Chapter Twelve

The summer she was twelve years old, Amelia made the grave mistake of screeching at a speckled toad within her brothers’ hearing. Therefore, naturally, her brothers had spent the next month foisting toads upon her. They’d hidden them in her cupboards, her sewing kit, even under her pillow … Pharaoh was plagued by fewer toads than Amelia shooed from her room that summer. She detested the bulge-eyed animals, but could she do the expedient thing—pick up the toad lurking in her empty chamber pot and merely toss it out the window? No. She had to catch the loathsome lump in her hands, carry it outside in the dead of night, and turn it loose in the garden no worse for wear. Because that was what Amelia did. She was a nurturer. She couldn’t help but take care of creatures, even the vile, unwanted ones.

Especially the vile, unwanted ones.

It was perverse and irrational and likely the sign of some severe mental defect—but the further Spencer displayed his gross incompetence as a sensitive human being, the more he engaged her sympathy. The worse he bungled every opportunity to put her at ease, the greater her own desire to soothe. And the longer he kept her at arm’s length—emotionally speaking, at least—the more she yearned to hold him tight.

When she awoke the next morning alone, staring up at the stamped plaster ceiling, Amelia had to be honest with herself. She’d been delaying consummation in hopes of girding her heart first. But after last night, she knew it to be a hopeless cause. That embrace had stirred her too deeply. True, Spencer had abandoned their chaste hug to press for further liberties, and his lustful aggression should have dispelled her cravings for tenderness. But when he aroused her desire with those demanding kisses and skillful hands, the longing wouldn’t stay put between her legs. It filled her, consumed her. The longer she denied him her body, the more she risked her heart.

Well, then. That was that. She would go to him today.

Bolting upright in bed, she threw off her coverlet. She wrapped a light blanket around her shoulders and moved to the edge of the mattress, sending her bare toes down to scout the carpet for her slippers.

Inwardly, she resolved to banish all craving for romance. And even if that resolve faltered—what was the worst that could happen, really? She would waste a few months’ unrequited affection on him; he would remain indifferent to her. The world had seen graver injustices. Before long, a baby would fill the void. And the sooner she shared Spencer’s bed, the sooner that baby would come along.

Softly, she padded across the carpet. Now that she’d made the decision, she didn’t want to wait. Nighttime encounters were too personal, too intimate. Surely the act would feel anything but romantic in the bright light of morning. She wouldn’t even bother to brush her hair.

Putting her muscle into it, she slid open the connecting door to Spencer’s room.

He wasn’t there.

A woman was. Two women, actually—a pair of chambermaids, briskly making the bed. Each froze instantly, pillow in hand, to gawp at Amelia. Behind them, a curtain fluttered in the open window, silently mocking her surprise.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the maids said, curtsying briefly before returning to their work.

Amelia firmed her spine and cleared her throat. “My husband …”

“Oh, he’s not here, ma’am. Mr. Fletcher said business took His Grace away early this morning,” said the younger girl. “Before dawn, even.”

Crisp linen snapped. The elder maid gave her partner a stern look, but the young girl chattered on. “The duke’s not expected back until very late, is what I heard.”

“Yes, I know that,” Amelia said firmly, even though she’d had no idea. She made a mental note to speak with Mrs. Bodkin about the staff gossiping, and to question why this Mr. Fletcher was having predawn words with a fresh-faced chambermaid. “What I meant to say was, my husband’s bed linens should have no starch. Remove those, and start again.”

She made as graceful an exit as she could, considering the circumstances. At least she managed not to shut her wrapper in the door. It hadn’t been a lie, that bit about the starch. When she’d removed Spencer’s shirt last night, she’d noticed reddened skin at his throat and wrists—no doubt he was sensitive to whatever starch was being used on his collar and cuffs. She’d speak with his valet later about using an alternate preparation.

If she was going to be mistress of this house, she was going to do it right.

Since she’d worn her gray silk the evening previous, she was forced to select a frock from her own faded, worn wardrobe today. Even the best of her summer dresses—a striped muslin done up just last year, with sage grosgrain ribbon trim—looked drab here at Braxton Hall. Most un-duchessly.

It didn’t help matters when Amelia entered the breakfast room to encounter Claudia dressed in a remarkably similar high-waisted striped muslin frock, except hers boasted lace-trimmed flounces. Two of them. She truly was a lovely girl, with the prospects of becoming a great beauty. But she needed someone to gently guide her behavior, and clearly Spencer wasn’t up to the task.

“Good morning.” Smiling, Amelia laid a plate of kippers and eggs on the table and prepared to seat herself.

Claudia stared at the plate, her features contorting in disgust. Before Amelia’s bottom even touched the chair, the girl shot to her feet and made for the door, two lace flounces bobbing pertly in her wake.

“Claudia, wait.”

She halted, one hand on the doorjamb.

Amelia squared her shoulders. “It may not be my place to say it. But whether you dine with family or strangers, it’s unacceptable to leave the table without excusing yourself.”

“I am ill,” she said mulishly. “And it’s not your place to say it.”

