thank you, my pet.”

Her heart ached. She was seeing an entirely new side of him—a gentle, caring, thoughtful side she would never have guessed he possessed. Having grown up with five brothers, she did understand that paradox about men. They found it easier to display emotions where animals were concerned. Laurent had been her rock at both Mother and Papa’s burials, but when his boyhood sheepdog slipped into permanent rest at the age of fourteen, Amelia had watched her brother weep like a child.

And seeing Spencer tend the horse with such patience and care, even when he believed himself to be alone—it confirmed what Amelia had known in her heart, from their wedding on: This man could never be capable of murder.

“Nearly done, my dear.”

He took a brush to the horse’s coat, gently brushing the dirt from her fetlocks and murmuring more tender words. As Amelia watched, a sick feeling gathered in her stomach. She’d known from the first that people came second to horses in the duke’s priorities. After all, that was the entire reason they’d met. He’d all but ruined Jack—and by extension, her own happiness—in pursuit of a stallion. But somehow viewing this scene recast that reality in a new, harsh light. There was no further denying that this man possessed the capacity for real tenderness and solicitude. He just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reveal those things to her.

Oh, God. Ladies were supposed to become embittered wives when their husbands strayed to other women’s beds. Amelia was going to spend the rest of her life feeling
envious of
horses
. The complete absurdity of it made her tremble.

She needed to leave, immediately. He would finish grooming his mount soon, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught out here and forced to explain not only her presence, but the tears burning her eyes. She began her slow retreat, feeling her way backward across the tiled brick floor rather than making too much rustle with a turn. But shadows clung to the ground, obscuring her steps, and her slippers were still wet with dew. She slipped.

Drat, drat, drat.

Throwing her arms wide, she made a wild grab for the door of a nearby stall. Her fingers closed over the edge, and somehow she stopped her fall before she sprawled completely to the ground. She froze, her pulse pounding in her throat and her spine contorting in ways she’d surely rue tomorrow. At any second, she expected Spencer to round the corner and make her humiliation complete.

He didn’t. After several moments’ uneventful silence, Amelia struggled to unknot her limbs and regain her feet. For once, luck was on her side. Her wild scrambling had gone unnoticed.

By Spencer, at least. The same couldn’t be said for the horse whose door she’d borrowed for a crutch. An offended snort came from the darkened stall, and Amelia heard the horse coming to its feet.

She addressed the animal frantically, making as many mollifying clucks and shushes as her predicament would allow. She didn’t want Spencer to hear the horse, but she didn’t want him to hear her, either. Perhaps she should have simply turned and fled, but her instinct was to quiet the beast first, rather than rouse the whole barn.

Through the shadows, she could just make out the
horse swinging its head from side to side, ears flat and nostrils flared. The beast’s breathing grew heavier. Noisier. Now the horse’s agitation was not only inconvenient, but threatening. This was why she’d never learned to ride. Horses always frightened her. All that intimidating strength, and they never heeded her wishes whatsoever. Just like now.

“Oh, please,” Amelia pleaded through her teeth. “Please hush, please.”

Boom
.

The horse kicked at the bottom of the door, sending a bone-jarring vibration up the rails and through Amelia’s arms. With a startled cry, she released her grip and leapt back, only to collide with an unseen obstacle. She whirled in defense. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and she fought instinctively against them, struggling and lashing out with her fists until reason and the carriage lamp illuminated the obvious. These were Spencer’s hands holding her.

The ensuing wave of relief dissolved what remained of her strength.

“Oh, God.” She sucked in a lungful of air, trying to locate the courage to meet his eyes. “Spencer, I’m so sorry.”

“You should be. What the devil are you doing in here?” He looked her up and down, as he often did, but this time his gaze sought her angles instead of her curves.

“I’m unharmed,” she told him, hoping that’s what he meant to assess. Behind her, the horse gave another booming kick at its stall, and she jumped in her skin.

With a rough curse, Spencer released Amelia’s arms. Fairly shoving her out of the way, he went to the door and reached his hand toward the horse. The animal nosed his fingers roughly, as if in reprimand, and stamped the floor. Undeterred, Spencer murmured a
steady stream of placating words. Eventually the mare—for Spencer’s soft endearments left no question the horse was female—tossed her head and offered her left side for his touch. He obliged the request, rubbing the horse behind the ear.

And Amelia stood there awkwardly, arms crossed over her chest, wondering why it should surprise her in the slightest that when confronted with a frightened mare and frightened wife, Spencer would choose to calm the horse.

He turned to her and said with cool, even disdain, “Who let you in here?”

“No one.”

“Damn it, tell me—” At his harsh tone, the horse started. Spencer paused a moment to calm her again, then made a visible effort to temper his voice before speaking again. “Tell me who let you in here,” he said calmly. “Whoever he is, he’s just lost his post.”

“I’m telling you, no one let me in. I came on my own. I entered through the tack room.” The anger in his eyes as he stared at her, juxtaposed with the tender way he still caressed the mare’s ear … it was just too much. Too insulting, too disheartening.

“God, Amelia.” He shook his head. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I heard you ride up to the house. I thought you’d be in directly, but then you weren’t. I was tired of waiting and tired in general, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you so I thought …” She clapped a hand over a sudden burst of laughter. If only he knew what she’d come out here to say.

He frowned at her, and she giggled again. Suddenly, the situation was unbearably funny. Her absurd envy for a horse. His unfailing knack for saying the wrong thing on every occasion. The whole dratted marriage.

“I was thinking of you, you insufferable man.” She
laughed into her palm, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “All day long, I’ve been thinking of you.”

