Chapter Ten

Alone in the antechamber, Spencer unscrewed the top of his flask with trembling fingers. He tossed back a quick, scorching swallow. Then another.

His movements jerky and agitated, he stripped himself of his waistcoat. He flung open a trunk, pulling out a set of clean linens and snapping them open to cover the narrow cot. As if he’d be able to sleep.

He strode to the table to light a fresh candle. When his fingers refused to work the flint properly, he cast the damn thing away. Swearing quietly into the darkened room, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches placket, untucked his shirt, and stopped postponing the inevitable. Bracing one hand on the table, he freed his aching erection with the other. He was still hard as a pike, and primed for release.

Oh, God.

Her breasts. Her hips. Her mouth on his. Her softness and heat. Her little mewls of pleasure. The sound of his name from her lips. The taste of her skin. Her breasts again, because they bore repeating. And those nipples … God, she had the most pert, luscious nipples he had ever—ever—laid eyes or thumbs or lips upon. And the look on her face, when he’d carried her to the bedroom. Bewildered, mussed. Half-naked and fully aroused. She was there, right now, in the bed. He could join her. He could have her under him. Surrounding him. Gripping him tight. Panting and writhing and—

Sweet. Holy. Merciful …

Behind his eyelids, the world went searing bright. Gritting his teeth against an involuntary cry, he came in a frenzy of brisk, tight-fisted strokes, spurting jet after jet into a loose fold of his shirt. His breath grated in and out of his chest as he clutched the table’s edge for support.

After a minute, he straightened, pulled the soiled shirt over his head and cast it aside, then flopped onto the cot to savor the numb, joint-loosening sensation of release.

Release, yes. Relief, no. For she was still fewer than six paces away, and he could be hard for her again in a matter of three minutes. Perhaps two. Don’t ponder it overmuch, a throb in his groin warned.

The evening really had not gone as planned. Well, it had gone as planned, up to a point. The cards, the wager, her breasts in his hands … all these he’d counted upon. He’d only meant to give her a bit of skillful stroking. Not too much. Just enough to loosen the tension in her body and offer a taste of the pleasure they could share. Just enough to prove he could be trusted, and keep her wanting more.

Well. This was clearly a different endeavor from horse-breaking.

In his best imaginings, he wouldn’t have guessed that Amelia would respond to him so passionately. He couldn’t have dreamed how strongly he’d respond to her. As a younger man, Spencer would have counted it with great pride, the fact that he’d taken an inexperienced lover from clothed and uncertain to half-naked and teetering on the verge of climax—all in under ten minutes. But the triumph rang a bit hollow tonight, as he realized his victory came with a forfeit.

He was left wanting more, too.

Not just more pleasure, more heat, more skin … although he did want all those things, and desperately … but more Amelia. He wanted to sit at the table and watch her worry that plump lower lip with her teeth as she embroidered. He wanted her to tease him for his reading choices. Most of all, he wanted to catch her staring at him, when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And he wanted the look in her eyes to be fondness, not fear.

He stared hard at the connecting door, as though he could swing the warped panel on its rusted hinges by sheer force of will.

Come to me, Amelia. You crossed a ballroom to confront me while hundreds looked on. Open that door tonight.

But when dawn came, he awoke alone.

God had a very cruel sense of humor.

Here Amelia was, the newly minted Duchess of Morland, arriving at Braxton Hall in all its early summer splendor. Through the square carriage window, she spied endless acres of rich farmland dotted with neat barns and cottages, then a pleasing expanse of rolling green parklands, and now, as they neared the Hall, a wall of towering, manicured hedges that must contain equally well-maintained gardens. Of this prestigious, lovely, verdant estate she was now mistress.

And she was a shambles.

Amelia had never traveled well. The rolling motion of a carriage always nauseated her, and she felt the effects even more strongly in warm weather. Their first day of travel hadn’t been too distressing, but the farther they went from London, the worse the roads became. Late spring rains had left this particular dirt lane rutted and uneven, so that she had not only rolling to contend with, but violent jouncing as well. She ached all over, her muscles stiff from long hours of bracing herself on the seat, and her head throbbing with a persistent, dull pain. Her gown—a sensible chocolate-brown traveling habit two years past its fitting—was wrinkled and coated with a fine layer of dust.