Amelia sighed. The girl was so … so fifteen. And desperately in need of a hug. “You look very well, to my eyes. Won’t you sit down? We need to have a talk. An honest one, woman to woman.”

Claudia let go the doorjamb and slowly turned. “Whatever about?”

“I know you resent me.”

“I …” The girl flushed. “Why, I’m sure I don’t—”

“You resent me. Of course you do. I’m a stranger who has invaded your home without warning and taken your late mother’s role. Perhaps the role you wished to one day assume?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Claudia blushed as she studied the carpet.

“I can’t fault you for being angry,” Amelia said calmly. “I’d feel the same, were I in your place. And to be perfectly honest, I cannot claim to be any better. If it helps at all, I rather resent you, too.”

She looked up. “You? Resent me? Whatever have I done to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But you’re young and pretty, and you look better in stripes than I ever have or will.” She smiled gamely. “When I look at you, I can’t help but see myself at fifteen, when the world was all marvelous, romantic possibility.”

“You know nothing of me. Don’t speak as if you do.”

“Fair enough. At the moment, I grant that we are little more than strangers. I would like, eventually, to be your friend. But I know that’s too much to expect just yet, given the circumstances. I won’t interfere in your daily routine. I will let you be.” She reached for a tray of jam tarts from the sideboard and extended it. “But you can’t keep running away from every meal. I insist that you eat.”

“You insist that I eat?” The young lady eyed the pastries. Instead of taking one, however, Claudia grasped the entire tray and removed it from Amelia’s hands altogether. “Very well,” she said, stuffing a tart into her mouth. “I’ll eat.” Then she and the tray of pastries flounced from the room.

Well, Amelia would count that as progress. At least the girl would not waste away. Settling down to her own breakfast, she opened her mental recipe book and headed a blank page, “Claudia.” Under that, she noted: “Jam tarts. No kippers.”

As she ate, she wondered where Spencer had gone for the day. It shouldn’t be surprising that he had business. After spending some months in Town, surely he must have many estate matters requiring his attention. But wherever he’d gone, she wondered if he was angry with her, after last night. Or disappointed by her. Or yearning for her.

She shook herself. The man was busy. He likely wasn’t sparing her a second thought.

Amelia kept busy, too. She interviewed each member of the staff and acquainted herself with every inch of Braxton Hall—the interior, at least. The gardens would have to wait for another day. As she moved through the rooms with the housekeeper at her side, she made careful note of any fixtures that needed replacing or improvement, any arrangement of furniture that struck her as less than pleasing or efficient. After fifteen years without a mistress, the house was still well maintained but beginning to lag where style was concerned. She limited herself to the public and common rooms, not wanting to encroach on Claudia or Spencer’s privacy.

The task took her all day, and well into evening—at which point she was glad that Spencer had not yet returned and Claudia remained cloistered with her tarts, for Amelia had no time to plan dinner. Instead, she and Mrs. Bodkin shared a cold supper as they discussed modernizing the kitchen. Afterward, they began an inventory of all the household silver. Hours later, the entire dining table was covered in gleaming rows of forks, spoons, knives, ladles, tongs …

All of which began to rattle in unison, just as the clock’s largest hand neared twelve.

Amelia grasped the table edge in alarm. Beneath the low clatter of silver, the thunder of hoofbeats swelled.

“That will be His Grace,” the housekeeper explained, the corners of her mouth creasing as she suppressed a yawn.

Spencer. Amelia’s heart kicked into a furious rhythm. Until this second, she hadn’t acknowledged how much she’d been anticipating his return. But she had. She’d been waiting for him all day, every second. Why else would she have spent the day working her fingers to nubs rather than allow herself a stray moment for thought? Why else would she be sitting up counting silver at midnight? And poor Mrs. Bodkin, forced to keep watch with her.

“You’re dismissed,” she told the housekeeper. “We’ll just lock this room overnight and finish in the morning. Thank you so much for your help.”

Amelia rushed from the room, smoothing her upswept hair and shaking the wrinkles from her skirts. How much time did she have before Spencer would enter the house? Surely he would just hand his horse off to a groom and come inside. Pausing in the corridor to check her reflection in the glass covering the clock face—not much to see, but at least the dim light confirmed her features had not suffered any dramatic rearrangement—she went to the entrance hall and waited.

And waited. Several minutes passed, and no sign of him. Could he have come in through another door? Perhaps by the kitchens … he would be hungry, after a long ride.

She walked toward the rear of the house, crossing into a narrow gallery that connected the main residence with the service wing. It was tiled in marble and lined with windows on both sides, which made it rather cold at night. Amelia hugged herself and quickened her pace. She supposed she might have simply gone up to her suite and awaited Spencer there. But that would mean choosing between her bedchamber and his, and she wanted to meet him on neutral territory. She was going to keep this calm and cool. As emotionless as possible.

Step one: A smoothly delivered, dispassionate declaration. Your Grace, I thank you for your patience. I’m now ready to consummate the marriage.

Step two: Lie back and think of Briarbank.

