Chapter Fourteen

Amelia awoke with the first rays of dawn, desperate with need—for the chamber pot.

That urgent matter resolved, she tiptoed to the wash-stand and quietly washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and brushed out her hair. The knowledge that Spencer lay abed nearby excited her, no matter that he was asleep and oblivious. The mere fact of being in a handsome, virile man’s bedchamber—and of being that handsome, virile man’s lover—gave her a quiet thrill. As she brushed her hair, she imagined he was awake and watching her intently, growing aroused at the undulation of her unbound breasts beneath her shift, and the silhouette of her thighs through the sheer muslin.

After finishing her toilette, she turned to find him still asleep. However, as she watched, he made a low moan and turned over onto his back. At least the arousal part of her fantasy had been true. The bed linens tangling about his hips outlined an impressive ridge. Just looking at him, recalling the force of his passion last night, her own sex heated and grew damp.

But she didn’t want to wake him, not yet. Not while she had his whole suite to herself, and the opportunity to explore.

Explore she did. Oh, she did not snoop. That would have been low, and demeaning to them both. She didn’t open a single drawer or cupboard. But what lay open to her for observation, she absorbed—thoroughly, and with a certain greed.

She looked at all the paintings on the walls and she imagined she could tell which ones had been hanging there for generations and which ones Spencer had brought in himself. It was plain to see why he appreciated her embroidered vignette. He favored landscapes-wild, rugged ones in particular. Seascapes, mountain ranges, forests, and vast plains.

Adjacent to the bedchamber, he had a small room like a study, with a desk he clearly never used. She supposed the library downstairs was his center of business. But there was one side of the room it seemed the maids were forbidden to touch. A generous leather armchair lounged near the hearth, and a low table supported a haphazard pile of sporting newspapers, ledgers, cards, and books. Several books.

My, but the man had a great many books.

There were six chambers in all, and in every room there were books. Even the dressing room had a niche of built-in shelves that were likely intended for hats but had been overtaken by books. And none of the volumes were in any order whatsoever. Not that she could discern, at any rate.

Amelia skipped her fingers over the leather bindings. Several titles were familiar to her, but three times as many were not. Still, she felt among friends. She never would have classified herself a scholar or a bluestocking; she was simply a great reader. A lover of books. And she found ample evidence to suggest that Spencer shared her affection. She found novels, plays, philosophy, several agricultural tomes, the stray scientific treatise, and volume after volume of poetry. Cracks and creases on the spines proved that most of the books had been read, at least once, and the wide variation of subject matter suggested their collector to be in possession of not only a keen mind, but an open one.

If she’d been aroused earlier, she was desperate for him now. She smiled, wondering what he would say if he knew this worn, jumbled collection of books was such a powerful aphrodisiac.

She moved noiselessly to the bedchamber and perched on the mattress edge, careful not to disturb his sleep.

The soft, early morning light was kind to him. He was always handsome, in any lighting, but dawn had a way of illuminating his features evenly without casting those harsh, judgmental shadows on his deep-set eyes and slashing cheekbones. He looked so youthful. The way his eyelashes rested against his cheek—long and thick, as only undeserving men’s eyelashes grew—gave the throbbing pulse of desire a sharp, sweet edge. How had she ever thought this would feel less intimate in the morning?

Dark stubble covered his jaw and throat. She extended an open hand, flexing her fingers backward as she lowered her palm toward his face, until the sharp bristles just pricked her sensitive skin.

When he’d turned over, he’d flopped one arm across his belly. The tight ripple of his biceps, the thick cords of sinew on his forearm … so many lines drew her gaze downward. With a feather-light touch, she traced a prominent vein on his wrist. He stirred, mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, then lay still again.

A narrow escape, but she couldn’t resist tempting fate once more. His body was so intriguing, so different, so male. Shameless, she drew a single fingertip downward, tracing his hard length through the sheets.

“Wha—”

His hand latched over her wrist. He bolted upright with a start, flipping her back and pinning her to the mattress. Confusion and alarm warred in his eyes as he blinked down at her.

“It’s me,” she gasped, breathless and dizzy from the sudden inversion. “Only me. Amelia.”

Oh, please, she prayed. Please let him still want me.

Recognition softened his face. “Amelia.”

