Chapter Nine

Juno’s hooves danced under him as Spencer eased into the saddle. He exchanged a nod with his outrider. The groom had been walking her for most of the morning, but now the mare had reached the end of her patience. As had he. A good, hard ride was what they both needed. They’d outpace the carriages for this last leg of the day’s travel and he’d see about procuring rooms at the inn.

At Juno’s impatient whicker, he nudged the mare into a canter. As the horse found her pace, a fresh breeze whipped through his hair—a refreshing burst of coolness on this warm afternoon. He ought to have been taking in the pleasant countryside, Spencer supposed, but instead all he saw was Amelia, as she’d appeared last night. The soft gold of her unbound hair, burnished by firelight. The enticing pink curves of her flesh, covered by the sheerest white muslin.

Her clear blue eyes, filled with fear.

Devil take it. That fear had come as a stab to the heart. Her courage and sensible nature were what attracted him to her in the first place. From her teasing during that that cursed waltz, to the kiss she’d demanded before accepting his proposal—she infuriated, intrigued, and aroused him, all because she refused to be intimidated. Just as she’d said that morning after Leo’s death, in the carriage: When they were alone, they were just a woman and a man.

Not anymore, evidently.

Now, thanks to the esteemed membership of the Stud Club, they were a woman and an alleged murderer. This morning ought to have found him a well-satisfied bridegroom, and instead he was frustrated in every way. All because Julian Bellamy had an irrational hatred of aristocrats, Rhys St. Maur had been a hot-tempered youth, and Leo Chatwick had had the poor sense to go walking in Whitechapel alone at night. Now Amelia feared him.

And then—of all the addled feminine notions—to remedy the problem, she’d suggested they sit up all night and chat. She wished to submit him to her own version of the Spanish Inquisition, examine his sins, his failings, his family history and moral principles.

Good God. He couldn’t imagine a worse strategy for earning her trust. How, precisely, would that interview go?

Very well, Amelia. I’ll answer your questions. Yes, I spent a wild youth in Lower Canada, disappearing into the wilderness for weeks at a time with people you’d consider heathen savages, causing my excellent father no end of grief. Yes, during my first year in England, I nearly pummeled Rhys St. Maur to death at Eton. Yes, I ruined your brother’s fortunes in pursuit of a horse, for reasons you will find inexplicable and unforgivable. There, now. Can’t you see I’m not a villain?

Oh, that would go over splendidly.

And if she thought he would ever discuss his true reasons for abducting her from that ballroom … well, she would wait in vain. If there was one indisputable advantage to being a duke, it was never having to explain himself to anyone.

That didn’t mean they couldn’t know one another. Ever since their waltz, he’d been seized by an intense desire to know everything about Amelia Claire d’Orsay. Hell, he’d married her in part to assuage it. He just didn’t see why words must be involved. He wanted to learn his new wife from the inside out, starting with the sweet cleft of her womanhood and working his way to her delicate fingers, which he’d discovered last night to be capped with neat round calluses from needlework.

If they were to become acquainted, Spencer could think of no more logical beginning than to know one another in the biblical sense, as God and Nature intended.

Fortunately, Spencer had considerable experience winning over wary creatures, undoing the damage wrought by other men. It had been nearly two decades since he’d broken his first mustang to halter in Canada, and at his stud farm he’d gentled countless horses since—most notably Juno, the mare carrying him now. The trick of it was knowing when to walk away. He’d give a fearful horse a few minutes’ tenderness—stroke her behind the ears, murmur encouragement, give her a reassuring pat on the withers. Nothing too bold. Just enough attention to keep her wanting more. The moment the horse began to relax and enjoy his touch, Spencer would walk away. The next time he entered the enclosure, the once-frightened horse would approach him, eager and unafraid. The technique never failed.

Of course, he’d never plied it on a woman before. He’d never needed to. He knew some men took perverse excitement in conquering a reluctant lover, but he wasn’t one of them. He liked his bed partners to be just that—partners. Willing, engaged, aware of themselves. He’d wanted Amelia because she not only possessed the virtue and lineage he required in a wife, she met his ideals for a lover. When he kissed her, she responded with an instinctive, inventive passion that made his bones weak.