She was the sorriest-looking duchess to ever live, she was sure of it.

As they turned the corner onto a smoother drive, Amelia glimpsed the Hall’s brick-and-limestone façade in the distance. She hastily patted her face and smoothed stray wisps of hair, anxious to make herself presentable before facing Spencer again.

Dear Lord, how would she face him? A blush scalded her cheeks at the mere idea. What had happened last night, at the inn … Those ten minutes in his lap had been a sensual thrill the likes of which she had never thought to experience. And by undeniable, abundant evidence, his desire for her had not been feigned. She hadn’t felt sorry-looking in his arms last night, but attractive and wanton. Until he’d abruptly called a halt to the evening, leaving her confused and frustrated instead. Had he truly meant to respect their agreed-upon boundaries, or to punish her for setting them?

The carriage door opened, and harsh sunlight flooded the velvet-lined interior. Her headache renewed with double force. She hadn’t expected the sun to be so strong in late afternoon. But as she accepted the footman’s hand and alighted from the coach, Amelia realized it was not the direct rays of the sun that blinded her, but rather their reflection off the gleaming white marble entrance to Braxton Hall.

Blinking, she raised her hand to shield herself from the stabbing attack of grandeur. Briarbank was covered in ivy and moss, and it never made her wince. In a defensive move, she turned her head to the left. No marble there. Just an endless façade of crimson brick, glittering limestone, and glazed windows that faded into the distance, most likely somewhere near Cambridge. She swiveled her head to the right. An equally impressive, equally long façade fronted the Hall’s east wing, seeming to stretch half the distance to the sea.

And it was hers. All hers to manage, to make both a showplace and a home. Amelia battled the urge to hop up and down with delight.

She confined herself to a discreet twirl instead, turning just in time to watch Spencer dismount from his horse in one smooth, elegant motion. Of course, he looked magnificent. A touch of dust dimmed the shine on his Hessians, but it only enhanced his masculine appeal, as did the healthful glow of physical exertion and the bronze cast to his complexion after two days spent in the sun. As he handed the reins to a waiting groom and exchanged a few words with the man, she noticed a relaxed, easier way to his manner. He was even smiling.

Then he turned and caught her eye. The smile disappeared.

“Good Lord.” His boots clicked against stone as he covered the distance between them, and just as Amelia was learning to expect, he took what could have been a mildly awkward situation and made it twelve times worse. “You look dreadful.”

She squirmed under his gaze. “I’m sorry. The carriage …”

“Yes, obviously. Come inside and rest.” Laying a hand to the small of her back, he guided her up the marble steps toward the open door. The muscles flanking her spine were bunched and stiff. His thumb found the worst of the knots and traced firm circles over it. She sealed her lips over a grateful moan.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he chided her. “You might have ridden part of the journey, if you’d liked.”

“I don’t ride.”

He halted, looking down at her. “You don’t ride,” he repeated in a tone of disbelief. “At all?”

“No,” she said, chastened.

“Surely you’re joking. I know your family epitomizes noble poverty, but don’t the d’Orsays have some cattle to their name?”

“Of course we do. I just never cared to learn.”

He merely shook his head and resumed guiding her up the stairs and into the house. The butler and housekeeper came forward to greet them.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.” The silver-haired butler bowed to the duke. He then turned to Amelia and made the same gesture of respect to her. “Your Grace.”

“I gather you received my express,” Spencer said.

“Yesterday morning, Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtsied. “Our congratulations on your marriage. Her Grace’s chambers are aired and readied.”

“Very good. Her Grace is unwell. See that she rests.” In a brisk tone, he introduced the servants as Clarke and Mrs. Bodkin.

