“Your …” Claudia stood blinking at Amelia. Then she turned and blinked up at Spencer. “Your …”
“My wife. The duchess. Your new cousin.” He gave her a pointed look. “The lady to whom you must curtsy and apologize. Now.”
The girl dipped in a curtsy, tripping over a few words of apology. Then she looked up at Spencer with the resentful eyes of a puppy that had been kicked not once, but many times.
“I’m …” Amelia cleared her throat. “I’m so happy to meet you, Claudia. The duke has told me many wonderful things about you.”
“How curious,” she said. “None of his letters mentioned you at all.”
“Claudia,” Spencer warned.
Amelia squeezed his arm, then withdrew her hand. “I do hope we can be friends,” she said brightly, moving forward to lay the same hand on Claudia’s wrist. It was probably futile, but she had to make the attempt.
A prolonged, awkward silence ensued. Just when Amelia thought the tension could not possibly become worse, it did.
Claudia began to cry.
“You married?” Ignoring Amelia entirely, the girl turned brimming eyes on Spencer. “Without even telling me? How could you—”
“Hush,” he muttered, drawing his ward aside. “Don’t make a scene.”
Amelia almost laughed. Too late for that bit of advice. Truly, she couldn’t blame the girl. In any normal betrothal, they would have become acquainted well before the wedding. Claudia would have had weeks or months to adjust to the idea of a new duchess at Braxton Hall, rather than having Amelia thrust upon her unawares one afternoon. No, she couldn’t fault the girl for her resentment. She faulted Spencer for it. It was just one more example of the duke making an impulsive, arrogant decision with no regard for the feelings of those affected.
“Well,” she said, “the two of you must have a great deal to discuss.” She turned her back on Spencer. “Mrs. Bodkin, would you be so kind as to show me to my chambers now? We can discuss dinner arrangements on the way.”
The housekeeper brightened. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Cook will be so pleased to receive your direction. