One Dance with a Duke (34 page)

“Yes, I’m happy,” he repeated. “I’m happy with my life as it is. Right now.”

Footsteps crunched on gravel nearby.

“I think someone’s coming,” she whispered. “Perhaps we should—”

He kissed her. Firmly at first—until the shock wore off and she realized that she was being kissed. And then sweetly, tenderly—because she deserved his care. Holding her chin between the pads of his thumb and second finger, he urged her close. He explored her mouth with his lips and tongue, patiently coaxing her to open for him. Wooing her into full participation. Because she was worth that effort, too. This was a woman who ought to have been courted by a legion of suitors. How was it she’d remained unmarried all those years, standing on the fringes of ballrooms? How was it
he’d never picked her out from the crowd himself and asked her to dance?

God damn, he was a fool. But a very lucky one.

All too soon, she pulled back. “I think they’re gone.” She flashed a look over her shoulder, and her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “Quick thinking, that. You really are brilliant at disguising this problem. Honeymooners are forgiven all manner of rude behavior.”

“Well, then there’s the solution. We’ll spend the rest of our lives on permanent honeymoon.”

She laughed, as though it were a ridiculous notion. He wished it weren’t.

“Honestly, Spencer. I can’t help but wonder … Surely something can be done. Have you tried—?”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t finish my …”

“It doesn’t matter. If there’s something you can think of to try, I’ve tried it. Nothing has worked. This is just part of who I am, Amelia. I reconciled myself to it long ago.”

“Oh.” Her chin ducked in disappointment. “I see.”

Frustrated, Spencer rubbed his face with his palm. Of course, this was now—not some long-ago time. He was married. He had a ward. And as much as he might have reconciled himself to a life without social events, was it fair of him to ask Amelia to reconcile herself to it, too? Hospitality and friendship … those things were part of who
she
was. Not to mention the obligations they would have for Claudia’s season. A bitter taste filled his mouth, making him grimace.

“Is there nothing I can do for you?” she asked.

“No, no. Just leave me be.”

“I could send for—”

“Leave me be,” he said, with too much force. They both cringed. He knew he was only alienating her further, because she lived to be helpful. But in this case, there was nothing she could do. He took a breath and
calmed his voice. “When this happens, all I need is to be let alone.”

“Very well.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll go. Stay here as long as you wish, and I’ll make excuses with our hosts.”

With that, she hurried back toward the entrance of the house. Spencer sighed, feeling a weight of guilt settle about his shoulders. In the past few minutes, he’d felt closer to Amelia than he had in weeks, but this damned condition of his was the brick wall he’d spent a lifetime banging his head against. And no matter what he said, or what she did, they would always remain on opposite sides of it. She needed society to make her life complete; he only felt whole in relative solitude.

Had he really tried
everything?
Not truthfully. In his youth, he’d attempted to overcome the damned problem through any number of strategies—most of which involved drinking and plain force of will—but he’d always been motivated by his own selfish needs and desires. The wish to attend school. The desire to chase girls. Sheer frustration with his ineptitude.

But there was one thing he hadn’t yet tried. He hadn’t tried conquering it for Amelia.

At the very least, he owed it to her to try.

“Are you quite certain?” Amelia studied her husband’s expression for any trace of reluctance.

He leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other. “For the fifth time, Amelia. I’m quite certain.”

“You truly don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind.”

She tugged on her gloves. “You know we don’t have to go down at all.”

“I know it.”

“I would suggest we wait until after the dancing’s started, but I suspect they’ll be waiting on us to begin it. We’ll only stay for a dance or two. The moment you
want to leave, just tell me. You don’t even have to say a word. We’ll have some sort of signal. Touch the top button of your waistcoat, perhaps.”

“A signal?” He arched a brow. “What are we, spies for the Crown? Can’t I just bodily remove you from the hall? It worked well enough last time.”

She threw him a disapproving look. Which was difficult, because there was simply nothing about his appearance to inspire her disapproval. Even swathed in silk and pearls, Amelia felt unequal to his simple, black-and-white-attired elegance. He looked splendid.