The way he breathed her name, with such an intoxicating blend of reverence and lust, she wondered why she would ever wish him to call her anything else. No endearment could be uttered with greater tenderness, or to more potent effect. His voice reached places deep inside her, plucked a string connecting her heart to her womb.

“Yes,” she whispered, sweeping back the hair that had fallen over his eyes. “Your wife.”

They stared into one another’s eyes, both breathing hard. Her nipples drew tight beneath her shift, and anticipation coursed through her veins. Releasing his grip on her wrist, he rolled his weight between her legs, spreading her thighs wide. In gentle hands, he cradled her face as his hips pressed home against hers. Pleasure streaked through her, even as she winced.

“Hell,” he muttered, pulling back. “You’re tender. It’s too soon.”

She was wondering how best to convince him otherwise—words or deeds?—when a low rumbling sound demanded her attention. At first she thought it her stomach, or his. They’d both gone to bed hungry in more ways than one. But it grew progressively louder, until it became clear that the noise originated from without their chamber. From without the house, perhaps.

He noted her distraction. “A carriage in the drive,” he explained. “Most likely a delivery I’m expecting.”

“Something to do with the horses, I suppose?”

In reply, he merely tweaked her ear and rolled to a sitting position. Well, she guessed she was lucky to have held his attention this long.

“Do you really have to go meet it?” she asked, running a fingertip down his bare back.

“No. I don’t really have to. But I think I should.”

Before she could protest, he rose from the bed. Nude, he walked across the room and disappeared into his dressing area. Well. Now she was completely at a loss for words.

“Amelia?” he called from the other room.

She nodded stupidly, then realized he couldn’t hear her. “Yes, what?”

“Leave. Go into your suite and shut the door.”

Dismayed, she sat up in bed.

His head and shoulders poked through the doorframe. “Go. Or I’ll come ravage you like a barbarian again, and I’d rather hoped to accomplish the act with a bit more finesse the next time.”

He disappeared again, leaving her wearing a broad grin. She didn’t find the prospect of being ravaged nearly so unpleasant as he seemed to think—but on the promise of finesse, she could be persuaded to take a long, hot bath.

She rose from bed and crossed to the doorway he’d just exited through. Remaining on the bedchamber side, she leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and said coyly, “I’ll go … under one condition.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” His voice deepened, as if muffled by fabric. Perhaps he was pulling on his shirt.

“I want riding lessons.”

He was silent for a long moment. The words had surprised even her. She hated horses. Or feared them, more accurately. But after last night, she just couldn’t abide the thought of being locked out of this part of his life forever. She wanted to understand him, which seemed to mean she would need to understand horses, too.

Suddenly his head and shoulders poked through the doorway again. He had indeed donned a fresh shirt, but his hair was wilder than ever and he still smelled of … of them. He was close enough to kiss, but Amelia just barely restrained herself. The expression on his face was far too amusing to disturb.

“Did you say riding lessons?” he said darkly, cocking an eyebrow. His gaze slid down her body.

Amelia blushed as she gathered the other, more carnal interpretation of her words. “On a horse!” she protested, even as her nipples peaked.

He clutched the doorjamb so hard she thought his fingers might leave dents. “Woman, your chances for finesse are dwindling by the second. Go away. Now.”

And so she went with a smile. And a sway in her step, because she knew he was watching her leave.

She went into her suite, shut the door, rang for the maid, and ordered her bath. Then she flopped contentedly on the bed, easing under the blankets to wait for the water to be drawn and heated. Her brain hummed with nervous energy. She found herself wishing she could steal back into Spencer’s chambers and borrow one of his books to distract her mind. Or maybe just to feel close to him.

Oh, dear. She was already lost.

When the door swung open a half hour later, Amelia expected to be called to her bath. Instead, a parade of chambermaids entered, each laden with brown-paper-wrapped parcels and hatboxes.

“What’s all this?” she asked her lady’s maid.

“Your new wardrobe, Your Grace. Only now arrived from London.”

This was the delivery?

Amelia inspected one of the parcels and immediately recognized the lavender ribbon binding. These packages were from the London dressmaker who had fashioned her wedding gown. Spencer must have ordered an entire wardrobe for her, but of course it could not have been completed in one day. It was a small miracle that it had been completed in a week. She surveyed the growing mountain of boxes. They must contain at least a dozen dresses. And if the new gowns were even one fraction as fashionable and lovely as the pearl-gray silk she’d been married in, she likely now qualified as the best-dressed lady in Cambridgeshire.

