Chapter Eighteen

“There’s Briarbank.”

Amelia’s mount pranced sideways as she pointed. Spencer nudged Juno forward and let his gaze follow the indicated direction, scaling down a craggy bluff and winding into a bend of the river. There, tucked against a wooded bank, sat an ancient stone cottage. Smoke puffed in welcome from its chimney, rising above the trees and hovering above the river like a miniature cloud.

“It’s a lovely prospect, isn’t it?” Her eyes swept the verdant countryside and winding valley.

It was indeed, he thought, surveying the view. Lovely didn’t begin to describe it.

The green plateau they currently occupied was home to the ruins of Beauvale Castle. The castle’s crumbling turrets had been well positioned for defense. They overlooked the valley of the River Wye, and from this high bluff, one could see for miles in any direction. Miles of forests and farmland, displaying every shade of green in Nature’s palette. Dark, mossy glens that swallowed the sunlight; fields of summer alfalfa that sparkled as a mild breeze teased the grass.

“‘Once again I see these hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines of sportive wood run wild,’” she recited quietly. “‘These pastoral farms, green to the very door.’” She gave him a smile that arrowed straight for his heart.

How could he not love her? He’d married a woman who quoted Wordsworth. And not merely to impress or sound well versed in modern poetry, but because the verse meant something to her, and she kept it in her heart.

She looked at him through her lashes. “You’re very quiet. What are you thinking?”

At the anxious note in her voice, her mount moved beneath her. For her first lesson, she was doing quite well, but she still lacked the confidence to fully control a horse. It would be some weeks yet before he could allow her to ride alone.

Spencer calmed Amelia’s gelding with a few clucks of his tongue and dismounted from Juno to give her a rest. Likely he shouldn’t have pressed a mare Juno’s age on such a long journey, but he’d seen with his own eyes the destruction she wrought on her stall and herself when left behind. He needed to secure ownership of Osiris, and soon. But all these were thoughts better kept to himself.

“It’s beautiful,” he said simply, looking out on the valley. Really, that was God’s truth. Caught between the wild, uneven landscape spread below, the primeval forest at his back, and the brilliant blue sky overhead … he found his breath squeezed from his lungs. The sight made his heart ache for his own boyhood home. Canada’s untamed landscape offered many such vistas, and in his youth he’d often slipped away, paddled hard, ridden far to find them. Now an adult, he rarely let himself feel how much he missed that inspiring beauty.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

Here was a dark alcove of his spirit he’d never examined too closely, but Amelia had forged straight in and drawn back the curtains, illuminating everything. He wasn’t especially sentimental, but he was a true Romantic, in the vein of Wordsworth and his like. Spencer had never been able to sit in a crowded church pew and feel anything but hopeless and tormented. But Nature was his cathedral. In places and moments like these, he truly felt the presence of the divine. Both humbling and comforting, at once.

It was a good thing, at times, for a duke to feel humbled. The same could be said—or at least tacitly admitted in rare moments of self-examination—that it was sometimes a welcome thing, to be comforted. And he didn’t need to go chasing, swimming, or scaling wild landscapes in pursuit of those feelings now. Fortunate soul that he was, he’d married a woman with the wit and generosity to dispense both comfort and humility, and the spirit to keep him guessing which he’d receive on any given day.

And he loved her for it. Such a new endeavor for him: loving. And an intimidating one to undertake. He was a man who tended to excel at a few select pursuits and fail catastrophically at the rest. He hated to ponder the consequences if this one fell into the latter category.

“How long has the castle been like this?” he asked, nodding toward the ranging pile of stone.

“Not so very long,” she said. “From what my father told me, it was standing until a few generations ago. It was weakened by fire and then fell into disrepair. Most of the walls are still standing, but there are no roofs or floors to speak of.” She turned shining blue eyes toward the castle’s entrance, where a stone arch bridged a pair of rounded towers. “Well, except in the gatehouse. That’s where my brothers got up to all their mischief.”

“And you? Where did you get up to your mischief?”

“I was a good girl,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I didn’t get up to any mischief.”

He gave her a subtle wink. “Never too late to begin.” To give his mare a bit of rest, he led her in a slow walk about the ruined castle’s perimeter. Pity the heap was entailed to her brother. He found himself wishing he could rebuild it for Amelia, make it into the home she deserved. Wake up to this sparkling green landscape and those brilliant blue eyes every morning.

