Chapter Eleven

Dinner was a miserable business.

Against all reason, Spencer had hoped for a swift improvement in Claudia’s demeanor. Obviously, the fact of his marriage had taken his ward by surprise. But with a few hours to grow used to the idea, perhaps she would embrace Amelia as a welcome addition to the household.

No. No embracing going on tonight.

Spencer sat at the head of the table. Amelia and Claudia faced one another across an arctic expanse of white linen and bevel-cut crystal, but their eyes never met. One would think the fish course had been served live and wriggling, considering the violence with which Claudia stabbed it.

“How was your time in York?” Spencer asked her. “Can I expect good reports from your tutors?”

“I don’t know.” She jabbed at a fillet of turbot. “I was rather a disappointment to my German master.”

“What of your music?”

“The music master was rather a disappointment to me.” Sniffing, she laid down her fork. “The shops were lovely, though.”

“I sent you to York so that you might improve your mind, not distribute your pin money to the local merchants. Why should I bother arranging for tutors if you learn nothing from them?”

Resentful eyes snapped up to his. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

“Aren’t you hungry, dear?” Amelia interjected in a smooth, conciliatory tone. She nodded at Claudia’s abandoned fish. “You didn’t touch your soup, either.”

The girl still refused to look at her.

“Please excuse me.” Chair legs scraped the floor as Claudia rose to her feet. “I’ve little appetite this evening.”

With that, she fled the room. Spencer braced his hands on the arms of his chair and started to rise. He froze halfway. Should he even bother going after her, or would that only make matters worse?

“No, don’t,” Amelia said, reading his thoughts. “She needs time.”

He lowered himself back into his chair.

With a sigh, Amelia signaled the servants to remove the fish. “Spencer, what do you intend to do about her?”

He was too fatigued to be anything but honest. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t known what to do with Claudia for some time now.

“How old was she, when she lost her parents?”

He started to answer, then hesitated as liveried sleeves reached between them. The servant positioned a roast of lamb in the center of the table. Spencer impatiently motioned for the knife and carving fork. Perhaps dukes didn’t typically carve their own roasts, but he found it easier to talk when his hands were occupied.

And surprisingly enough, he wanted to talk about this.

“She was an infant when her mother died. That was shortly before my uncle summoned me from Canada. He had no wish to remarry and produce an heir of his own, so he and my father agreed I would come here and prepare to assume the duties of the title. Claudia was nine years old when the late duke passed away. Since my own father had died in the meantime, that’s when I inherited the dukedom and assumed her guardianship.”

And he’d begun failing her almost immediately thereafter. At least, that’s the way it had felt. He had tried. He’d kept her close for the year or two after her father’s death. Let her travel with him, taught her to ride, read aloud to her in the evenings from Shakespeare, Homer, Milton—never letting her guess that the classics were new to him, too. She was a clever child, and endlessly greedy for affection. He’d given her as much attention as he could, considering the demands of his own new title, but he’d always known she deserved more. And the older she grew, the less he knew what to do with her. She needed education, refinement, guidance, exposure to society—none of which he could adequately provide.

“Of course,” he said, flicking aside a sprig of rosemary as he sawed the meat, “I’ve hired governesses through the years. The past few winters, I’ve been sending her to her great-aunt’s in York. She was supposed to have the benefit of some masters there.”

Amelia sipped her wine. “No wonder she resents me. Poor girl.”

“Why should she resent you?”

Her eyes widened at him over the wineglass, but Spencer truly didn’t understand. He’d hoped Claudia would be happy to have a feminine influence in the house, since she’d never known her own mother.

“Spencer, you are the sole adult she’s lived with all her life. To her, you are like cousin, brother, guardian, and God Himself, all rolled into one. It was plain from one minute’s observation how much she adores you, and here you’ve only been sending her away. She came home early just to see you, only to learn you’ve married with no warning whatsoever. For the first time in her life, she has a rival for your attention. Of course she resents me.”

He had the vague understanding that he’d put Amelia in a very awkward situation. The portion of meat he slid onto her plate seemed poor compensation.