Until those damned accusations planted doubt in her mind, and she’d trembled. Not with pleasure, but with fear. Oh, he could have persuaded her into consummation if he’d wished. But she would have despised him for it this morning, and he wouldn’t have liked himself much, either.

He would coax her out again. It might take a few days—time he really didn’t want to bide—but he was a man of self-discipline. With cards, horses, negotiation … He knew how to be patient when the situation required it, and how to elicit the desired response. Before a week was out, his wife would come willingly, eagerly to his bed.

The key was all in knowing when to walk away.

Amelia surveyed the rooms Spencer had procured. If indeed these accommodations truly counted as “rooms.” The inn’s best suite consisted of a small bedchamber and an even smaller antechamber. The antechamber was furnished with a table and two chairs, plus a sleeping cot, likely intended for servants. Yet both her and Spencer’s trunks had been carried up to the suite, so she assumed he meant to join her.

What he meant to do then, she was afraid to imagine.

One of the inn’s serving girls had brought up a dinner tray. After a day of rough coach travel, the mere smell of stewed beef had Amelia’s stomach roiling. She managed to choke down a bit of bread and tea. Her next thought was to undress quickly and slip into bed before the duke even returned. Surely he wouldn’t disturb her if she was already asleep. Just to be safe, she’d barricade the connecting door with her trunks.

Before she could act on the plan, however, the door opened with a rude creak. In came the duke. He had to fold nearly double to avoid hitting his head on the doorjamb, and with the addition of his imposing presence, the “rooms” shrank further.

A curt nod was his only greeting. And, as he’d caught her with a mouthful of tea, her reply was an audible gulp.

Lord, he was so handsome. She didn’t understand it, but somehow she forgot, when they were apart, what a fine-looking man he was. And every time she reencountered him, the simple fact of his masculine beauty startled her again with fresh, sudden force.

This man is my husband.

This man is my husband.

Surely one of these days the novelty would fade. Or at least she would learn to adjust more quickly, so each time they crossed paths in the corridor, she wouldn’t pull up short and simply stand there, open-mouthed and struck stupid.

Rather as she was doing now.

He removed his coat, unfastened his cuffs, turned up his sleeves, and lathered his hands at the small wash-stand. As he rinsed them, he asked, “You’ve eaten?”

“As much as I care to. And you?”

He nodded. “Downstairs.”

After carefully folding his coat and laying it across a trunk, he worked loose his cravat. Next he sat in one of the chairs and began on his boots. He really was remarkably self-sufficient, for a man of his rank. Amelia supposed he must not have been raised with a valet.

“You needn’t sit with me, if you’d rather be downstairs,” she said nervously. Didn’t men prefer to be down in the tavern, drinking and carousing?

He gave her a disbelieving look. “You think I’d leave you alone in a public inn? Not a chance. This is one of the better establishments, but still …” He shook his head. “At any rate, crowded alehouses really aren’t my idea of a pleasant evening.”

“Why have we stopped at an inn at all? Cambridgeshire isn’t so very far. Couldn’t we have pushed through to your estate?”

“Breaking the journey sets a kinder pace for the horses.”

Well, to be sure, she thought to herself bitterly. Heaven forfend we place human convenience ahead of the horses’ comfort.

He began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Just how far did he intend to disrobe, right in front of her?

She rose from her chair. “Well, I’m rather fatigued. I think I’ll retire early.”

To her dismay, he also stood. “Excellent idea.”

Surely he didn’t mean to go to sleep with her. Hadn’t he promised to leave her be? “On second thought, I’m not sleepy just yet. I believe I’ll work on my embroidery.”

She went to the smallest of her trunks and unbuckled the straps, knowing her needlework basket to be at the top. She imagined she felt him ogling her bottom as she bent at the waist to retrieve it, and she straightened so quickly, all the blood rushed from her head.