“Don’t give me that look. I think you rather enjoyed it.” His eyes darkened. “I know I did.”

She blushed. Well, she
had
rather enjoyed it, truth be told. “A discreet signal will do for tonight. Save the bodily lifting for later, in private.”

They exchanged smiles, and a giddy flutter rose in her belly.

Something had changed, since the garden that afternoon. He’d opened himself to her, revealing his vulnerabilities as he hadn’t done since that conversation in the stables. He was a man who’d spent his life actively wishing to be misunderstood, but he’d bared a piece of his true self to her. And now, each time their eyes met, it was as though a silent message passed between them—sometimes a joke, sometimes an observation, other times a carnal suggestion. They were behaving like a couple, instead of two individuals who happened to be married.

His sudden openness made Amelia imprudently hopeful. Her foolish optimism was only increased by the fact that she knew he was making a great sacrifice, attending this party with her. She worried her heart was in serious peril, but she couldn’t bring herself to erect the barriers again. She could only hope for a change in his views. Once they arrived at Briarbank, he would see
what her home and family meant to her—how they’d molded her into the person she was, much as his own past had formed him. Perhaps then he would understand how it hurt her to be separated from Jack.

As Spencer looked her up and down, his appreciative expression turned to a frown.

Self-conscious, she put a hand to her throat. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing.” But as he stared at her, the little furrow of concentration between his eyebrows deepened. The expression was one of bemusement, as though he’d expected a different image from the one his eyes beheld.

“Does the gown look well?” She twisted a little, hoping he’d praise the dress at least and send her downstairs with a smidge more confidence.

“Quite,” he said thoughtfully. “But then, blue always looks well on you.”

Well, that seemed to be all the reassurance she would receive.

She took one last fretful glance at her reflection in the mirror and then met Spencer at the door. Before they left the room, Amelia paused a moment to smooth his lapels and waistcoat with her gloved hands.

Their gazes met. She kept her hands flat against his chest. It would have been the perfect moment for a kiss … if he wanted to kiss her. In the garden earlier, he’d embraced her so sweetly. But perhaps that had just been one more tactical move in a lifelong campaign of evasion and disguise.

After staring into her eyes a long moment, he reached to open the door. “Shall we?”

As balls went, this was a much more forgiving assembly than a London rout. The country setting not only afforded more spacious rooms, but also kept the guests to a reasonable number.

Still, as they entered the Granthams’ modest hall, Amelia felt her husband’s arm tense against hers. She had the urge to murmur something encouraging, or give him a soothing touch—but she checked the impulse, knowing it would only add to his annoyance. The last thing he would want was to be fussed over. He just wanted to be let alone.

And of course, they were instantly beset. Fortunately, she’d become acquainted with several of the guests earlier that day. She made quick introductions, and once Spencer had made his typically gruff acknowledgments, she took over the burden of making conversation. They made their circuit of the entire room this way, moving from small group to small group. Spencer made his terse, barely civil greetings, and Amelia gladly did the rest. She inquired after distant relatives’ health, exchanged sympathies with those who’d known Leo, deflected impertinent questions about their hasty marriage, and accepted well-intentioned wishes of joy with equal grace. By pushing herself to the forefront, she was able to spare Spencer an undue burden of curiosity.

And as the evening wore on, she found herself enjoying the attention. This was their first public appearance together, and it was really something, to be the lady on the Duke of Morland’s arm. Despite his faint, persistent frown, Spencer hadn’t touched his top waistcoat button yet, nor tossed her over his shoulder to cart her from the room. The evening was going quite surprisingly well, and Amelia reveled in the freedom to laugh, converse, and joke as boldly as she wished.

In fact, she was having the time of her life.

When she looked up from a conversation to find her father’s old friend Mr. Twither had cornered Spencer to question him mercilessly on farriers, Amelia even resorted to a new tactic: shameless flirtation. She sidled up to the old man, complimented the turn of his legs,
remarked upon his youthful vigor, praised the delightful shape of his spectacles, and then discreetly pulled Spencer away, leaving a flushed, stammering, and quite-pleased-with-himself Mr. Twither in their wake.