After rounding the castle, he returned to Amelia, observing her delicate profile as she looked down at the river. He could imagine her ancestors standing here, in centuries past. Generation after generation of strong, noble women who partnered the strong, protected the weak, and made the keep worth defending.

“It’s well situated,” he said, following her gaze to Briarbank. In lieu of their own private castle, he supposed they’d have to make do with the cottage. “But it’s dreadfully small.”

“Yes. And it will soon be full of people. I’ll understand, if sometimes you feel the need to slip away.” She smiled. “Anyhow, the neighborhood begs to be explored. There’s the river, the forest, all sorts of ruins. Someday we’ll ride down to Tintern. That would be an excellent excursion for Claudia.”

Spencer frowned at the mention of his ward, shooting a glance back toward the coach. Certainly, the ruined medieval abbey would be an excellent excursion for her—if they could coax the girl to go. Claudia hadn’t been riding since her return from York. He didn’t know whether her boycott stemmed from resentment toward Amelia, or toward him.

“Come along,” Amelia chided, evidently mistaking his frown for reluctance. “You know you want to see the view of Tintern Abbey. ‘When the fretful stir unprofitable,’” she quoted, teasing him with another line from Wordsworth’s poem, “‘and the fever of the world have hung upon the beatings of my heart …’”

She arched an eyebrow, extending him a dare.

“‘How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,’” he finished in a murmur, looking over his shoulder as though there might be someone to hear.

“I knew it.” She smiled. “Romantic.”

“Our secret, remember.” He made his voice deep with mock threat. “You’re not to tell a soul.”

Four days later, Spencer sat in Briarbank’s small library, shaking blotting powder over the letter he’d just finished. A knock sounded at the door. “Come in.”

“It’s only me.” Amelia entered the library, closing the door behind her and approaching the desk with a delicious sway in her hips. A quite promising sway, if he read the signals right.

This place was good for her. He’d noticed the change in her the moment they’d arrived at Briarbank. She was in her element, brimming with confidence and cheer, and for his part, Spencer had been reaping bountiful rewards in their bedchamber. And in their dressing room, and in the bath, and even once in the drawing room. But not yet in this library, and he dearly hoped this afternoon’s interruption was intended to remedy that oversight.

He sealed his letter and set it aside. “Well?”

“A rider just arrived from Harcliffe Manor. Lily and the gentlemen are under way. They should arrive within an hour or two.”

Spencer received the news with surprising ambivalence. This was the original reason he’d journeyed here—to get Bellamy and Ashworth in one place and put an end to this Stud Club business. But now he’d been enjoying his time alone with Amelia. He hated for the honeymoon to end.

Evidently, she felt the same. Skirting the desk, she sauntered around to his chair and made herself at home in his lap. “Soon the house will be full of people,” she said. “I’ll be busy making everyone feel at home. This may be our last time alone for a while.”

She wasted no time with coyness. Her hand went straight to his groin.

“Already?” she teased, stroking his erection through the fabric of his trousers.

“From the moment you entered the room.” He hauled her further into his lap, taking her mouth in a kiss that was equal parts playfulness and passion. God, he loved her mouth. So sweet and lush, just like the rest of her.

She reached between them, unbuttoning his fall and smallclothes with practiced skill. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples to peaks through the thin muslin as she freed him from his trousers. Her cool, delicate fingers wrapped around his thick length, stroking him boldly. He reclined in the chair, reveling in the sensation. She was a quick study, his Amelia. She’d already learned just how he liked to be touched.

Another rap at the door had him jolting in the chair.

“Stay here,” she said, scooting off his lap. “One of the servants, no doubt. I’ll be back in a trice.”

He obeyed her. Because really, he had no desire to stand and greet whoever it was with a rampant erection. He didn’t even bother to tuck himself back in, just moved closer to the desk. Amelia conferred with the intruder in hushed tones, and then shut the door and locked it. If his arousal had flagged the slightest bit during the interruption, the sound of that tumbler in the lock had him throbbing again, instantly.

As she hurried back across the room, he pushed back in his chair and surveyed the desk. Would he lay her atop it? Or bend her over it? Decisions, decisions.