She stumbled, and he grasped her by the elbow to steady her. His firm, arousing touch was of no benefit as she struggled to collect her wits. Curse this wretched infatuation that turned her into a perfect simpleton whenever she came within breathing distance of his warm, male scent. It made her want to fall straight into his arms, never mind if he was a murderer or the very Devil himself.

She was used to being around strong, protective men—her brothers—and used to being embraced and comforted by them. Now she was miles away from all of them: homesick and weary, and direly in need of a hug. It occurred to her that the duke was her only potential source of strong, engulfing masculine embraces in the vicinity, and that thought made her sad indeed. For while she was tolerably certain he’d bed her tonight if she gave him the slightest encouragement, she knew she’d never be able to ask him for a hug.

She cringed to imagine his response, if she did. He probably didn’t even know how to give one.

He released her as she sank back into her chair. Drawing closer to the light, she busied herself unpacking linen, thread, and scissors. “What is your usual habit in the evenings, Your Grace? Do you keep country hours?”

“I keep my own hours, wherever I am. I typically retire around midnight.”

The word “midnight” sent a shiver through her. “And until then?”

“Until then?” His eyes caught hers, a glint of wry humor in their dark, entrancing depths. “You mean, in the absence of other nighttime activities?” He paused, giving her mind ample time to fill with other, very nocturnal activities. “When I’m not plotting my next vile act of treachery?”

He leaned forward. Heat prickled along her skin.

Finally, he said in a deep, suggestive voice, “I read.”

She stared at him, suddenly unable to speak.

“Books,” he added, as if for clarification.

“Oh,” she replied, as if she were stupid enough to need that clarification.

He opened a small valise, revealing it to be full to brimming with volumes of all sizes, in a variety of bindings. The sight caused a swift, surprising pang in her chest.

“My,” she remarked. “You must be a great reader.”

“Whenever I’m in London, I take the opportunity to add to my personal library.” He removed a few books, turning them over in his hands to read the bindings. “I didn’t attend university, you see. Extensive reading has been my only education.”

“Didn’t you want to go to university?”

“Not especially. Even if I had, my uncle thought it best not to send me.”

“Because of what happened at Eton? When you were sent down for the brawl with Lord Ashworth?” She was guessing, but it seemed the logical explanation for both the rumors she’d heard and the strange tension she’d observed between the men.

He gave her a long, pointed look. Well, there was one of her questions answered.

“Because,” he said coolly, selecting a book and packing the others away, “my uncle’s health was already failing, and I was his heir. Estate management was a more pressing topic of study than Latin or mathematics. I continued my studies independently.”

“Ah. Yes, it’s like that for many of us.”

His brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Oh, I didn’t mean us, as in you and me.” Peering at her needle, she threaded the eye with a strand of blue floss. “I meant, it’s like that for many of us.” She patted a hand to her breast. “Women. We don’t attend university, either, but many of us still seek to improve our minds through books.”

Clearly the duke had no idea how to receive that comparison. Frowning a little, he sat down with his book. Amelia smiled at her stitches, rather pleased with herself.

“What are you reading?” she asked, feeling emboldened and just a bit coquettish.

He held up the book for her inspection.

“Not Waverley? I thought you called yourself a great reader. You must be the last person in England to read that book.”

“I’m not. I’ve read it already, more than once.” He riffled the pages. “I don’t have the concentration for philosophy or German this evening.”

Amelia fell momentarily silent to focus on the evenness of her stitches. At length she said, “Waverley. I’ll admit, I’m surprised to hear it’s a favorite of yours.”

“I can’t imagine why. As you noted, it’s a very popular book.”

“Well, yes.” She gave him a coy glance. “But it’s a romance.”

“It is not.” He held the green-covered book at arm’s length and stared at it, as though she’d said, But it’s a pineapple. “It’s a historical novel about the Scottish uprising. There are battles.”

“There’s a love triangle.”

He made an offended huff. “Listen, am I permitted to read the thing in peace, or not?”