“Have you considered,” she said, testing the lamb with one tine of her fork, “that Claudia might have hoped to marry you herself?”

He dropped the carving knife with a clatter. “Lord, no. We’re cousins. I’m her guardian. She’s fifteen years old, for God’s sake. Barely more than a child.” He suppressed a shudder. Marry Claudia? The idea made him ill.

“I know, but …” She shrugged, cutting into the meat. “Such matches do happen. And she isn’t unthinkably young. When I became engaged for the first time, I was barely older than she is now.” She took a bite.

“You were engaged? To whom?”

It took her an eternity to chew that damned bit of lamb.

Finally, she swallowed. “To no one you’d know. A wealthy squire, in Gloucestershire.”

“What happened?”

“He was so old, and … well, I just couldn’t go through with it.” She poked at her lamb again, looking tense and fragile. Spencer already felt such welling hatred for this Gloucestershire squire, he had no idea how to question her further without … breaking something. And that wouldn’t do much to assure her of his nonviolent nature.

Suddenly she said, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He shook his head. “I don’t care for lamb.”

“That’s absurd. Who doesn’t care for lamb?”

“I don’t.”

Amelia sighed. “She needs your attention. Claudia, I mean. We should make a fuss over her.”

“A fuss?” Though he was grateful for the sudden change in topic, Spencer wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this. He had a longstanding prejudice against fuss, in all its forms. “What do you mean?”

“Spend time with her, to start. Talk to her. Listen to what she has to say. Every girl her age needs a confidante. I’ll try to reach out to her, but that will take time. She needs wider society. If she’s to make her debut in Town, she ought to begin moving in less formal circles now. I don’t suppose we could take her to Bath or Brighton?”

“We’ve only just arrived here. My desk has accumulated so many papers in my absence, it resembles a snowdrift. Add to that, it’s stud season and I’ve mares to—”

“All right, all right. It was only a thought. No travel. A party, then.” She clapped her hands. “I can do a lovely party, and Claudia can help me with—”

“No. No parties.”

“Well, it needn’t be a grand affair. No dancing. We’ll just invite a few good families, with young ladies her age—make it a musicale, perhaps. You did say she plays. That will give her an opportunity to perform in front of—”

“No,” he said, bringing his fist to the table with a forceful crack. He needed to shut down this discussion, immediately. Braxton Hall—his home and refuge—swarmed with giddy girls and their obsequious relations? His brain spun at the thought. It would be as if Dante had created him an elite tenth circle of hell. “Listen. Claudia is my ward. She is my responsibility, and I will deal with her as I see fit. She’s not ready to begin moving in society.”

“But I thought if she—”

“Your thoughts aren’t required. Not on this.”

“I see.” Her eyes fell. She looked utterly conquered.

Devil, damn, and blast. Spencer picked up his wineglass and drained it.

“Well, I’ve little appetite tonight. Fatigued from the journey, I suppose.” With quiet precision, she positioned her silver on her plate, then folded her napkin and set it aside. When she rose from her chair, he stood too.

“Will you show me to my suite?” she asked quietly. “Or must I ask a maid for directions? I haven’t learned the trick of these corridors yet.”

He offered his arm, and together they proceeded in silence. Through the hall, up the stairs, down the passageway toward her rooms. When they’d nearly reached her suite, she pulled up short.

He halted beside her. “What is it?”

“Now that we’re alone …” She scanned the empty corridor, then abruptly released his arm and wheeled on him. Her eyes sparked with anger. “You will not do that to me again. I’ve waited my entire life to be mistress of my own house. As if it wasn’t bad enough to be mistaken for a servant on my arrival, now you would humiliate me in front of the real ones? On my first day in residence? If you’re going to berate and belittle me, at least pay me the courtesy of waiting to do it in private.”

He didn’t know how to respond. Not verbally, at any rate. His body, however, was responding to her with primal eloquence. His pulse accelerated; blood surged to his groin. At last, here was Amelia again—the bold, spirited woman who provoked him in every possible way.