Amelia had ideas of her own, however. She walked over to where he sat in the chair, took his eager length in her hand, and sank to her knees.

Oh, hell.

That sweet, lush mouth closed over the swollen head of his cock, and Spencer thought he would erupt. “Amelia, wait.”

She backed off and looked up at him.

Damn it. Why the deuce had he done that?

“What is it?” she asked.

“Are you sure …?” He hadn’t wanted to push her into this too soon.

Her eyes twinkled. “You told me that if I enjoy something you do to me, there’s an excellent chance you’ll enjoy the same.”

“In this case, it’s not an excellent chance. It’s a certainty.”

“Well, then. Stop interrupting.”

She took him in her mouth again, this time smiling while she did it. And it was the damnedest thing, but it felt different when she smiled. Even better than before, if such a thing were possible. Her tongue curled around the sensitive ridge beneath, and her soft palate rubbed against the crown, and a helpless burst of profanity tore from his throat.

Which made her laugh, and then it got even better.

She was a little tentative, but that was good, because if she’d been any more free with her lips and tongue and hands, he would have come in an embarrassingly brief ten seconds.

He fell back into the chair, surrendering to the mounting pleasure. With one hand, he swept a stray lock of her hair aside, to better watch as she sucked him between those plump, coral-pink lips. She looked up and caught him watching, and she gave an erotic sigh that had him clawing the upholstery.

Sweet heaven. Embarrassing or not, he was already close. So close. Perhaps he ought to warn her. She’d never done this before. She might not realize she had a choice, but … bloody hell. Why would he want to give her one? Really, of all the times for a man’s nobility to be put to the test.

“Amelia,” he groaned. There. That was all the warning she’d get. He knew she’d recognize the desperation in his voice.

Bless her, she only increased her efforts. Her very effective efforts. Her brilliant, amazing, soul-shattering, credibility-defying, best-ever-in-his-life efforts.

“Oh, God.” He arched off the chair, his whole body racked by bliss.

In the aftermath, he stared unfocused at the cracked plaster and roughhewn ceiling beams. Amelia had been right. This drafty little cottage was paradise on earth.

She rose from the floor and sat on the desk facing him, wiggling her bottom backward and letting her legs dangle between his sprawled boots. Her kittenish expression was one of extreme self-satisfaction.

Minx. He would teach her something about satisfaction. Just as soon as he recovered his breath. Reaching out with a leaden arm, he encircled her ankle with his fingers. “Now you.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I don’t want to get mussed. They’ll be here any time now. The beds are prepared, but I’d hoped to gather fresh flowers for each room.” Her brow wrinkled. “And I’m still missing a vegetable dish for dinner. How do you feel about parsnips?”

“I’m completely indifferent to parsnips,” he said, sliding his hand up her calf. “But I very much want to taste you.”

Laughing, she slid back on the desk, out of his reach. “Not now. I’ve so much yet to do.”

“And if you don’t finish, what does it matter? Amelia, you are too quick to put others ahead of yourself.”

She shrugged and flicked a glance at his lap. “Are you saying you wish I hadn’t …”

“Of course not. Are you mad?” He grinned. Tucking himself back in, he straightened in his chair and took a more serious tone. “But I’ve been wondering something. At the Granthams’ the other night, you were radiant. Bewitching. The center of attention. If you’d behaved like that in Town, I could not have attended a single ball without noticing you, let alone dozens. How is it I never saw that Amelia in London?”

She bit her lip. “I’ve been pondering that question myself. Obviously, you’re a great boost for my confidence. I defy any woman to be a wallflower with a handsome duke at her side.” She tickled his knee with her toes. “But before I met you … I think I once mentioned Mr. Poste to you. The squire I was engaged to marry?”

He nodded.

“My father owed him a great deal of money, you see, and he made certain I understood he would forgive the debts in exchange for … well, for me.” Her voice grew soft. “He had his eye on me, from the time I was very young. Too young. I developed earlier than most girls, and even when I was twelve, I would catch him leering at me. It made me feel so unclean, and I was only a child.”

Spencer wanted to hit something. Hard. “Did he touch you?”