Suppressing a laugh, she forced herself to be quiet and sew. Soon she lost herself in her work—in the precise, familiar rhythm of stitches, the careful selection of colored threads. The room went quiet, save for the low crackle of the fire and the occasional sound of a page being turned. As she worked, her sleepiness increased. When she sensed her stitches becoming less and less even, she knotted off one final strand of blue and cut it free before turning the whole square face-up and surveying her work.

“How did you accomplish that?” Spencer asked, reaching over her arm to indicate the rightmost section of the cloth.

Startled by his sudden nearness, Amelia jumped in her chair. When had he moved his chair beside hers? How long had he been looking over her shoulder?

“Right there,” he said, pointing to the little brook she’d stitched tumbling through a glen. “It truly looks like water. How did you accomplish it?”

“Oh, that.” A hint of pride seeped into her voice. She was rather happy with that bit. “It’s very thin strips of ribbon in different shades of blue, worsted with silver thread. I twist the needle as I sew, and in that way each stitch catches the light in a different way. As sunlight might dance on a rippling stream.”

He said nothing. Likely he hadn’t been that interested, to warrant a needlework lesson. Well, he had asked.

The longer he stared silently over her shoulder, however, the more self-conscious she grew. “I was going to make it into a little settee cushion. Or perhaps use it as the center of a chair cover.” She turned it this way and that in her hands, tilting her head to examine the piece from different angles. Perhaps she ought to frame it in strips of velvet, and use it for a larger pillow, or—

“A cushion?” he said abruptly, pronouncing the word as though it were caustic on his tongue. “What an abhorrent idea.”

Amelia blinked. Abhorrent? “Wh-Why?” she stammered, taken aback. “I’ll keep it in my own room, if you don’t care for it. You needn’t see it.”

“Absolutely not. That”—he pointed at her needlework—“is never adorning a chair or settee in my house.”

“But—”

“Give it here.”

Before she could protest, he snatched the embroidered square from her hands, opened his valise again, and thrust the fabric inside before slamming it shut with a decisive motion. The nerve of the man! Rather than argue, Amelia hastily packed away the remainder of her needles and thread, worried His Grace might suddenly decide to cast the entire sewing kit into the fireplace. She could always retrieve the embroidery later. She hoped.

“Enough reading and needlework. We’ll play cards,” he said, drawing out a deck of cards and sitting down. “Piquet.” He split the deck and began to shuffle the cards effortlessly. He moved so rapidly, fingers and cards were nothing but a colorful blur. The effect was entrancing, and subtly erotic.

He noticed her staring. One dark eyebrow rose in question.

“You’re quite adept at that.”

He shrugged. “I’m good with my hands.”

He was indeed good with his hands. But Amelia knew that already. She remembered with near-painful clarity the exquisite pang of yearning she’d experienced when he’d pulled them free of his gloves that day in Laurent’s study. She remembered the way those strong fingers had unpinned her hair, then tilted her face to receive his kiss. And some moments later, clasped her bottom, bringing her body flush against his …

Thwack. He rapped the deck against the table to square the edges, jolting her from her reverie.

“Perhaps just one hand,” she said.

“You do know piquet?” he asked, beginning to deal.

“Yes, of course. Though I cannot claim to be an expert.”

“I hope not. If you were, you should have taught your brother better strategy.”

Amelia’s anger spiked at the mention of Jack and his gaming debt, chasing away any lingering fatigue. “I thought it was brag you played.”

“It was, the night he lost the four hundred.” He gathered his cards.

She likewise retrieved the pile of cards in front of her and began sorting them in her hand. “So it was not just the once, then? You played together several times?”

“I would not say several. On a few separate occasions.” He selected four cards from his hand and discarded them.

She exchanged three of hers. He immediately declared his point to be forty-one, signaling he held one of the strongest hands possible in piquet.

“Drat,” she muttered.

“I see you don’t like to lose any more than your brother does.”

“No one likes to lose.”