“And you may not ‘require’ my thoughts on the matter,” she went on, “but you’re going to have them. I’ve known since we met how arrogant and self-absorbed you can be, but this is the first time I’ve known you to be stupid. That girl adores you. With the slightest effort on your part, you could make her so happy. Instead, you’re driving her away, devastating her through your own inaction. By the time you deem the relationship worth your effort, it may be too late.

“What’s more, I could help you. I was once a girl, and I understand how Claudia feels. Now I’m a lady, and I understand how to make a home, welcome guests, care for people who need it. I know you married me solely to get a few children, but if you bothered to look, perhaps you’d see something beyond my breeding potential.” She put a hand to her temple. “You have no idea what more I could offer you.”

“Offer me? You sound like a woman presenting herself for employment. I thought you took offense at the notion of being a paid companion.”

“I do,” she said, bristling. “You’re the one who said your very reason for marrying was to protect Claudia’s future. It’s obvious you care deeply for her. When’s the last time you told her so?”

For God’s sake, he didn’t know. Never?

He said, “If it’s so obvious, why should I have to say it? I provide for her material needs and her education. I establish boundaries to protect her.”

“Oh, yes. You’re so generous. You give her everything but your affection.”

“Well, if that’s the remedy for everything, tell me again why your brother’s a worthless rogue?”

She glared at him, chest heaving. Moments passed. “Are we going to play cards tonight or not?”

Nothing she could have said would have stunned him more. Or aroused him further. He looked to the door of her suite. “Are you inviting me in?”

“To the sitting room. No further.”

He reached past her and opened the door. “By all means.”

She entered and settled herself on a divan. He located a pack of cards in a drawer, then pulled up a table and a chair for himself.

“Will it be piquet again?” he asked, striving for a bored tone as he split and shuffled the cards.

“As you wish.”

He’d been pleasantly surprised last night at how quickly her piquet improved. She’d adapted with each successive hand, integrating new points of strategy into her play. With more practice, she might prove a challenging opponent for him. Typically Spencer had to handicap himself by discarding his best cards, just to keep things remotely interesting.

But if she thought she could best him tonight, she was deluding herself. The only way that could happen is if he purposely lost.

Perhaps he ought to let her win. At least the first hand.

As he prepared to deal, she stopped him. “One round will do tonight, I think. Shall we set the wager now?”

“Very well,” he said, surprised anew. “What is your forfeit? Four hundred pounds again?”

“Four hundred pounds, and you will allow me to plan and host a musicale for Claudia.”

“Agreed,” he said. “And if I win, you will come sit on my lap and undress me to the waist.”

She sucked in a breath. Her wide-eyed gaze seemed to settle on one of his waistcoat buttons. “And … and then what will you expect me to do?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Ten minutes, as before?”

He nodded in agreement.

“Very well.”

Guilt dragged his heartbeat as Spencer dealt the cards. He’d been planning to let her win the first round. Winning had cheered her last night, boosted her confidence. And victory had looked well on her, painting her cheeks a lovely shade of rose pink.

But he couldn’t let her win this wager. Opening his home to a bevy of young chits who thought they could sing and play? Being forced to listen to them try? No, he had no desire to host a musicale, but he did want to feel Amelia’s hands on his bare skin. Very much wanted it, with an intensity that concerned him.

Amelia gathered her cards. Her pale eyebrows drew together as she studied them. Of course, carnal satisfaction wasn’t what she had in mind. She wanted to save her brother and lift Claudia’s spirits, and perhaps her own as well. Bloody hell, she just wanted to be helpful, and he was going to deny her that.

He picked up the cards he’d dealt himself. They included three aces and a royal quart. His victory was all but assured.

Before he could think better of it, Spencer flung the ace of hearts away. There. He would still play to win, but now she at least had a sporting chance.

As the round progressed, her play was distracted and rash. She made foolish mistakes. Even if Spencer had been trying to lose, he would have had a deuced difficult time of it. In the end, he won handily.

She clasped her hands in her lap and gave him a reproachful look, as if to say, Well, you blackguard, I hope you’re satisfied.