“A few pinches, here and there. Nothing more. But I didn’t know how to cope with that sort of attention, and I never spoke of it to my parents. I was afraid they wouldn’t let me marry him, and I wanted so much to help. In the end, I just couldn’t go through with it. My motives were entirely selfish. I dreamed of having my turn at courtship and romance. But even after I broke the engagement, it took years before I could feel a man’s eyes on my body and not simply … wither where I stood.”

Damn it all. There was nothing to make a man feel more useless than the revelation of a wound suffered years in the past, healed over in the present, that he couldn’t do a blasted thing to remedy now.

“So if no one saw me, I suspect it was because I didn’t want to be seen. Perhaps I didn’t feel worthy of attention.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “You see, Poste died soon after our betrothal ended. If I’d endured just a year of marriage to him, my family would have been saved so much trouble. And I’d be a wealthy widow now.”

“Surely you don’t feel guilty for that.”

One of her shoulders lifted in a shrug. A clear admission that she did.

Dear, addled girl. To have carried that misplaced guilt—and the weight of her family’s financial distress—all these years. Simply because she’d balked at marrying a lecherous old stick? At least it made some sense now, why she would so eagerly deny herself in the name of helping her brothers.

He caught her hand and squeezed it. “I’m very glad you didn’t marry him.”

She slanted her gaze away.

He waited, hoping she’d return the sentiment and say she was happy with the way life had turned out, too. That being a wealthy widow was nothing compared to being the Duchess of Morland, and she would not give up Spencer for anything—not even to redeem her father’s debts.

But she didn’t say any of that.

“I love you,” she said.

His heart cinched with disappointment. He knew the words were sincere. The only trouble was, there were a great many people Amelia sincerely loved. And he’d never felt comfortable in a crowd.

Needing a diversion, he dropped his gaze to the papers scattered on his desk. “Who was that earlier, at the door?”

“Oh, it was Claudia. I told her you’d be along in a minute. A shockingly accurate estimate, in the end.”

He gave her backside an affectionate swat as she hopped down from the desk.

“One other thing,” she said, turning at the door. “When the men arrive, you’re to take them angling. I’m counting on fresh salmon for dinner tonight.”

“Here’s another.” With a quick jerk of his wrist, Ashworth snagged a wriggling fish from the Wye.

Spencer congratulated him and recast his own line, once again marveling at his wife’s cleverness. He’d planned this holiday with the intent of disbanding the Stud Club once and for all. But in order to execute his plan, he needed an opportunity to speak with Ashworth without Bellamy present. Amelia had handed him the perfect excuse. Course fishing was a gentleman’s sport, a pastoral occupation. As a child of privilege raised in the country, Rhys would have grown up angling on summer afternoons, as had Spencer.

But Julian Bellamy … ha. This cottage was likely the closest he’d ever come to a river other than the Thames. The more Spencer learned of the man, the more he was convinced Bellamy’s provenance was a direct line back to the gutters of London. His jokes and fashionable attire were enough to grease his way in Town, but not out here in Gloucestershire. Here, he stood out like the impostor he was. He’d balked at the mere mention of angling, making some pitiful excuse about tuning the pianoforte.

Spencer wondered how much Leo had known about the man’s true history. By all accounts, they’d been close friends.

“I need funds,” Ashworth said, saving Spencer the trouble of easing into the topic. “That’s the reason I’m here. Once we’re done, I’ve decided to go straight to Devonshire, see what’s left of my torched estate. I’ll need money.”

“I happen to have money,” Spencer said with nonchalance.

“And I happen to have a token. I’d suggest we make a simple exchange, but …”

“But Bellamy won’t hear of it, I know.” Derision pitched his voice to a drawl. “Heaven forfend we neglect the Stud Club Code of Good Breeding.”

They both laughed a little. Just a little, because the joke was Leo’s, and Leo was dead.

“We’ll play for it,” Spencer said. A nibble on his line stole his attention, but as he began reeling in the line, the catch slipped away. “One of these nights, we’ll convince Bellamy to sit down to cards. There’s not much else to do out here. It shouldn’t take long. Just let me take the lead. I know how to play these situations slowly. When I lose ten thousand pounds to you on one hand, you’ll lose the token to me on the next.”

“I want twenty thousand.”

“Fifteen. That’s as high as I’ll go.”

