Chapter Four

As morning dawned, Spencer had still not found the solace of his library carpet, but he had downed a fair amount of brandy, and the whirling din in his head had cleared. He had passed much of the night in silence, which helped. Though he and Ashworth had retreated to Bellamy’s garden while Lily wept over her brother’s battered corpse, by tacit agreement there’d been no conversation. He’d spent the carriage rides to and fro in quiet contemplation, as had they all.

He peered out the coach window into the gray-amber dawn. The London streets swarmed with fruit and fish vendors, live-out servants and laborers on their way to their posts. The early-morning bustle slowed the coach’s progress considerably.

But then, he was in no great rush. The two other men and Leo’s grieving sister had already been deposited at Harcliffe Manor. He and Lady Amelia were the sole passengers remaining, and the coachman was welcome to take his time. For once, Spencer was not eager to be alone.

“This has been a most extraordinary night,” he said softly, almost to himself.

“Indeed,” she replied.

Fatigue, coupled with the incredible nature of the night’s events, had left him in a strange state. He had taken Lily’s exhortations to heart. Harcliffe’s death was indeed an effective memento mori, as the medieval saying went. “Remember that you will die.” Were something to happen to him, Spencer would not want Claudia caught in Lily’s predicament. Fortunately, there were concrete actions he could take to avoid such an outcome, and he intended to see to them directly.

This very morning, as a matter of fact.

“It was a very grave shock,” he said. “But Lily seems to have taken it well.”

“Perhaps it seems so, to you. But I know better. Leo’s death is only now becoming real to her. When the shock wears off, she will be stricken with grief. I will call again this afternoon. Perhaps offer to stay with her for a few days.” She shot him a look, her blue eyes catching a sharp gleam from the window glass. “Only until other arrangements can be made.”

He tried to understand the anger in her tone, and failed. It was becoming a maddening habit, this trying to understand her.

“Your Grace, if I may speak freely—”

“I haven’t yet managed to prevent you.”

“Your ‘offer’ to Lily last night was unconscionable. I have never encountered a person so vain, arrogant, presumptuous, self-absorbed, and utterly heartless.”

Her charges surprised Spencer, but they did not wound him overmuch. When spoken in such a distraught, irrational tone, words were easy to dodge—like so many china shepherdesses hurled in a fit of pique.

She continued, “From all evidence, you care more for horses than for people.”

“You have concluded wrongly.”

“Oh, have I concluded wrongly?” she said, mocking his deep tone. “How so?”

“It is true that I find the average horse more pleasant to be around than the average person. Most true horsemen would agree. But it does not follow that I value all horses above all people. And I am not pursuing ownership of Osiris simply because he is a horse, but because he is the horse I am determined to have, at any cost.”

“Precisely,” she muttered. “At any cost, including that of friendship, dignity, honor.”

Spencer shook his head. It would be futile to explain his reasons for wanting that horse. She couldn’t comprehend them, even if he tried.

The carriage rattled on, and their elbows rattled against each other. They sat sharing the front-facing seat. Spencer supposed he might have crossed to the opposite seat, once the others had alighted. That would have been the proper thing to do. But he hadn’t felt like moving. Lady Amelia was leaning against him, just slightly—no doubt fatigued and chilled. And once again, he found himself enjoying the soft weight of her body against his.

As that pleasure gathered and spread, so did his unbiddable curiosity. He could not rid his mind of it, this desire to keep speaking with her, to listen to whatever she might say. To discover, to know, to understand.

He said, “You disdain the importance I place on horses.”

“I do. With all due respect to the horses.”

“What is it then, that’s most important to you?”

“My family,” she replied instantly. “And my home.”

“A house in Bryanston Square?” Spencer could not mask his surprise. From the direction she’d given, he knew it must be one of those newer, boxy town houses. Not the sort of history-rich, time-faded abode in which he would picture Lady Amelia d’Orsay.

“No, not that house. That is Laurent’s house, built to his wife’s tastes. I refer to our ancestral home in Gloucestershire. Beauvale Castle is in ruins, but we have a cottage where we summer. It’s called Briarbank, for its position directly overlooking the River Wye.”