Giddiness rose in her as she pulled at the first ribbon bow. She was going to open each package on her own, and she was going to do so slowly. This was better than a lifetime of birthdays.

“Your Grace?” An apologetic maid interrupted her little party. She extended a folded note.

Amelia opened and read it.

Somewhere in these, you will find a riding habit. Join me in the stables at ten.

  —S.

Amelia stared at the note for a long time. His handwriting transfixed her, just as it had the first time she’d seen it, on the parish register they’d signed after exchanging vows. He didn’t follow any of the rules well-bred English children were taught by schoolmasters and governesses. Nevertheless, his writing was eminently legible—also strong, vigorous, unapologetic. Every pen stroke displayed confidence. She found it oddly arousing, then and now.

But most entrancing of all was a stray mark just before the word “join.” As though he’d begun a word, then thought better of it. Amelia studied the diagonal slash, capped with the beginnings of a loop … to her eye, it looked like an aborted “p.” And even though she knew there were probably ten thousand words in the English language that began with the letter “p,” she could not help but speculate the unthinkable had occurred.

Spencer had nearly written “please.”

“Oh, she’s ready, Your Grace. A bit nervous, as she’s a maiden yet.” With an abrupt whinny, the mare danced sideways. The groom corrected her with a word and a flick of the halter. “She’s an anxious one.”

Spencer shook his head. His own cattle were meticulously trained, and it annoyed him no end when gentlemen sent their unprepared horses to his stables. If any animal had a natural instinct to please, it was the horse. An owner failing to secure his horse’s trust and cooperation was, to him, as unfathomable as failing to feed or water the beast.

He reached out and patted her bay withers, murmuring low. “Did you give the teaser a pass at her?” he asked the groom.

“Aye,” the groom replied. “She was receptive enough, but reared up when he tried to cover her. We’ll need to hobble her, else she’ll kick.”

Spencer nodded his assent, moving to scratch the mare behind one dark-tipped ear. Teaser stallions were used to test a mare’s readiness for mating, so as not to fatigue or endanger a valuable stud horse. The teaser would chase her about the paddock, go through the motions of equine courtship, test the mare’s receptivity to being mounted—and then the handlers would pull him back before the deed could be accomplished. It was standard operation for a stud farm, and Spencer had never thought much about it. But this particular morning found him unusually contemplative.

On the one hand, he wondered if the practice could be detrimental to his stallions’ health or sanity. His own constitution felt remarkably improved, now that he was no longer playing the part of teaser himself. On the other, he felt it as a silent yet stern rebuke, that Amelia’s accusations had been true. He gave more consideration to the comfort of his broodmares than he had his own wife. Remembering the way he’d pounded her against the mattress last night, on their very first time together … it made him wince with guilt. It also made him semi-hard within seconds.

He sighed, resolving to turn his thoughts to something else.

The groom led the mare away, and Spencer leaned against the wall, making a show of kicking the straw from his boots and trying not to look as though he were waiting. The world waited on a duke, not the other way around.

“Spencer?”

His boot thunked against the brick-tiled floor. He looked up, and there, framed by the tall, square entryway, was Amelia. Or some new, luminous version of her.

“You …” His voice died as he remembered he just wasn’t the sort of man to blurt out By God, you look lovely in the middle of a horse barn. Or anywhere. He cleared his throat. “You came.”

“You sound surprised.” Lifting her eyebrows, she gave him a coy smile. “Thank you,” she added, dropping a hand to her skirt. “For this.”

Spencer rebuffed her thanks with a wave of his hand. Really, he should be thanking her. He didn’t recall specifying a color for her riding habit, but he couldn’t have possibly chosen better. The dark blue velvet skirt was cut and draped to stunning effect. The jacket was pieced together like mother-of-pearl inlay, angled and sewn so that each panel’s brushed nap caught the light differently, and the result was that Amelia shone. Sparkled, really, like an expertly cut and polished sapphire, offset by the gold filigree curls of her hair, and—

And bloody hell. When had he started thinking like this? About anything?

The longer he stood there, staring and not speaking, the further her smile widened.

“I’m ready for my first lesson,” she said. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Though his lips formed the word easily enough, his boots seemed rather bolted to the floor.