“What a lovely entrance hall,” she said, by way of indirect compliment. She hoped to make the housekeeper a quick ally. Peering at one of the dozen gilt-framed paintings on the far wall, she wondered aloud, “Is that a Tintoretto?”

“Yes,” Spencer answered.

“I thought so.” Her family had owned one quite like it, once. It had fetched enough at auction to pay their expenses for a year.

“Spencer!”

Amelia’s gaze jerked to the top of the staircase, where a young woman stood clinging to the banister.

“Spencer, you’re home!”

And this must be Claudia. Hadn’t Spencer said his ward was visiting relations in York? But it could be no one else. The family resemblance was subtle, but clear. The cousins shared the same dark, curling hair and fine cheekbones—features that must recall their fathers’ side of the family. Claudia’s innocent features contrasted with a developed figure. She teetered on that fulcrum between youth and womanhood.

“What are you doing home?” Spencer called to her. “You’re meant to be in York another week yet.”

“Oh, I begged them to send me home early. And when the decrepit old bat refused, I simply misbehaved until she was glad to be rid of me. We sent a letter, but it must have crossed you on your journey.” The young lady tripped down the cascading river of marble that formed the front hall stairs, pale pink muslin fluttering behind her. As she hurried toward the duke, everything about her—from her fists balled in excitement to her bright, flushed expression—bespoke joy and affection. The girl clearly adored him.

“Incorrigible chit.” The words might have been a reproach, but Amelia didn’t miss the warmth softening his eyes. In his own reserved, masculine way, he clearly adored her, too.

The realization hit Amelia very queerly. It was encouraging, she supposed, to learn that her new husband was capable of genuine, tender affection. But it was also disheartening, to contrast that depth of emotion with his treatment of her.

When Claudia reached the bottom of the stairs, she rushed toward her guardian at a startling velocity. At the last second, however, she pulled up short and looked askance at Amelia. “Is this my new companion?”

Amelia’s already-upset stomach clenched further. This didn’t bode well.

“No,” Spencer said slowly. “No, she is not your new companion.”

“Of course not.” Claudia smiled. “Just from looking at her, I knew she must be the new companion’s lady’s maid, but I wanted to be certain she wasn’t the companion first. It would have been rude of me to assume otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Amelia swiveled to face Spencer, so slowly she heard her own vertebrae creak. Then she lifted her eyebrows. It was all the reaction she could manage.

Oblivious, Claudia went on, “Is my new companion traveling separately?”

Spencer clenched his jaw. “There is no new companion.”

“But …” Her brow wrinkled. “But you promised that when you came back from Town, you’d br—”

“Claudia.” At the sharp command in his voice, the girl startled and looked up at him with the bewildered eyes of a puppy that had just been kicked. Heavens, this just became worse and worse.

Spencer lifted Amelia’s hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. She stared stupidly at her own fingers, resting leaden and numb atop his arm.

“Lady Claudia,” he said firmly, obviously hoping to inspire some return to decorum, “may I introduce Amelia Claire d’Orsay Dumarque, the Duchess of Morland. She is not your new companion. She is my new bride.”

“Your …” Claudia stood blinking at Amelia. Then she turned and blinked up at Spencer. “Your …”

“My wife. The duchess. Your new cousin.” He gave her a pointed look. “The lady to whom you must curtsy and apologize. Now.”

The girl dipped in a curtsy, tripping over a few words of apology. Then she looked up at Spencer with the resentful eyes of a puppy that had been kicked not once, but many times.

“I’m …” Amelia cleared her throat. “I’m so happy to meet you, Claudia. The duke has told me many wonderful things about you.”

“How curious,” she said. “None of his letters mentioned you at all.”

“Claudia,” Spencer warned.

Amelia squeezed his arm, then withdrew her hand. “I do hope we can be friends,” she said brightly, moving forward to lay the same hand on Claudia’s wrist. It was probably futile, but she had to make the attempt.

A prolonged, awkward silence ensued. Just when Amelia thought the tension could not possibly become worse, it did.

Claudia began to cry.