Through the blackened gallery windows, a flash of torchlight drew her eye. She halted and turned toward it, walking up to the window and cupping her hands around her eyes to peer into the darkness. Down a gravel-packed lane lined with intermittent lamps sat a low, ranging building with a sloped roof. Golden light emanating from the building’s interior outlined a wide, square door and men moving within. The coach house, she discerned, and stables. Perhaps Spencer had taken the horse in himself.

Eyes still straining out into the night, Amelia took slow paces sideways. She discovered that toward the far end of the gallery, one of the tall windows was not truly a window at all, but a door. She still had a set of house keys tied at her waist, and she tried each of them in turn until one slender finger of metal turned the tumblers of the lock. The door swung open with a creak, and she walked outside.

She didn’t follow the drive, but walked straight across the green, not caring to draw attention to herself. The grass was damp with nighttime dew, and it wanted clipping. The blades brushed her exposed ankles as she walked, ticklish and cool. Moths fluttered out of her path.

The stables drew her like a lodestone. She wanted to see this place that merited so much of Spencer’s effort and attention. It was certainly the largest horse barn she’d ever seen. In construction and outward appearance, it looked finer than most houses she’d ever seen.

A few grooms milled in the entryway, talking to one another. They didn’t notice her as she skirted the main entrance and plunged into the shadows at the side of the building. Barns always had more than one entrance. Before long, she came upon a human-sized door. She ducked inside and found herself in a dimly lit, meticulously kept tack room. The smells of leather and clean horse mingled in air heavy with the dust of hay. Amelia pressed her hands to her face and sneezed into them.

In the ensuing silence, she froze—waiting for someone to have heard her and come looking. No one did. However, she did hear a voice echoing from the rafters—a low, calming murmur much like the sound of rushing water, coming from somewhere nearby.

She moved through the tack room and into a wide aisle lined with stalls, taking care to make her steps light. A recumbent horse whickered softly as she stepped toward the low, mesmerizing voice and a flickering light at the far end of the aisle. She paused at the edge of the last stall, well out of the golden aura cast by a single hanging carriage lamp. Cautiously, she craned her neck around the post.

This was a larger, open area, designed for grooming. And in the center was Spencer, rubbing down a regal dark filly. Amelia observed the pair in silence, digging her fingers into the wooden post to keep her balance.

The horse was freed of saddle and bridle, restrained only by a simple halter tied to a ring. Spencer was dressed in an open-necked shirt, knee boots, and breeches of tight-fitting buckskin. Both man and beast were damp in places. Perspiration shone a glossy black on the horse’s flanks, just as it matted the dark locks of hair at Spencer’s nape. The inseams of his breeches were dark with sweat, too. The sight did strange things to her, in analogous places.

The horse’s breathing was audible, and Spencer rubbed the filly’s withers and back with a towel, wiping the lather from her coat in a smooth, confident rhythm. And as he worked, he spoke. Crooned, really. Amelia could scarcely make out his words, but they were soft and tender. Affectionate.

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

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

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

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

“Nearly done, my dear.”

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

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

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

Drat, drat, drat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just bloody perfect.

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

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

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

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

“Well, then. That hasn’t worked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you expecting me to apologize?”

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

“A substitute? For what?”

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

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

“Lately? Yes. Just about.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well.” She took the crock away.

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

“Why won’t you eat?”

“Why do you care?”

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

He could only stare at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amelia …”

“And that’s another thing. The horses are ‘my dear,’ ‘my sweet,’ ‘my pet.’ I’m just Amelia.” She pronounced the name in an exaggerated drawl, mimicking his deep voice.

Spencer’s chin jerked. She’d overheard him in the stables? How long had she been standing there? The thought of her eavesdropping on him inflamed his irritation.

“Just Amelia,” he repeated. “Very well, I confess to the egregious offense of addressing you by your Christian name. But with God as my witness, I have never referred to you, in speech or in thought, as ‘just’ anything.”

She set her jaw.

“Do you wish me to address you in endearments, then? Do you truly want to be known as ‘my dear,’ ‘my darling,’ ‘my pet’? I cannot yet truthfully call you my wife.”

“No,” she said. “You are right. Insincerely uttered endearments are much worse than none at all. Please forget I ever voiced the complaint.” She took an angry sip of wine. And then another. “I’m tired of arguing.”

“So am I.” Rounding the table, he came to stand directly in front of her. Heat built between their bodies. He took the wineglass from her hand, brushing her hand with his fingertips. Just that simple touch electrified him. God, he was more than taken with her. He was damn near consumed.

Never breaking eye contact, he drained the remaining wine. As she watched him, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Spencer casually set aside the wineglass, and tension all but audibly crackled between them. He thought it might have been the last dregs of his patience, evaporating into the air.

“Well?” he said darkly.

She didn’t miss the alteration in his tone. Anxiety overtook her expression. She blinked furiously, looking everywhere but at him. Reaching for the butter crock, she said, “I should clean up here.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Leave it.”

She gasped, and the breathy sound stoked his desire. He wanted to make her gasp again. And again. Moan, whimper, call out his name.

Eyes widening with apprehension, she tugged against his grip. “Then I’ll just go to bed.”

Lifting her into his arms was the work of an instant. Oh, and the gasp she gave that time—it made his blood sizzle.

“Not without me, you won’t.”