When it came to games and sport, Amelia did have a competitive streak. Losing always put her in a foul temper. Therefore, her temper grew increasingly short as the hand progressed, for Spencer, after building an insurmountable lead in the reckoning of points, went on to take nearly every trick. But it wasn’t simply losing the hand of cards that had her frustrated. No, it was everything else she’d lost thanks to this man. If not for the duke’s equine obsession and luck with cards, at this moment she could have been packing her belongings for a summer at Briarbank. And Jack would have been coming with her.

Once her defeat was confirmed—confirmed, and then underscored—Amelia quietly gathered the cards and began to shuffle them anew.

“I thought you only wanted to play one hand,” he said dryly.

She spared him no word—just a brief, sharp look. As if her pride would allow her to walk away after that drubbing she’d just been handed.

“You should have discarded the knave of hearts,” he told her as she dealt. “Don’t aim to collect sets, aim to win the tricks.”

Discard the knave, indeed.

But though she hated taking his advice, she did so. Once again, she had two knaves in her hand; this time she discarded both and reaped a king in return. Spencer still won the game, to her chagrin, but by a much narrower margin.

“Better,” he said, as he gathered the cards for his deal. “But next time, lead with your ace.”

And so it went, over several hands. She gained on him slowly, coming closer and closer to victory—but each time still falling short. After each hand, he offered her a point of strategy, which she begrudgingly incorporated into her own play. At last, on one of his turns as dealer Amelia reaped a very lucky hand of cards, including two aces and a septième. Falling silent to marshal all her powers of concentration, she discarded strategically, played her cards in the most advantageous sequence, caught a stroke of luck when he had no red king … and won.

“I won,” she said, staring with disbelief at the played-out cards on the table.

“You did. This once.”

She smiled. “Watch me do it again.” She reached out to gather the cards for her deal, but he put out a hand and trapped hers against the table.

“Care to make it interesting?”

His hand was heavy atop hers, and warm. Amelia’s heart began to beat a little faster. “Do you mean a wager?”

He nodded.

“Four hundred pounds,” she said impulsively. If she could win back Jack’s debt, her brother would not have to avoid Spencer any longer. Perhaps he could even come to Braxton Hall for an extended, wholesome country holiday, away from London and his wastrel friends.

“Very well. If you win, I will pay you four hundred pounds.” He released her hand. “And if I win, you will come sit on my lap and lower your bodice.”

Oh dear. Her hands curled into tight fists—one still on the table, the other in her lap. “I … I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. If I win this hand, you must come sit on my lap, lower your bodice, and expose your breasts to me.”

“And then what will you do?”

One of his dark brows lifted in a clear signal of carnal intent. “Whatever I wish.”

Amelia’s mind whirled. Dare she take his wager? The odds were against her. He was clearly the superior player, despite her gains of the last hour and this one paltry victory. But she wanted so badly to clear Jack’s debts on her own.

Even more than that, she wanted to best Spencer at his own game and watch that superior look slide straight off his smooth-shaven face.

But another part of her—a heated, yearning, deeply feminine part of her—perversely wanted to lose. To sit on his lap and strip this dress from her body and feel those strong, sculpted hands cup her bared breasts. And that ought to have been the strongest argument for getting up and leaving the table that instant.

“You will remain clothed?” she asked. She was an utter fool.

“But of course.”

“There must be a time limit.”

He nodded his agreement. “A quarter hour.”

“Five minutes.”

“Ten.” He removed a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the table.

Her fists uncurled, and she ran one damp palm over her skirts before reaching for the cards. “Agreed.”

With trembling fingers, Amelia began to gather the cards. The duke’s small discard pile lay off to one side, with the result that she reached for it last and added it to the bottom of the pile. As she turned the deck on its side to divide it for shuffling, the card she saw gave her a violent start.

The ace of spades.

Quickly masking her surprise, she split the deck and shuffled with energy. The duke had discarded the ace of spades. It made no sense. No one discarded an ace in piquet. There was only one way to account for such a thing.

He’d sabotaged himself and allowed her to win. She’d thought herself gaining on him in skill, improving to his level. But in reality, he’d been in control of their match since the very beginning, manipulating the results. And now …

She looked up, and his intent, desirous gaze trapped hers.