As she approached him, Spencer realized he’d been utterly wrong—it wasn’t anything about the new dress that made her look so appealing. The allure was all in the way she wore it. The way those curvaceous hips traded her skirts back and forth as she walked. She was cloaked in sensual confidence, and by God, she wore it well.

He cleared his throat. “We’re going to take this slowly. Of course I don’t intend to put you in a saddle today, not after …” He cleared his throat again. His face felt hot. God, could he truly be blushing?

“Is this a bad idea?” she said, looking suddenly self-conscious and unsure. “Perhaps we should wait for another day.”

“No, no. It’s a very good idea. Every lady should know how to handle horses. For her own safety, if nothing else.”

And it was a good idea for other reasons, he admitted to himself. He looked forward to spending time with her, outside of a bed. Showing her this important part of his life, so that she might come to understand what the stud farm meant to him, as well as what it didn’t. Gratifying as it had been to view her jealousy last night, he didn’t wish to awaken to her resentment every morning.

She craned her neck, surveying the vaulted ceiling. “This place looks very different in daylight. Would you give me a tour?”

He released the breath he’d been holding. “Certainly.”

He offered his arm, and she took it. They ambled slowly through the stables and outbuildings as Spencer told her of the history of the structure—built by his grandfather, expanded by his uncle, improved yet again by him—and explained the operations of the stud farm. Her comments and questions were few, but they reflected genuine interest and appreciation. No polite “I see”s or disingenuous “How very interesting”s, but rather “Is this brick locally produced?” (Yes), and “Do you breed your mares every year?” (No), and “Have you foals? Please, may we go see the foals?”

Well, of course. He should have known to start with the foals. Good Lord, the way she cooed and fawned over the ribby, spindle-legged creatures … As she crouched in the grass to stroke a white filly through the fence, Spencer considered putting the animal on a ribbon and letting it follow him around Braxton Hall. At least he’d be assured his wife’s warm reception whenever he entered a room.

“How old is she?” Amelia clapped with delight as the filly made a gangly dash for the far side of the paddock.

“Going on three months. And showing off already.”

“She’s beautiful. Can I have her?” She turned and smiled up at him. “For my riding lessons, can I choose her?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her brow wrinkled in disapproval.

“As a yearling, she’ll fetch a thousand guineas, at least,” he protested. “She can’t be saddled for a year, and even then she wouldn’t be a safe mount for you. She’s from racing stock, bred for short bursts of reckless speed. Her dam’s last colt won at Newmarket. What you need is a mature, steady gelding.”

“Do you at least have a pretty one?”

He chuckled. “Take your pick, and I’ll have the grooms braid ribbons in his mane.”

“A thousand guineas,” she said thoughtfully, propping one fist on a fencepost. “For one foal … Why, this farm must bring in a fortune each year.”

“We do well. Well enough that I haven’t raised my tenants’ rents in six years.” Spencer couldn’t keep a hint of pride out of his voice. His uncle had disagreed with him over expanding the stud farm. The late duke had thought the large pastures a waste of good farmland—land that could have been earning rents. Spencer had insisted that the stud farm would more than pay for itself, and time had proven him right. “I also employ a small army of local men, and more than a few farmers make their annual income just supplying our oats and hay. But none of it would be profitable if we didn’t produce the finest racehorses in the country. They don’t admit it aloud at their Jockey Club meetings, but England’s wealthiest racing enthusiasts all bring their custom to me.”

“But you’re not a member of the Jockey Club yourself? You don’t race any of the horses?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re a stone’s throw from Newmarket.”

He shrugged. “Never wanted to. I don’t like attending the races.” When she looked as though she might question him further on the subject, he quickly added, “I’m not interested in the glory.”

“And you don’t really need the money. So why do it?”

“Because I’m good at it. And I enjoy it.”

She rested her chin on her hand, in an attitude of reflection. “Two ways of saying the same thing.”

“I suppose they are.”

As they watched the foals a minute longer, he warmed inside. Somehow he’d known, from the moment she pressed that meticulously embroidered handkerchief into his hands, that she would comprehend this. The deep satisfaction that came from doing something exceptionally well, with both care and skill, regardless of public acclaim. And he understood, suddenly, why she kept angling to plan meals, host guests, nurture everyone around her. These were the things she did well; the things that brought her true enjoyment.