“A pleasing prospect.”

“It is. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a house more happily situated. Mama and I, we used to walk out every morning to gather lavender and fresh—” She sniffed. “All my fondest memories are of Briarbank.”

“Will you be leaving Town soon, to summer there?”

She tensed. “Not this year. This year, my brothers intend to let the cottage out. You see, Your Grace, my brother Jack has a debt to pay.”

“I see,” he said, after a pause. “So this is the true root of your anger, my refusal to forgive your brother’s debt. Not my offer to Lily.”

“Well, the root of my anger has since forked into several branches of irritation, and your treatment of Lily is one of them. But yes.” Jutting out her chin, she turned her face to the window.

Spencer couldn’t bring himself to fault her persistence. Throughout his life, if there was a common trait amongst the few people he’d unreservedly admired, it was loyalty. But in this case, the sentiment was severely misapplied. That brother of hers was on a swift course to ruin her entire family. “I fail to see how—”

“Your Grace.” She cut him off with an impatient gesture. “By my counting, we’ve spent close to seven hours in one another’s company. And you’ve spoken more words to me in the last few minutes than in previous six-and-some hours combined. Are you always this chatty in the mornings?”

Chatty? Spencer had been called many unflattering things in his life, but no one had ever accused him of being chatty. Remarkable.

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m not. Are you always this inhospitable?”

She gave a breathy sigh. “No. But as you say, it has been an extraordinary night. Even before you arrived at the Bunscombes’ ball.”

Her remark put him back on that darkened terrace and had him mentally searching his pockets for her handkerchief. He shouldn’t like to lose it. She’d obviously invested great care in its design and creation. But unlike the young ladies who netted purses and lacquered tea trays as a means of displaying their dubious “accomplishments,” Lady Amelia had embroidered that square of linen for no one’s appreciation but her own.

This intrigued him.

As did the fact that, for all her harsh words declared him an enemy, her body seemed to have formed a fast friendship with his. She was still leaning against him.

“You are not intimidated by me,” he observed.

“No,” she said musingly. “Honestly, I am not. Oh, I would have been at this time yesterday. But as Lily said, this night has taught me that no one is immortal. It’s a dire realization in many respects, but oddly enough I find it somewhat freeing. Brash impertinence holds a sudden charm. I shall have to look out, or I may be in danger of becoming a real termagant.” She laughed softly to herself. “Yesterday at this time, I would have seen you as the unapproachable, imposing Duke of Morland. And you would not have seen me at all.”

No doubt it would have been the politic thing to object. To say, Oh, certainly I would have noticed you. I would pick you out from a crowd of ladies. But that would have been a lie. In all likelihood, she was right. If they’d crossed paths in the street this time yestermorn, he would not have spared her a second glance. And that would have been an unfortunate thing, for she was a woman who greatly improved on second glance. At this moment, he was discovering that the warm, even light of dawn did her features better service than the harsh shadows cast by candlelight and coal. She looked almost lovely, in the morning.

She touched a finger to the window glass. “Today, I know we are merely humans. Two flawed, imperfect, mortal beings, whose bones will one day crumble to dust. Just a woman and a man.”

At her words, space inside the carriage seemed to collapse around him. Not in a suffocating, oppressive manner, but in a way that evoked the pleasanter aspects of human closeness: physical pleasure and emotional intimacy. It had been some time—an imprudently long time, on reflection—since he’d enjoyed the former. He’d spent most of his adult life avoiding the latter. Surely the extraordinary nature of the night’s events was to blame, but Spencer found himself suddenly, intensely hungry for both.

No sooner had he thought it, than she nestled closer still. Was she seeking comfort? Or offering it?

Just a woman and a man.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted one gloved hand from his lap and placed it on her leg, a few inches above her knee.

Her thigh went rigid beneath his palm. He did not move, did not acknowledge her startled response. He simply sat there, cupping the plump curve of her thigh and enjoying the way it filled his hand.

Though for practical reasons he favored pretty little nothings in a ballroom, when it came to bed sport, Spencer’s tastes ran to substance, in multiple senses of the term. He liked a woman with something to her, both physically and intellectually. Lady Amelia met both qualifications.