Now she’d played right into his hands.

With an odd sensation in her chest, equal parts dread and anticipation, Amelia dealt the cards. She played them as best she knew how. And she lost. Badly.

She never had a chance.

“A stroke of luck,” he said. In a matter of seconds, he had the cards stowed and the table shoved aside. Then he patted his knee meaningfully. It was uncomfortably close to the gesture one might use to call a dog.

She needn’t obey it. He could make no claim on her honor, when he’d secured the wager through trickery.

Oh, but she wanted …

She wanted.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “No more. I’m a man of my word, remember? Come here, then.” He extended a hand to her, in almost a gallant gesture.

And Amelia accepted. She’d wanted to learn how to enjoy physical passion without risking her heart. Wasn’t this the perfect opportunity? It was only ten minutes.

She rose from her chair and crossed the short distance to his seat before turning sideways and perching awkwardly on his knees.

“Not like that,” he said impatiently. Grasping her by the hips, he lifted her and half-stood, repositioning them both as he sat back down.

Amelia discovered, with some horror, that she was now straddling his lap. The thick folds of her skirts bunched up between them.

“Much better,” he said, still cupping her hips in his big, strong hands. He raised his eyebrows in expectation. “You remember the penalty. Lower your bodice.”

“On my own? But my buttons …”

“I daresay you can manage.”

Drat him, he was right. A lady didn’t grow up in genteel d’Orsay poverty without learning the trick of undoing her own buttons. She slowly raised her arms and folded them at the elbows, reaching behind her head for the topmost button of her gown, positioned at the base of her neck.

Clutching her hips tighter, he released a soft groan.

It took just a brief glance downward to learn the reason for it. With her arms raised like this, the bodice was straining at the seams. At the same time, the position thrust her breasts upward, with the combined result that twin scoops of flesh threatened to overflow her neckline.

His eyes fixed on the exposed tops of her breasts, and Amelia felt unspeakably tawdry. Her fingers trembled as she released the first button. Then another and another still. By the time she’d reached the fourth, her bosom was rapidly lifting and falling with her nervous breaths, and the duke’s breathing had taken on an audible rasp. She paused, unable to reach the fifth button.

“More,” he whispered roughly. Desire was plain in his voice. “Go on.”

Carefully, she lowered her arms and bent them behind her back, flexing her shoulder blades together and stretching her fingers toward the valley between them. His breath caught again. If the previous posture had put her breasts on display, this position all but served them up. His face hovered inches from her brimming cleavage as she undid the fifth button, then the sixth. Although her neckline gaped, her tightly laced stays kept her breasts pert and round.

Seven now. Then eight.

How many buttons were there? Ten? Twelve? Twenty wouldn’t be enough. She loved the way he was looking at her, and the power she wielded over him as she eased each button loose. She didn’t feel tawdry anymore. She felt erotic and sensual and wanton … and completely not herself, for those were certainly not words that applied to Amelia d’Orsay.

But she wasn’t Amelia d’Orsay any longer, was she? She was Amelia Dumarque, the Duchess of Morland.

She was this man’s wife.

As her fingers neared the midpoint of her back, the bodice began to fall away from her body. His pupils widened with anticipation.

With a little roll of her shoulder, she dislodged one sleeve from its tenuous position on her arm. The fabric slid downward, taking half of her bodice with it. She pulled that arm free, and then easily bared the other. A chemise and stays still covered her torso, but she’d never felt so exquisitely naked. Uncertain what else to do with them, she allowed her hands to dangle at her sides.

With possessive leisure, his eyes roamed every curve of her body. Perspiration beaded in the valley between her breasts. The room was thick with leftover afternoon heat, and even if it weren’t—his bold appraisal was heating her from the inside out. No man had ever looked at her this way. Oh, she’d been ogled by Mr. Poste, and by a fair number of other men since. When framed by the right neckline, her bosom never failed to draw men’s notice. Unfortunately, none of her other attributes held their attention beyond that brief, greedy glance.