“And Osiris?” she asked. “You’re so determined to have him for your own—or at least reduce the number of the club. That’s to protect the superiority of your breeding stock, I assume? If he’s too widely available, the demand for your horses could decrease.”

He loved how quickly her mind worked. She’d grasped the business rationale instinctively. Spencer often purchased retired racehorses he had no intention of breeding, just so their offspring wouldn’t dilute his own stock’s value. And he gave them an idyllic pension in open pasture, so it worked out well for the horses, too.

“Yes,” he said, “limiting his breeding will be one benefit.”

“But it’s not the real reason you want him. That benefit can’t be worth tens of thousands of pounds.”

Suddenly he realized how far this conversation had strayed, and how it was now on course to collide with some long-held secrets. His body stiffened, as though encased in armor. “How does this pertain to riding lessons?”

“It doesn’t. But I’m not truly here for the horses. I just want to know you, Spencer. I want to understand.”

She laid a hand next to his on the fence rail. Her little finger just barely grazed his, but the warmth in that touch went a long way toward melting his resistance. His conscience tore down the rest.

Long before his uncle died, he’d made a bargain with himself. Yes, he would assume the title and do his duty, but he’d do it on his own terms. To the devil with what people said or thought. He wasn’t going to explain himself to anyone. But cards aside, he had a keen sense of fairness. On their wedding night, he’d demanded her body, her loyalty, her trust. In return, she’d asked only some answers. Now that she’d given him everything so freely, it felt wrong to deny her this.

“Very well.” He offered his arm, and she took it. “I can better explain inside.” Keeping her close, he led her back into the horse barn and down to the farthest end. She tensed against his arm as they neared Juno’s stall, and he knew she was remembering his harsh words to her the night previous.

“I regret shouting at you,” he said, stopping a few feet from the mare’s stall, “but I was concerned for your safety. As I’ve said, Juno bites. And kicks, as you saw last night. She doesn’t like new people. Or most people, for that matter.” He sighed heavily. “She’s the devil’s own nag, is what she is.”

Amelia cast a wary glance at the mare, and Juno released a gruff snort, as if in confirmation. “Then why do you keep her?”

“Because no one else would. She’s the first horse I ever bought in this country. My father left me a small legacy, and when I came of age, I took the funds to an auction and came home with this creature. I was young and stupid—made my decision based on pedigree without taking temperament into account. She was four years old and had noble bloodlines and some modest racing success. Thought I’d made a fine bargain. What I didn’t know was that she’d always trotted the line between spirited and flat-out dangerous, depending on her rider, and she’d spent the previous year boarded at some country estate, in the care of an incompetent stable master. She’d been kept tethered in a dank stall, barely groomed, beaten often.”

He stopped and drew a deep breath. Even now, he felt the old fury rising in his chest. When he’d mastered his voice, he went on, “By the time I bought her, her trust in men had been completely destroyed. No one could saddle her. No one could even get near her without risking his fingers. Clearly we’d never be able to breed her. My uncle wanted to put her down, but I wouldn’t allow it.”

“You wouldn’t?” Amelia stroked his arm in a sympathetic manner.

“Oh, it wasn’t so noble as it sounds,” he told her. “Pride was my true motive. I’d bought the damned mare, and I didn’t want to lose the investment. Or admit defeat.” Releasing Amelia, he walked forward to offer his hand to Juno. She nosed his fingers with rough affection, then turned her head to offer him her favorite spot under her left ear. She liked to be rubbed there, so he humored her for a bit.

“I took personal responsibility for her and then turned her out to pasture for a full year,” he said. “Made no attempts to train her, asked nothing of her. I fed her, watered her, groomed her as much as she’d allow. Even once I’d gained her trust, it took a full year of slow training to ride her. With time, I was able to break her to halter, bridle, eventually saddle … Strangely enough, those rides were what finally improved her disposition. As if that’s what she’d been waiting for, been needing—the chance to carry a rider and gallop across an open park. So I began riding her regularly, and her mood improved. Now it’s our habit. She’ll let the stablehands feed and groom her, but to this day, I’m still the only rider she’ll allow.”

He looked to Amelia, and she gave him a slight, disarming smile. It occurred to him he’d been talking for an uncharacteristically long time, and she’d been standing there patiently for a long time, too—pointedly silent, unwilling to interrupt until he finished.