“You offered twenty to Lily.”

“She’s grieving and pretty. You’re ugly and unlikable.”

Ashworth shrugged. “Fair enough.”

They fell silent again for a time.

“While we’re here, the two of us … I suppose we’re years overdue for a conversation.” Spencer took extra care rebaiting his hook. “About Eton … I wasn’t really fighting you that day.” That was as close to an apology as he could get. After all, he hadn’t started the fight.

A dragonfly buzzed past. Spencer recast his line.

Finally Ashworth said, “I wasn’t really fighting you, either.”

“We needn’t speak of it further.” God forbid they accidentally wade into heartfelt conversation. Spencer cocked his head, wondering if that was the true reason Amelia had sent them out angling. The little minx.

“So if you weren’t fighting me,” Ashworth said, “what were you fighting?”

Spencer sighed. Of course it couldn’t have been that easy. This would have been an opportune time for a fish to bite and remove all possibility of further discussion.

None did.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Fate.”

He’d been miserable at Eton. He was seventeen, and one of the oldest students there, but his Latin lagged behind that of the second-form boys. Then there was his little problem to contend with: breaking into a cold sweat in crowded classrooms. The only boy who’d rivaled him for surliness was Rhys St. Maur—one year younger than Spencer, but already two stone heavier. The two of them had waged a silent competition for the title of Worst Boy in School. Spencer had no idea why Rhys made so much trouble, but on his side, the rabble-rousing was intentional. If he misbehaved enough, his uncle might send him back to Canada. Or so he’d hoped.

Then the letter came that day. It was February and sunny, yet still cold as a bitch. He’d been happy, initially, to be summoned from a Greek lesson to receive the missive. Inside, he found the news that his father had died in Canada, a month before. He’d been an orphan for a month, and he hadn’t even known. And now it didn’t matter how much he misbehaved. There was no going back home. There was no home to go back to.

He’d been devastated. Angry with himself, his father, his uncle, God.

And Rhys St. Maur had picked that day to start a brawl.

“Fighting fate?” Rhys asked. “You never struck me as that stupid. A man can’t win against fate.”

“Perhaps not,” Spencer said. “In the end I can’t say I’m sorry I lost.”

Whatever regrets or guilt Amelia might harbor about her past, he had none. Here he was, a duke with every material advantage and a thriving business concern to boot, married to a clever, desirable woman who also happened to be his best friend. He wouldn’t change a damn thing. He only wished his wife felt the same.

God, he was a greedy bastard. A few weeks ago, he would have thought nothing could make him happier than to hear Amelia say she loved him in the same selfless, devoted way she loved her brothers. Now he’d heard it. And it wasn’t enough. He wanted to be first in her life. First, last, and everything in between.

Rhys pulled in another salmon. “There’s three.”

“Excellent,” Spencer replied, reeling in his line. “Now we can go up to the house, and Amelia will be satisfied.”

“Are you going to tell her I caught them all?”

“Of course not. And neither are you, if you want your fifteen thousand.” Spencer opened the tackle box. “It’s a fair bit of money, fifteen thousand. Enough to take a wife.”

“A wife?” Rhys scowled as he helped Spencer untangle the lines. “You should confine your strategy to the card table. That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Why? Because you might start smiling?” He persuaded the box’s stubborn latch to close. “Bellamy may be an ass, but he may have been right about one thing. Perhaps Lily could benefit from a husband’s protection.”

In retrospect, that was Spencer’s one regret: the rudeness with which he’d rebuffed the idea of marrying Leo’s sister. At the time, he’d simply rejected the idea on instinct, without questioning why it felt so unthinkable. No one could have seen it then—least of all him—but he’d already been half in love with Amelia.

Rhys snorted. “Oh, Lily has a protector. Good Lord, that was a miserable ride today, with the two of them in the coach. Never saw a man working so hard at looking disinterested and failing so completely.”

So Spencer had been right. There was something between Bellamy and Lily Chatwick.

Rhys gave him a devilish look. “Perhaps I’ll threaten to marry her anyway, just to watch Bellamy’s reaction.”

Oh, now that would be amusing.

“Do me a favor,” Spencer said, picking up the rods in one hand and the tackle box in the other. “Make sure I’m in the room when you do.”