The duke’s gaze was different, though. Not leering, but appreciative. Speculative. There was more than idle admiration going on behind those eyes. There was thoughtful planning and intelligent strategy. His eyes drew sweeping arcs over the thin gauze of her shift, as though he were mapping out each possible approach.

What a novel sensation, to be the object of strategy. What would it be like, to be pursued by this man with just a fraction of the determination and resources he devoted to pursuing that wretched stallion? Heat swirled through her at the idea, and she felt herself melting between her legs.

“God.” He tightened his grip on her waist and hauled her forward, bunching her skirts higher between them and bringing her pelvis in sudden, startling contact with his.

A little gasp escaped her. Obviously men did not melt between the legs. No, they grew hugely, demandingly hard. In response, her own body softened further.

“Your stays,” he choked out. “Unlace them.”

Breathless, she shook her head. “Only the bodice. That was the wager.”

Groaning, he released her hips. She closed her eyes, suddenly afraid. Not afraid she’d angered him, but afraid this interlude would end.

A touch, whisper-soft, grazed her hand where it dangled at her side. Soon the sensation echoed on the other hand—not only matched, but multiplied. He swept light caresses over the backs of her hands, her sensitive palms, and up the delicate skin of her wrists. Amelia wanted to moan. His touch was so sweet, so unbearably sweet.

Slowly, gently, with excruciating care, his fingers climbed her arms, lingering in the tender hollows of her elbows and skimming over the rounded flesh of her upper arms. He caressed the exposed planes of her upper back, and she shivered with pleasure as his fingertips traveled up her spine and traced the sweeping curve of her collarbone. He dipped a single finger into the tender valley of her cleavage, then just as quickly drew it out.

She wished she’d obeyed him and unlaced her stays, so labored was her breathing now. She was faint with longing. Her eyelids trembled, even though she kept them tightly closed.

She felt him shifting, closing the gap between them. His breath warmed the curve of her neck. And then his lips pressed against her pulse.

Her eyes flew open. If he was kissing her neck, he couldn’t meet her gaze … and in that case, she wanted to see everything. As he lightly nibbled the underside of her jaw, she studied the peeling wallpaper with ridiculous concentration. This is real, she told herself. The Duke of Morland is tasting my neck as though it were the most luscious, succulent fruit this side of Eden’s gates, and this is all real. There is the wallpaper to prove it.

Grasping her by the shoulders, he gave her a necklace of kisses—kisses that grew increasingly hungry and fierce. By the time he reached the other side of her neck, he grazed her flesh with his teeth.

And then he really did bite her. Gently, but still she cried out in surprise.

“Hush,” he soothed, licking at her ear. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since that damnable waltz.” Before she could even conceive of a reply, he added, “This, too.”

His hands slid around to claim her breasts. Greedily, possessively. He kneaded and shaped them, his fingers molding around the soft cups of her stays. Then, resting his forehead to her shoulder and releasing a lustful sigh, he burrowed his long fingers under the edge of her chemise, curved them under the swells of her breasts, and lifted. Her breasts sprang free with a nearly audible pop.

“God, yes.” He reclined, holding them up for his examination. Her nipples contracted to tight peaks. Amelia felt like closing her eyes again, but she just couldn’t.

His finger covered the small freckle on the inner curve of her left breast. “Just the one,” he said softly. He trailed the same finger down, drawing a wide circle around the circumference of her areola. “And tawny, like spice.”

This is real. The Duke of Morland is eyeing my naked bosom with raw, unmitigated lust, and there are his dark, unwavering eyes to prove it.

If she required any further evidence of his desire, it pulsed hotly against her feminine core. Bright pleasure sparked through her. Then his thumb brushed her hardened nipple, and she thought she would explode.

Pushing her breasts together, he leaned forward and buried his face in them, nuzzling either side in turn and swiping teasing licks over her breastbone. Then he pulled back and drew her left nipple into his mouth.

She couldn’t hold it in a moment longer. She moaned. But fortunately, so did he, so it wasn’t quite so embarrassing.