But he wasn’t. Suddenly the whole game left a bad taste in his mouth. He’d manipulated her last night at the inn, to be sure. But if she hadn’t become a most eager participant in his arms, he never would have let matters go so far. If he’d wanted a fearful, timid lover, he would have taken her on their wedding night.

“Amelia,” he said slowly, knowing he would soon regret it, “it’s late, and we’re both tired. We can forget the wager.”

“Oh, no.” She rose from her seat and skirted the table. “Let it never be said that a member of the d’Orsay family does not honor her debts.” She held out her hand. “I believe you’ll have to stand, if I’m to remove your coat.”

He stood. He was a man, not a saint.

Beginning at his navel, she ran her hands up his chest, cleaving the sides of his coat from the waistcoat beneath. That brisk, sensible touch, even muffled as it was by several layers of fabric, nearly undid him. Her hands worked over his shoulders, loosening his sleeves. He made his arms straight and pushed them slightly back, and the coat slid off easily. She shook the garment out and carefully laid it aside, so it wouldn’t be wrinkled. He stood waiting impatiently. She could have trampled the thing, and he wouldn’t have cared.

She attacked his cravat next, pulling the starched linen loose from his neck with sharp tugs. Nimble flicks of her fingertips freed his waistcoat buttons, and soon the carefully folded silk joined his coat.

Spencer’s breath was ragged. He was painfully hard. There was nothing coy or seductive about the way she was undressing him, but it was undeniably feminine, and powerfully arousing. Hers wasn’t the touch of a lover; it was the possessive, efficient touch of a wife.

His wife.

As she freed his shirt from his trousers with a swift yank, she bobbled a bit on her feet. His hands took her waist. Then they slid over her hips and down, cupping the twin curves of her firm, rounded bottom. He hadn’t bid them to do so, they just did of their own accord.

With a chiding arch of her brow, she took his hands in hers and removed them forcibly. “Not part of the wager.” Laying her hands flat against his chest, she pressed lightly and added, “Be seated.”

He obeyed, gladly.

Hiking the filmy gauze of her skirts, she straddled his lap, just as she had last night. The same as last night, except that much less fabric separated them. He could already feel the heat of her skin burning through that meager excuse for a petticoat.

His erection throbbed against his trouser fall. Surely she could not fail to notice his aroused state, and virgin or no, she seemed too clever a woman not to understand what it meant. Instead of bringing her pelvis flush with his, however, she sat back toward his knees, denying his aching groin any direct contact. Her hands went to his waist and she gathered the fine lawn of his shirt in trembling fingers, drawing it slowly up.

As she exposed his bare torso, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Lift your arms.” Her words were a husky whisper.

He obeyed in silence, and she stretched up on her haunches, pulling the shirt over his head. She didn’t fold it this time, but tossed it carelessly aside.

His flesh blazed as she surveyed his bare chest. Her breathing was shallow, her throat and bosom prettily flushed. However she’d felt about paying this forfeit a few minutes ago, she was a more than willing participant now. Her obvious desire only multiplied his own.

Still she sat there, hesitating.

“Whatever you wish,” he scraped out. “Do whatever you wish.”

Her hands went to cover his. She traced each finger individually and smiled, evidently amused by the way he was clutching the chair’s upholstered armrests. Good. Let her know what she did to him. Yes, Amelia. I’m clinging to restraint by an ever-fraying thread. And if I don’t bed you soon, I may lose my grip on sanity forever.

Her touch feathered over his wrists and up his forearms, tracing the prominent cords of muscle and sinew. She progressed to his upper arms, pressing her palms flat against the solid swells of his biceps. Just to tease her, he flexed. A little gasp was his reward. Women usually enjoyed exploring the contours of his arms and chest—unlike most gentlemen of his station, he was strong and toned from working the horses.

She paused, hands balanced on his shoulders. A fresh wave of blood rushed to his groin. As if that part of him needed any further reinforcement.

Her fingertips swept to the back of his neck. A hot thrill shot to the base of his spine and simmered there. She was repaying him for last night, mimicking his attentions caress for caress—just as he’d hoped she would. It was torture to sit passively and take it, but his inaction was exactly what the situation required. He had to be patient, so patient … even if it killed him.