“She’s getting old,” he went on. “Too old to be ridden by anyone, much less a man my size. I’ve always been more weight than she really ought to carry. But if I try tapering off the frequency of our rides, she grows touchy again. Starts refusing to eat, kicks at the stall. I hate to keep riding her, but I’m more concerned about what will happen if I stop altogether.” He rubbed the mare’s withers briskly, then stepped back and folded his arms. “That’s where Osiris comes in.”

“Osiris?” she asked, obviously baffled.

“It’s difficult to explain.”

Again, she gave him that patient, friendly silence.

So he explained, and found it wasn’t so difficult after all. “I’d been trying to learn more about Juno’s early years, to see if there might be something else to calm her, or someone else she once trusted. A groom, a jockey perhaps. It wasn’t easy, so many years after the fact. But I found the farm where she’d been bred to racing age, and the old stable master was pensioned but still living nearby. He remembered her, of course. He told me she’d always been difficult—no surprise—but that in her second year she’d formed a strong bond with an orphaned colt. Horses are much like people, you see. They form friendships and often remember one another, even if parted. We once had a pair of geldings who’d been separated for years, but once they …”

He stopped, absorbing the fact that her blue eyes had grown wide as shillings. God, he knew this would sound ridiculous spoken aloud.

“So this colt that she bonded with … it was Osiris?”

“Yes.” He tapped his heel defensively. “I know it sounds absurd, but it was the only possibility I could think of. Juno’s never socialized well with the other horses here. But I thought if she’d bonded with Osiris in her early years, before the horrific abuse she endured, perhaps she’d warm to him again and have some companionship to … to soothe her.”

They stared at one another for a while.

“So …” She pursed her lips around the drawn-out word. “This is why you’re pursuing Osiris. You’re willing to spend tens of thousands, rearrange your life, risk the fortunes of others—including my own brother—all so your ill-tempered mare can be reunited with her childhood friend?”

“Yes.”

The surprise in her expression suggested she’d been expecting him to protest, but really … Amelia was a clever woman. She had it pegged. He hadn’t anything else to say.

“Yes,” he repeated. “Yes, I put your brother in insurmountable debt just to buy my old, crotchety horse a consort. Make of it what you will.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what I make of it.” She closed the distance between them, step by slow, deliberate step. “Spencer … Philip … St. Alban … Dumarque. You”—she jabbed a finger in the center of his chest—“are a romantic.”

The air left his lungs. Damned inconvenient, that—because bloody hell, if ever there was an accusation he needed the breath to refute …

“Oh, yes,” she said. “You are. I’ve seen your bookshelves, and all those stormy paintings. First Waverley, now this …”

“It’s not romanticism, for God’s sake. It’s … it’s simple gratitude.”

“Gratitude?”

“This horse saved me, as much as I saved her. I was nineteen, and my father had died. I’d spent my youth bashing about the Canadian wilderness, and suddenly I was here, preparing to inherit a dukedom. I was angry and unfocused and out of my element, and so was this horse, and … and we tamed one another, somehow. I owe her a debt for that.”

“You’re only making it worse, you know.” She smiled. “Keep talking, and I might just deem you a sentimental fool.”

He was about to object, but then her hand flattened and crept inside his coat. The bronze fringe of her eyelashes fluttered as she leaned forward. Her breasts pressed against his chest, soft velvet on the surface and softer still beneath. Perhaps he should rethink his disavowals. Really, he had no objection to this.

He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face to his. And then, because it suddenly seemed he should have had a reason to do that, he asked her, “You know all my names?”

“Yes, of course. From the parish register.”

He froze, recalling the image of her poised over that register, quill in hand, peering down at it for long, agonizing moments. He’d thought she was having misgivings, and she’d merely been memorizing his name. Some emotion ballooned inside him, hot and dizzying and much too vast for his chest to contain it. And for a moment, Spencer wondered if he just might be a sentimental fool after all.

“It was just …” Her voice broke as he slid his hand along the smooth, delicate flesh of her neck. “You already knew my middle name.”

“Claire,” he murmured.

Her pulse leapt against his palm.

Smiling a little, he lowered his lips to hers. “It’s Claire. Amelia Claire.”