And then, before anyone else could approach them, she loudly decried the heat and closeness of the room, gathered two glasses of cordial from a passing servant’s tray, and beckoned Spencer aside.

“There’s an alcove just there,” she whispered, pretending to sip from her glass as she indicated a paneled screen.

He took the other glass from her hand. “After you.”

The musicians picked a fortuitous moment to strike up the first chords of the quadrille, and amidst the excitement of partnering and queuing up, Amelia and Spencer slipped behind the screen. The triangular space was small and mostly occupied by a forlorn-looking potted palm.

Spencer drained his cordial in one draught, then grimaced and wiped his mouth.

“Well …?” she asked cautiously, scanning his appearance for any signs of unease.

“This cordial is abominable.” He glowered at the glass before setting it on a ledge behind them. His eyes slanted toward the screen. “And the musicians aren’t much better.”

“Yes, but how are
you?
I’m so sorry about Mr. Twither. He’s harmless, you know, but he holds his end of a conversation like a dog holds a bone. Oh, and those dreadful Wexler twins.” She shook her head. “They’re shameless. Did Flora truly pinch your bottom, or did it just look that way?”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled a little, in that devastatingly handsome and seductive way he smiled on rare occasions. Between that smile and the cordial, a very pleasant tingle warmed her insides.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” he said.

“I am.” She sipped her drink. “I know you hate this sort of thing, and this must be the most trying evening imaginable—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Something thumped against the screen from the other side, startling her. Spencer’s arm slid about her waist, drawing her back. She pivoted to face him, and his hand slid over her waist as she turned, until his palm settled at the base of her spine. A palm frond tickled against her neck. Suddenly stricken with a girlish flutter of nerves, she stared hard at his cravat.

“Are you truly enjoying tonight?” she asked.

“I’m enjoying right now.”

“You’ve—”
Quiet, you ninny. He’s here for you. This night is going so much better than you have any right to expect. Don’t ruin it
.

“What?” he prompted, absently stroking his thumb over the small of her back.

She forced her gaze up to his and swallowed hard. The cordial must have made her bold. Or stupid. Likely both. “You’ve been staring at me so strangely all evening. I’m afraid you’re disappointed, somehow. With me.”

That mild frown he’d been wearing now etched itself into a stern mask of censure.

Words spilled from her mouth. Silly, irrational, painfully truthful words. “You’re so handsome, you see. Just ridiculously so. I think you’re the finest-looking man I’ve ever known, and I know I just don’t look like your duchess. I know feigned affection wasn’t part of our bargain, and I know you don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. But I do give a damn what they think. Just a little one; I can’t help it. And I seem to care a great deal … far too much, I fear … about what
you
think, so—”

“Shhh.” He laid a finger against her lips.

And then said nothing.

Did he not know what to say? What a fool she was.

Lie. Oh, please. Just lie to me. Just tell me I’m lovely, and I’ll pretend to believe you, and we can forget this ever happened
.

He tilted his head toward the screen and mouthed,
Listen
.

“Yes, yes.” A matronly laugh resonated through the screen. “Rather a coup for Lady Grantham. Their first public appearance since the wedding, I understand.”

“Thank the Lord,” the unseen lady’s companion replied in a gruff voice. “Now you can cease nattering on about the ‘true’ reason behind the marriage.”

“Oh, yes. Obviously a love match. I never doubted it.”

A loud harrumph.

“Well, I didn’t!” came the protest. “Amelia always was a delightful girl, but marriage has been very kind to her. And anyone can see His Grace is completely besotted. He won’t be torn from her side.”

Behind the screen, Amelia nearly burst out laughing. Spencer covered her mouth with his palm.

The man snorted. “Yes, and any man with two eyes can see exactly which of her charms he’s drunk on. They’re on rather public display.”

Amelia felt her eyes go wide. Spencer just flicked a devilish glance at her breasts and kept his hand pressed to her lips.