Her gaze dropped to his chest.

Yes. Yes. Touch me there. God, kiss me there.

He fought the urge to grasp her fingers and direct them, the desire to tangle a hand in her upswept hair and drag her open-mouthed kiss everywhere he craved it. His lips, his neck, his chest, his—

She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “You said last night, you’d been wanting to … to lick me. To bite me.”

“Yes.” Those carnal words, from her innocent lips … the image of her neat, delicate teeth closing over his earlobe, her tongue stroking over his skin … Oh, God. His hips bowed upward, seeking friction to soothe his rampant arousal. His erection brushed ever-so-slightly against her belly—but it wasn’t nearly enough. The light, teasing contact only increased his desperation.

“Well.” Warm, rhythmic breaths caressed his neck. “I’ve been wanting something, too.”

Sweet heaven. Was it too much to hope that what she’d been wanting required full nudity and a firm mattress? Because he was absolutely ready to oblige. When she hesitated, he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “What?” he asked into her hair. “What is it you want?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t. I swear it.”

“I have your word?”

“Yes, of course.” Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort to keep still. His mind churned with depraved fantasies. What carnal act spun from a virgin’s imagination could possibly make her so abashed? Whatever it was, it was bound to be good. Very, very good.

“This,” she whispered finally. “Just this.”

Her hands slid over his shoulders and linked behind his neck. She bent her head, and her soft breasts flattened against his chest. Excitement rushed over his skin. Every inch of him anticipated the imminent, exquisite sensation of her kiss.

But she didn’t kiss him. Instead, she rested her cheek against his collarbone, tucking her face into the curve of his neck. And then she released a deep, full-body sigh and went still.

Spencer was confused. Had she changed her mind? Perhaps embarrassment had conquered her desire. Damn.

“Won’t you hold me?” she murmured, nuzzling further into his neck. “Please? I’m homesick and tired, and it’s been a wretched day.”

Oh.

Oh, sweet holy infant. What a lust-addled fool he was. She hadn’t shied away from some lascivious fantasy. This was what she wanted. A chaste, comforting embrace. A hug.

“It’s not so very difficult,” she said. “Just put your arms about me. Husbands do it all the time.”

Damned if he knew how to refuse.

His arms went around her waist, gathering her close. She was so soft, and so warm, and she all but melted against his bare chest. As some consolation to his frustrated lust, the embrace brought them closer, until her thigh wedged snug against the hard ridge of his arousal. She didn’t startle or squirm away. For his part, Spencer resisted the urge to grind his hips. And so there they sat, hugging. Him in the chair, her on his lap, and the world’s most insistent erection between them. If he’d wanted sweet torture—by the devil, he had it. In trumps.

The longer he held her, however, the more he became aware of sensations that didn’t originate in his lap. The soft contours of her breasts soothed his pounding heart. Her eyelashes fluttered sweetly against his neck. And she smelled so good. Her enticing perfume blended her usual lavender scent with hints of vanilla and some kind of spice … was it clove? Perhaps she’d visited the kitchens today.

He stroked her back, once. Purring, she nestled closer in his lap. An unfamiliar tenderness swelled in his heart. Encouraged, he repeated the touch, skimming his fingers up the delicate ridge of her spine. Up, then down. Slipping the pads of his fingers over each vertebra, as if counting pearls on a string. The slow, steady tempo calmed them both. Their lungs seemed to arrive at some instinctive agreement, and their chests ceased struggling against one another. Instead, they breathed in a rhythm, trading the air back and forth between them. Warm. Fragrant. Intimate.

More deeply arousing than anything he’d ever known.

“Your parents,” she murmured. “Did they love each other?”

“I … I’m not certain.”

What a question. He couldn’t recall his mother much, but he remembered his father had wept when she died. They’d wept together, the confused young boy and the hardened soldier. And then they’d never spoken of it again. When he’d learned of his father’s death years later, Spencer hadn’t shed a tear. He’d lashed out with fists instead, because he’d found it too devastating to contemplate weeping alone.