Ah, the sweetness of this kiss. The softness, the warmth. The soul-shaking beauty of it. He took her mouth tenderly, and her arms slid around his chest under his coat, and … and oh, God. This was so, so different from any of their kisses since they’d wed. They hadn’t kissed standing up since they’d shared that first incendiary embrace in her brother’s study, and deuce if he knew why not. When they kissed like this, it emphasized how small she was against him. He had to bend his head to reach her lips, shore her up with his arms so his kiss wouldn’t send her stumbling back on her heels. When he held her this way, she felt delicate and breakable in his arms. And he knew Amelia was anything but fragile, but for some loutish, deeply male reason he liked pretending she was. Cradling her tight against him, giving her the heat of his body, inclining his head to cherish her lips with the softest, most tender of kisses … as though her mouth were a delicate blossom and those dewy pink petals would scatter if he dared breathe too hard. As though he needed to be very, very careful.

Because then it became an easy thing to imagine she trusted him. Not only trusted him, but needed him. Relied upon him. He liked imagining that, because he was beginning to worry, in some rogue corner of his mind, that the truth was quite the other way around.

Then something changed. She stiffened in his arms, breaking the kiss.

“On second thought”—her gaze focused—“perhaps you are merely a fool. Has it occurred to you, that instead of bankrupting my brother in pursuit of this stallion, not to mention enduring suspicions of murder, you might simply be honest with Lord Ashworth and Mr. Bellamy?”

“I tried,” he said. “I offered to stop pursuing the remaining tokens if they would let me stable Osiris here. They refused.”

“Did you tell them your true reasons for wanting him?”

He snorted. Oh, yes. Because it was his life’s ambition to hear Bellamy and Ashworth deem him a romantic, sentimental fool. “They won’t give a damn. Why should they do a thing for me, much less an old, maltreated mare?”

“Because they’re your friends.”

“Precisely what gave you that impression? The part where Bellamy accused me of murder? Or the part where I ground him into the carpet? I took my swings at Ashworth years ago, no need to revisit those.”

“No,” she said evenly. “The part where I asked if you’d nothing more important in your lives than a silly club and a handful of tokens, and the three of you discovered a sudden fascination with your boots.” Her arms tightened around his waist. “Maybe you’re not friends, not yet. But if you expend the time and effort to make friends with them, they’ll give you what you want.”

“Are you mad? They believe I killed Leo.”

“Lord Ashworth doesn’t. And Mr. Bellamy’s investigation will clear your name any day now.”

“It may not. Amelia, I turned that neighborhood upside down and shook it with vigor. There’s a very real possibility Leo’s killers will never be found.”

“Then you will prove yourself and earn their trust. Just give them a chance to know you, the same as you’ve done with me.” Her lips curved in a smile. “Much as it might pain you to do it, you’d save yourself a great deal of trouble simply by revealing your most deeply buried secret of all.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “That against all reports to the contrary, you’re a decent, kind, shockingly likable man. At least …” She paused. “I know I’m coming to like you, a great deal.”

What a sweet thing she was. Not innocent or naïve, just … truly good-hearted. Only the most generous of souls could conceive of such a thing—three men putting aside class, fortune, hatred, and suspicion and becoming the sort of friends who traded heartfelt secrets over port. Even men who weren’t divided by class, fortune, hatred, and suspicion didn’t trade heartfelt secrets over port. That’s what made them men.

But staring into those clear blue eyes, he almost wished he could make it happen, just for her.

And suddenly, a thought came to him. The best idea he’d had since proposing to this woman. By God, every once in a while he scared himself with his own brilliance.

He couldn’t help but grin with self-satisfaction as he asked, “Would you do me a very great favor?”

“Ask me, and see.”

“I want to have a house party. Just a small one,” he added in a rush, before her eager gasp of excitement carried her away. “I’ll invite both Ashworth and Bellamy, and the three of us will hash out this business once and for all.” Not in the way Amelia was envisioning, but she need never know. That part would take place behind closed doors. But to execute his plan, he needed the other men loosened up first. Relaxed, well fed, content, and complacent. “I need a hostess. Do you mind?”

“I’d be delighted, and you know it. But only two guests, in such a grand house as Braxton Hall?”

“No, not here. I think it’s best if we meet on neutral ground.” Here was the truly brilliant part. “I’m thinking of renting a summer property. I’ve heard there’s a cottage for lease, in Gloucestershire.”

Gripping his shoulders, she pulled back to stare at him.