“You married?” Ignoring Amelia entirely, the girl turned brimming eyes on Spencer. “Without even telling me? How could you—”

“Hush,” he muttered, drawing his ward aside. “Don’t make a scene.”

Amelia almost laughed. Too late for that bit of advice. Truly, she couldn’t blame the girl. In any normal betrothal, they would have become acquainted well before the wedding. Claudia would have had weeks or months to adjust to the idea of a new duchess at Braxton Hall, rather than having Amelia thrust upon her unawares one afternoon. No, she couldn’t fault the girl for her resentment. She faulted Spencer for it. It was just one more example of the duke making an impulsive, arrogant decision with no regard for the feelings of those affected.

“Well,” she said, “the two of you must have a great deal to discuss.” She turned her back on Spencer. “Mrs. Bodkin, would you be so kind as to show me to my chambers now? We can discuss dinner arrangements on the way.”

The housekeeper brightened. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Cook will be so pleased to receive your direction. Have you special recipes or menus?”

“I do.” A genuine smile warmed Amelia’s face. Here was some consolation. “An entire book of them.”

The handful of hours between Amelia’s arrival at Braxton Hall and dinner were a whirlwind. Ill or no, she had little time to rest. This was her first evening in residence as the Duchess of Morland. She might have entered the house looking like a poorhouse case, but by the time she descended those marble stairs for dinner, she was resolved that she would look and act the part of a duchess.

No one would mistake her for a paid companion, or worse, a lady’s maid.

Dinner plans were no simple task. She was forced to rely on Mrs. Bodkin’s estimate of the kitchen stores and devise an elegant yet simple menu that could be prepared from available foodstuffs within the allotted time. Fortunately, the housekeeper seemed overjoyed to assist in any way. After sending the older woman off to the kitchens with a list of dishes, a few custom recipes, and many verbal instructions for the cook, Amelia permitted herself ten minutes’ rest on a chaise longue covered in sumptuous brocade. Her entire suite of rooms—she’d counted six of them so far—was decorated in positively regal shades of royal blue, cream, and gold. From where she lay, she studied the intricate Greek key pattern trimming the plastered ceiling. If she let her head fall to one side, she saw four exquisitely turned wooden legs supporting a polished stone tabletop, which held a blue-and-white Chinese vase, which in turn accommodated a large arrangement of fresh-cut flowers.

Orchids. At last, she had her orchids.

The entire tableau was one of beauty, elegance, and harmony. Merely gazing upon it filled her with quiet joy. After years of living with Winifred’s ostentatious displays of pink shells and overfed cherubs, Amelia reveled in the abundant evidence of her precursor’s restraint and good taste.

For ten minutes. And then she went back to work.

Once the maid had drawn her bath, Amelia sent her off to press the new pearl-gray silk from her wedding. The gown was unquestionably the best she had, and this occasion demanded her best.

Amelia could manage a bath on her own—she’d done so for years—but time was short, and she couldn’t be late for dinner. This was what she’d been waiting for all her life, to be mistress of her own house. She would show Spencer and Claudia both. Soon they would adore her. They would wonder how they’d ever survived without her. One well-planned, satisfying meal, and the duke would realize his immense fortune in marrying a plain, unassuming spinster. He might even rise from his seat, walk the length of the table, and humbly kneel at her side, gazing up at her with sheer worship in his eyes. Amelia, he would say, in that husky, thrilling voice of his, I don’t know how I’ve lived without you. You’ve made our house a home. I’ll do anything, say anything. Just promise me you’ll never, ever leave.

Or so it was amusing to dream.

Working quickly before the water could go cold, Amelia wrestled out of her traveling habit. Stripped down to chemise and stays, she then stood in the center of the room, uncertain what to do with the dress. She didn’t want to just throw the whole dusty mess atop a clean bed. Another lady might have dumped the garments in a heap on the floor, but Amelia’s sense of tidiness and her respect for good fabric just wouldn’t allow it. Surely this room had a closet with a hook or two …

Turning slowly in place, she spied a sliding wood panel to one side of the bed. It blended so perfectly into the wainscoting, she hadn’t noticed the closet on first inspection.