She said, “Mine did. They were devoted to one another. I always thought myself fortunate to have grown up with their example.” She shivered in his arms. “Now I’m not sure. Perhaps it only prepared me for disappointment.”

He brought her closer, until the heat of her skin seared his chest. That breath they kept trading back and forth—it came more quickly now, and hot. Places inside him were softening, thawing. He recalled her words to him in the corridor: You have no idea what more I could offer you. Oh, he did. He most definitely did. He’d watch his innards removed through his navel before admitting it, but on some fundamental level, he knew why he hadn’t been able to let her go that night. Why he’d bodily removed her from that ballroom; why he’d proposed to her scant hours after that. Because this woman displayed such loyalty to a no-account wastrel of a brother, and he just one of five. Surely somewhere in that boundless reserve, she could find a spare bit of devotion for him. He didn’t deserve it, but he wanted it just the same.

“Amelia, look at me.”

Keeping her hands clasped behind his neck, she lifted her head. She went perfectly, absolutely still in his arms. She seemed to have ceased to breathe.

He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn’t have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back.

Her lips were warm and soft, her tongue cool and slick against his. Bracketing her face in his hands, he angled her head to deepen the kiss. She squirmed in his lap, but he held her tight, taking more. And then more. Stroking deep with his tongue, clashing teeth against teeth. He had to have this taste, this softness, this heat, and devil take it, he knew he was going to ruin everything by scaring her away, but he couldn’t stop.

He slid one hand to her breast and squeezed hard, because part of him wanted to punish her. Inside him, things were cracking and shifting with the deep, bone-shivering howl of ice splintering off from a glacier. Old pockets of emptiness were filling in; new chasms of need split asunder. It hurt. He was being rearranged in deep, forgotten places, and this woman was to blame. He kneaded harder, pinching the tight knot of her nipple, because he wanted her aching, too. It was unforgivable, and so damned unfair. Somehow she’d managed to get inside him before he’d gotten inside of her.

She made a startled cry against his mouth, jerking him into consciousness. He froze, breaking the kiss.

“Ten minutes,” she said, panting. “You have to let me go.”

“I can’t.”

Struggling against him, she choked on a sob. “Spencer, please.”

“If I release you, will you come to me tonight?”

He felt her head shake before he heard her answer. “No.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still afraid.”

“I’m more frightened than ever.”

He swallowed a roar of frustration. Damn it, hadn’t he shown her inhuman amounts of restraint? Aside from that little slip just now? How could she sit in his arms like this if she thought him capable of murder?

Swearing softly, he slid his hands from her body. She couldn’t even meet his gaze. Her eyelashes trembled against her cheeks.

“Go.” He closed his eyes and tried to master his breathing. Gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles went numb, he growled out, “Go. Damn it, get off my lap this instant, or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

She obeyed in haste, pressing her palms against his thighs for leverage as she rose. His chest sagged with relief as she left him. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting his head drop into his hands. His own labored breathing was a roar in his ears.

“Good night, Spencer,” she said quietly.

He heard a door latch click, but he didn’t look up. There were three doors leading from this room, and if he knew which one she’d exited through, there was an excellent chance he’d be breaking it down a second later.

After several moments spent wrestling his own lust into submission, Spencer raised his head. Scrubbing one palm over his face, he blinked at the card table, where their round of piquet remained played out before him. No matter how he stared at the cards, they didn’t make sense. Once he’d handicapped himself by discarding the ace, Amelia had a true chance to win. She’d neglected to reckon her points correctly and played the cards far below her skill level. On impulse, he reached for her discard pile and flipped it over.

A one-eyed knave winked up at him, and beneath it, two kings.

She couldn’t possibly have been so stupid as to discard those cards. There was only one way to explain it. She hadn’t even tried to win. All that talk about hosting a party, reaching out to Claudia—what she’d wanted, more than any of it, was simply to be held. By him. And of course, he’d sent her fleeing in fear.

Emotion caught in his throat, prickly and raw. His patience was exhausted, and he felt shabby as hell. One thing was certain—the next time he took Amelia in his arms …

He would not let her go.