Spencer stared at her, his jaw working as he debated what to say. If he told her he’d been thinking of her all day, too, would it sound trite and insincere? Would it even do the truth justice? To say he’d been merely “thinking” of her seemed inadequate. What was the word for it, when over the course of an endless, wearying, ultimately fruitless day, one’s every act, thought, intent, and breath were directed toward a single purpose—a single person? He supposed he could tell her he’d been “thinking” of her so fiercely all day long that when he’d seen her standing there in the shadows, gripping the door of Juno’s stall, for a moment he’d wondered if his extreme fatigue and longing had conspired to create a hallucination. And that when she’d startled and he’d caught her, and there’d been no further doubt that the soft, trembling flesh beneath his fingers was absolutely real—he hadn’t been sure how to keep touching her without completely losing control.

But whatever he wished to say, before he could get a word of it out, she turned on her heel and fled.

Just bloody perfect.

After wiping his hands and tossing a word or two to the groom at the entry, he hurried after her. She was halfway up the green by the time he caught up. Head down, arms tucked securely around her middle, she made purposeful strides through the grass. The hem of her frock was damp and translucent, tangling about her ankles. The sight made him thirsty.

“Listen to me,” he said, matching her stride for stride. “You’re welcome to visit the stables any time you wish, but don’t ever sneak in alone like that. The mare you startled—she can be dangerous when provoked. Not
only does she kick, she bites. She’s taken a few fingers in her day.”

“Ah. So that’s the key to earning your affection, is it? Perhaps I should try snapping at you, and then I’d merit better treatment.”

It was his turn to laugh. “You’ve been snapping at me since the night we met.”

“Well, then. That hasn’t worked.”

“What do you mean? I’ve married you, haven’t I?”

Her stride hitched. Then she resumed her pace. Then she stopped again.

“You’ve married me, yes. And when you proposed, you told me you wanted a duchess, not a broodmare. Silly me, to assume the former ranked above the latter in your taxonomy.”

He bit off his response, because it would only have angered her further. It would doubtless be a very grave error to tell her he found her pronunciation of “taxonomy” indescribably arousing.

Huffing at his silence, she turned and forged on. And now Spencer was beginning to find the entire conversation gratifying.

She was jealous. Envy was the farthest thing from fear. It implied she wanted more from him, not less. She’d come out to the stables looking for him. By her own admission, she’d been thinking of him all day.

“For two people married a total of four days,” he observed, catching up to her again, “we seem to argue a great deal.”

“Are you expecting me to apologize?”

“No. I rather enjoy it.” And he did. He loved the give-and-take of it, their even match of wits, the responses she provoked from him. She drew him out of his own head and forced him to interact, in a way few people could do. And then there was the lovely pink of her cheeks and the way a defiant posture emphasized her
bosom. He enjoyed those things, too. “But I think we’re just using it as a substitute.”

“A substitute? For what?”

“For what we’re not doing.” He lifted one eyebrow and slid his gaze down her body.

“Is that all you ever think about? Getting me in a bed?”

“Lately? Yes. Just about.”

She shot him a glare that didn’t quite disguise her satisfied blush. He allowed himself to fall behind a few steps, that he might enjoy the brisk sway of her hips as she walked. Perhaps this day hadn’t been so fruitless after all.

He followed her to the back of the service wing, where she approached the nearest entrance, a small door at the rear. She pulled a key from her chatelaine and fit it in the lock. How did she know the house so well, so quickly? Damn, Spencer had lived at Braxton Hall for almost fifteen years, and he’d never even used this door.

“Where are we going?” he asked as they navigated a dim, narrow corridor.

She turned and stared at him. “The kitchen, of course.”

“Oh. Of course.” Shaking his head, Spencer followed her into the kitchen and watched as Amelia went to a cupboard and pulled out two covered dishes. She set them on the butcher-block counter in the center of the room, then snagged a plate and flatware from a shelf.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, watching her arrange a single place setting, then pour a large glass of wine.

“No, you are.”

She whipped the cover from a platter of cold meats. Spencer counted ham, roasted beef, chicken legs, tongue …

“No lamb,” she said. “And there’s bread.”

He stared at the growing buffet before him. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

“Beg pardon?” Using the side of her wrist, she brushed back a stray lock of hair.

“Out in the stables. You said you’d waited up to speak with me.”

“It will keep until morning. Here’s pickle.”

“No,” he said, bracing his hands on the wood surface. “No, I don’t think it will keep. It was important enough to keep you up late, drive you out of the house in search of me. What was it?”

Ignoring his question, she plunked a small crock down on the table. “Butter.”

“For God’s sake, I’m not interested in butter!”

“Very well.” She took the crock away.

He thrust a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Amelia. What’s going on?”

“Why won’t you eat?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why don’t you treat me like you treat your horses?”

He could only stare at her.

Looking a bit embarrassed, she crossed her arms and regarded the ceiling.

“Why don’t I treat you …” He shook his head to clear it. “Here’s a thought. Perhaps because you’re not a horse?”

“No, I’m not. In your view, it would seem I am some lesser creature by far. At least the horses are turned out now and then.”

She grabbed the butter crock again and thunked it down on the table, reaching for a knife. With her other hand, she split open a roll. “No one eats in this house,” she muttered. She dipped her knife in butter and coated the bread with short, tense strokes. “I may not be a woman of any exceptional accomplishment. Nor do I possess a great deal of beauty or grace. But I’m good at
this.” She leveled the knife at him. “Planning menus, managing a household, entertaining guests. Taking care of people. And you would deny me the chance to do any of it.”

“I haven’t denied you anything.” Good Lord. If anyone was being denied in this marriage, it was him.

“You’ve denied me everything! I’ve been removed to the country, away from all my family and friends. My meals are spurned, as are my overtures of friendship. I’m not permitted to host guests. You wouldn’t even allow me to make a silly little seat cushion.” She threw the knife down, and it landed with a loud clatter. “What does it signify to you, anyway?”