Enjoying the way the carpet’s thick pile cushioned her bare toes, she hurried to the door. It was heavier than she’d expected, but by leaning her full weight into the effort, she managed to slide it open.

On the other side was Spencer.

Upon seeing her, he froze—right in the middle of removing his shirt.

“Oh!” Mortified, Amelia dropped the entire bundle of fabric. Which only increased her embarrassment, since she now stood before him in just her shift and stays. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. Her eyes riveted to the rippling muscles of his abdomen and the line of dark hair bisecting them. “I … I thought this was a closet.”

Lowering his shirt, he flicked a bemused glance at the room behind him. “No. Not a closet.”

“Of course not.” Her face burned. Obviously it was the duke’s bedchamber—an exact mirror of her own, but done up in rich, masculine colors and fabrics—and this sliding door connected the two suites. “I just wasn’t expecting … I mean, this arrangement is very—”

“Convenient?”

“Unusual. That’s what I meant to say.”

She shifted her weight uneasily. His gaze dipped to her bosom.

She added, “I mean, I’ve never seen this sort of papering before, done up in such complimentary colors. It’s so clever, the way the gold in my room is mirrored with a dark blue in yours, but both carpets have the same pattern of …”

“Mm-hm.” He nodded thoughtfully at her cleavage. He wasn’t hearing a word she said.

“The same pattern of unicorns. Alternating with rounds of cheese.”

Another vacant nod. “Indeed.”

Amelia’s face heated. Here she was, dreaming of elaborate menus and blathering on about room décor—and he didn’t care. He’d married her for one reason only, and if she’d momentarily forgotten it, the intensity with which he was currently staring at her breasts would have been a certain reminder. He wanted to bed her, and get an heir. That was all. Despite his assurances to the contrary when he’d proposed, she was here in his home as a glorified broodmare.

No, scratch the “glorified.” He likely treated his broodmares with greater affection.

She stepped back, nearly tripping over the heap of clothing at her feet. No way to pick it up without giving him an even bolder view of her cleavage. Discreetly kicking the garments aside, she put one shoulder to the door panel and prepared to slide it closed. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

His hand shot out to grasp the edge of the door. Amelia pushed anyway, but the slab of oak wouldn’t budge.

“About Claudia,” he said. “She’s very … young.” He sighed. “I wish that had gone differently, downstairs.”

Was this what constituted an apology, in Spencer’s world? It didn’t quite merit absolution in Amelia’s. She nodded. “So do I.”

His gaze seemed to have settled on her hips now, his lips curving in masculine approval. Yes, yes. They were wide and strong. Excellent for breeding, as she’d been informed by many a well-meaning matron in her day.

Amelia cleared her throat. The message in the inarticulate sound was clear: Hullo? I’m up here.

He dragged his eyes back up to her face. But he took his time about it, and as his gaze stroked over her, a pleasant warmth buzzed through her veins. Lord, what a hopeless situation. She enjoyed being lusted after; there was no pretending otherwise.

But she couldn’t stop herself from craving affection in the bargain—even though he’d never offered it, and she’d accepted him knowing that full well. He was a man. Not just a man, but a powerful, attractive duke. He could separate his physical needs from his emotions—but for Amelia, the two were hopelessly entangled. That meant he had all the power.

Not to mention the physical force. As they stood there—her whole strength marshaled to close the door and his one hand holding it open—it occurred to her how easily he could overpower her, if he wished. For God’s sake, he’d lifted her six inches into the air in that ballroom, and she wasn’t especially light.

Her eyes went to the door handle.

“There’s only one latch,” he said, guessing her thoughts. “It’s on my side.”

She swallowed hard. “I see.”

“Don’t worry.” With an arrogant grin, he released his grip on the door and stepped back. “I’ll never lock it.”

Amelia shifted her weight, and the door slid shut with a satisfying bang. She thought she heard him laugh.