True, she was no great beauty, but she had an undeniable appeal. Her mouth, in particular, he found alluring. Her lips were full and voluptuous, like the rest of her, and a lovely shade of coral pink. Then there was that lone, obstinate freckle still clinging to the inner curve of her left breast. The tiny mark only called attention to the otherwise creamy perfection of the bosom it adorned.

And after the night they’d just passed wandering through Death’s shadow, it was only natural for a man to crave … well, to crave.

In sum, he wanted her. Quite fiercely.

He eased his hand up her thigh—one inch, perhaps two. Past the concealed ridge of her garter. Her breathing went from uneven to erratic as he began brushing his thumb back and forth in a slow, even rhythm. He applied enough pressure that his touch dragged the fabric rather than sliding over it, allowing them both to enjoy the sensation of silk and linen gliding over her bare skin. Whatever petticoat she had on was delightfully spare, worn soft and supple by many launderings. Beneath the fabric, her flesh was just the right pliancy. The taut, smooth texture of a ball of risen dough-perfect for grasping, kneading, shaping with his hands.

Erotic images flooded his mind; lust pounded in his blood. He wanted to haul her straight into his lap and wrap those creamy, abundant curves around his body. He would bury his head in that magnificent bosom and clutch her bottom with both hands as he took her, right here in the carriage, letting the swaying motion of the coach bring them closer and closer to release …

Yes, she could offer him all manner of comforts—if she were the sort of woman to oblige a man that way. Simply because she remained unmarried, it did not necessarily follow that she was untouched. In fact, some alteration in the latter condition might explain the former.

There was only one way to find out.

Spreading his fingers, he gave her thigh a light, appreciative squeeze.

With a startled cry, she wrested her skirt from his grasp and scuttled sideways like a crab. There, wedged into the opposite corner of the cab, she stared hard out the window and steadfastly ignored him.

Well, that settled that.

And now Spencer looked out his own glass and prayed for a sudden snarl of unnavigable traffic. For they were nearing Bryanston Square, and thanks to his vivid imagination, he was in no condition to be seen in public.

By the time the coach drew to a halt before an ostentatious rococo edifice, his lust had ebbed. Somewhat. Enough to restore his silhouette to respectability. Spencer alighted first and then posed at the bottom, hand outstretched to assist Lady Amelia in making her descent.

She ignored his hand. And would have walked straight past him altogether, had he not grasped her elbow.

She slowly pivoted to face him. “Your Grace, I thank you for delivering me home. I shall keep you no longer.” When he did not release her, she added through gritted teeth, “You may go.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, steering her up the stairs to the front door, which was already held open by a footman. The servant’s rose-pink livery did much to subdue any lingering carnal impulses. “I’ll see you in. I must speak with your brother.”

“Jack won’t be here. He has his own rooms in Piccadilly.”

“Not him. I meant Lord Beauvale.”

They entered the house two abreast. Only one of the two doors had been opened, forcing them to squeeze together momentarily as they stepped over the threshold. God, her body felt good against his.

“I can’t imagine why you would wish to speak with Laurent.”

“Can’t you?”

“He won’t make good on Jack’s debt, if that’s what you mean.”

The woman was obviously not thinking straight, but Spencer decided not to hold it against her. It had been a long and trying night, after all. “By all public appearances, I’ve abducted you from a ball and kept you out all night. Your brother will no doubt appreciate some explanation and assurances.”

Pulling one of his cards from his breast pocket, he flicked it on the butler’s salver. “We will await the earl in his study.” There, Spencer hoped, he might be safe from these revolting gilt plaster cockleshells hugging the ceiling like barnacles.

Once ushered inside Beauvale’s wood-paneled, shell-free study, they stood awkwardly in the center of the room. As a gentleman, he could not sit until she did—and the idea of sitting had apparently not occurred to her. Her hair had half-fallen from its coiffure, giving her a lopsided appearance. The blue silk that had so closely hugged her curves the evening previous now showed obvious signs of fatigue.

Her eyes widened at the way he was boldly appraising her form.

Spencer gave her an unapologetic shrug. “That gown has done its service, and then some. Earned its pension, I should say.”