Keening low through her teeth, she brought one hand to the back of his head, teasing her fingers through his soft, curling hair as he sucked and licked. He transferred his attentions to her other breast, and the sensations began anew—so sharp and acute at first, then sweet and dark and deep. Without even thinking what she did, she rocked her hips against his, grinding against the hard ridge of his arousal.

“Yes,” he said, breaking away from her breast and kissing his way back up her neck. His hands slid to her hips, and he rocked her against him again. And again. Stoking her pleasure to a near-unbearable plateau.

“Yes.” He panted against her neck. “This is how I wanted you, that morning in the carriage. Just. Like. This.”

Truly? That morning they’d quarreled in the carriage, he’d imagined them doing this? He dragged her over his hard length again, sending a fresh surge of pleasure through her.

Her lips parted, and his name rushed out with her breath. A helpless plea for mercy, but he seemed to take it as encouragement.

“Amelia.” He clutched her hips tighter, nuzzled her ear. “God, we’ll be good together. I’ve known it from the first.”

No, no. Such dangerous words. She tried to block them out, but her shields faltered, and she let herself imagine, for just a moment, there was more than lust behind them. In her ears, his words echoed and altered, warping around all her girlhood fantasies and romantic dreams. We’ll be good together. I’ve known it from the first. I’ve known you from the first. Oh God, Amelia. I’ve loved you from the first. The foolish, useless craving for affection throbbed in her blood, made her hot between the legs. And her heart …

She didn’t think her heart could bear it if he spoke again, so she kissed him, out of sheer self-preservation. Stupid, stupid mistake. The emotions unleashed in that rough press of mouth against mouth … oh, they were a thousand times worse. His taste was too familiar now. He explored her mouth so thoroughly. It was all so unbearably intimate, it made her ache deep inside. She broke the kiss, intending to break away entirely.

But then he had his hands on her breasts again, and his mouth captured her nipple … Pleasure swamped her last hold on resistance. She was lost. Her hips moved of their own accord, rocking against his in a steady rhythm.

Hot sensation gathered between her thighs, spreading sweetly through her limbs. And still she craved more. She’d never imagined she could achieve pleasure this easily—still mostly clothed, her body not yet attuned to his rough, masculine touch. But, oh, she was close. So close. That shimmering pinnacle of bliss hovered just beyond her reach, but she was striving toward it. Climbing higher … higher …

Thud.

She fell straight back to earth.

He lifted her by the waist, abruptly breaking the contact between their loins. “Enough,” he rasped.

Enough? Amelia consulted her body. No. No, that was most definitely not enough.

Pushing her farther away, he straightened in the chair. “Ten minutes.” Red-faced, he nodded at his watch. “They’re over. The wager is satisfied.”

Was he mad? Perhaps ten minutes were up, but Amelia wasn’t nearly satisfied. And neither was he, from the looks of the straining bulge in his trousers.

Nevertheless, he rose from the chair and half-carried her into the bedchamber, abruptly releasing her. His hasty retreat left several paces’ distance—and the connecting door—between them. “Go to bed, Amelia.”

Reeling, she grasped the bedpost for support. Her whole body felt like blancmange, soft and quivering. And she ached … oh, how she ached for completion. Surely he knew how aroused she’d become, from the way she’d wantonly ridden him. Goodness, from the sounds she’d made. He conquered any resistance with his seductive touch and that hot, wicked mouth. Caught in that haze of lust, she would have surrendered her virtue easily.

“We agreed on ten minutes,” he said, turning away to make discreet adjustments to his trouser fall. “And I gave you my word.”

Was she to believe he was being honorable? From the moment he’d drawn out that pack of cards, he’d drawn her straight into his clutches. Literally. And now he was walking away, leaving her a frustrated, trembling mass of thwarted desire and unfulfilled need.

“You don’t need help with your laces?” he asked.

She numbly shook her head.

“Good night, then.” He started to pull shut the connecting door, then paused to give her an enigmatic look. “I’m just here, if there’s anything you need.”