“The rent’s horribly inflated,” he went on. “Four hundred pounds, for a summer cottage? For that price, it had better not be drafty.”

Her fingers laced behind his neck. “Briarbank is the loveliest cottage you ever saw. And only the slightest bit drafty.” She launched herself into his arms. “Oh, Spencer. You’ll love it there. It’s beautiful country, with the valley and the river. You can take the men angling. May I invite Lily? She told me she’d be returning to Harcliffe Manor, and it’s quite nearby. I’m sure she’d be glad for the company.”

“I don’t see why not.” In fact, the idea struck him as fortuitous. If anyone could make that idiot Bellamy see sense, it might be Lily Chatwick.

“Will Claudia go with us?”

“Yes, of course.” There was no way he could leave her behind.

“Oh, good. Then my dinner table will have equal numbers of ladies and gentlemen. And it will be so good for her. For you both. No one can be unhappy at Briarbank, it simply isn’t possible.” She slid back to the ground. “When can we leave?”

He laughed at her impatience. “Not for a few weeks, at least. I’ll need to make arrangements, and so will you, I imagine. And in the meantime”—he stroked her back—“we’ll be occupied with your riding lessons. It’s three days by carriage to Gloucestershire, and you’ll be miserable if you can’t ride part of the way.”

She nodded in acquiescence, catching her plump lower lip between her teeth. Oh, how he needed to kiss that mouth.

But before he could act on the impulse, she kissed him first, throwing her arms around his neck to pull him closer. Her tongue teased his, stoking wild sensations in his blood. Raw lust powered through him, sweeping away any vestige of restraint. Together they stumbled into an unused stall, and he threw an arm out to soften the impact as her back collided with the wall.

So much for fragility. And tenderness be damned. Her fingernails raked his scalp, and the kiss was barely a kiss anymore, but more a series of hot, gasping clashes of mouth against open mouth. He slid his palms over all her velvet-cloaked curves—breasts, hips, bottom, thighs.

“Amelia. We shouldn’t begin this if …”

“I want you,” she breathed, rolling her hips against his.

Between the husky promise of her words and the grinding friction of her pelvis, Spencer thought he might spill right then and there. He fisted his hands in her skirts, lifting the folds of velvet above her knee and thrusting his fingers into the flurry of petticoats. She said she wanted him, but he wanted proof. He needed to feel it.

She sighed, biting her lip as his fingertips grazed her bare inner thigh.

The devil in him wanted to tease her, draw out the contact inch by torturous inch—but he’d expended his reserve of patience days ago. He cupped her sex in his palm. A low groan escaped him. God, was she ready. Her most feminine places were hot and wet and quivering under his touch, both erotic and innocent.

But much as he wanted to take her now, he hated to take her here. A sweaty tup against the wall, in a barn reeking of horses—on the second day of their true marriage? He’d planned to make love to her properly the next time, with patience and care. He’d spent the past several days caught up in a haze of his own unrelenting want, and he was beginning to realize, as the fog cleared, that Amelia might have wants of her own.

“Spencer?” Leaning forward, she licked the underside of his jaw and ground her moist heat against his palm. “Last night, when you threatened to take me against the wall, never mind the bed?”

Oh, Jesus.

“Could you do that now?”

Yes. Yes, if that was what she wanted, he most definitely could. And if she met him halfway with the buttons, they could be under way in seconds.

“Hullo?” A faraway voice echoed through the barn. “Hullo there! Amelia, are you in here?”

“Wh—?” Her eyes sparked like candles. Her hands instantly flew to her riding habit, redraping the skirts and smoothing the bodice. Craning her neck, she called to the rafters, “Yes. We’re just here!”

What the devil? Spencer jerked around, hastily running one hand through his hair and adjusting his breeches with the other. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it.

“Don’t tell me this is the duchess’s suite.” The voice and accompanying footfalls approached. “Marriages of convenience are all well and good, but I rather expected Morland to provide you finer accommodations than these.”

Spencer still didn’t know who it was, but whoever it was, he felt like hitting the man. But Amelia …

Amelia blushed. And laughed.

She dashed into the aisle to greet the newcomer, and Spencer followed her. When the owner of the irreverent comments came into view, he instantly understood. Understood that a very promising afternoon had just gone to hell.

Biting back a groan, he watched his wife embrace her brother.

“Jack,” she said warmly. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”