Red bloomed from her throat to her hairline. Her jaw worked a few times. “Are you quite finished insulting me?”

“I did not insult you. That gown insults you.”

“You—” She made a gesture of exasperation. “You, sir, have no understanding of women. None at all.”

“Does any man?”

“Yes!”

Spencer cocked his head. “Name one.”

At that moment, the Earl of Beauvale entered. His hair was damp and freshly parted, and his cuffs remained unfastened. Obviously, he’d dressed in a hurry.

He bowed in Spencer’s direction. Lady Amelia crossed to her brother immediately and threw herself into his arms.

“Amelia. For God’s sake, where have you been?” Beauvale pulled back from the embrace and studied his sister. “What’s happened to you?”

“Leo is dead,” she said, burying her face in her brother’s coat.

“Harcliffe?” The earl directed his question at Spencer.

He nodded. “Attacked by footpads, last evening. We have spent the night attending his sister. She was—and remains—in a state of shock.”

“Yes, poor Lily,” the earl muttered, rubbing his sister’s arms. “Poor Leo. I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t either,” she said. “He was so young, so vivacious and well-liked. He was …” Her eyes met Spencer’s. “He was the answer to your question, Your Grace. A man of true understanding. In all the years I knew him, Leo never once spoke an unkind word to me.”

“Yes, well. We can’t all be Leo, can we?”

This bitter, ill-conceived remark was repaid with cold silence. As it deserved to be. Even Spencer realized it had been an unfeeling thing to say, motivated by envy.

Envy for a dead man, at that. How nonsensical.

Nothing about this night had made sense, from the moment she’d caromed across that ballroom and grasped his hand in hers. He’d danced with her, argued with her, carted her from the dance floor like some sort of primeval cave dweller, and then together they’d spent the night attending an impromptu vigil. On a morning that should have found him taciturn and withdrawn, she’d made him chatty. Now he found himself taking spiteful swipes at the poor dead fool who earned a word of her praise. It all added up to one inescapable conclusion.

He was rather taken with Amelia Claire d’Orsay.

Irrational, perhaps; unexpected, certainly. But there it was.

The earl spoke over his sister’s shoulder. “Thank you for seeing her home, Your Grace.”

It was a clear dismissal, just like her less eloquent version at the doorstep: You may go. But Spencer remained undeterred. He was the Duke of Morland; he would not be dismissed. And once he’d set his mind on something—or someone—he couldn’t rest without making it his.

He said, “I should advise you, Beauvale, that upon hearing of this tragedy, we left the Bunscombe residence together in surreptitious fashion. To others in attendance, it may have appeared to be an illicit assignation.”

“I see.” The earl frowned. “But nothing happened.”

Spencer looked to Lady Amelia.

“Amelia?” Beauvale prompted. “Nothing happened, did it?”

“Oh, no. No. Most definitely not.” Her deep blush did not lend the impression of veracity.

“I see.” Beauvale glared in Spencer’s direction. “People will be talking?”

“Yes, they will. It cannot be helped. In fact, the gossip is likely to increase with the announcement of a betrothal. We may as well make the engagement brief.”

Silence.

Brother and sister stared at him in open-mouthed shock. Spencer rocked idly on his heels, waiting.

Lady Amelia left her brother’s side and went to the nearest chair. At last, the thought had occurred to her to sit.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she began, “but this has already been a rather unbelievable night. And it is giving way to a positively apocryphal morning. I thought I just heard you refer to an engagement.”

“Yes. Ours.”

More stunned silence.

Spencer cleared his throat. “It is not my aim to be cryptic. Allow me to make my intentions perfectly clear. Beauvale, I am offering to marry your sister.”

The earl lifted a brow. “Do you mean you are requesting the honor of her hand?”

“Is that not what I just said?”

“No,” Lady Amelia said, with an odd little laugh. “No, it is most definitely not.” Regarding Spencer closely, she added, “Laurent, will you leave us?”

“Yes,” her brother said, drawing out the word. “Reluctantly. I shall wait in the parlor.”

“Thank you,” she said coolly. “We won’t be long.”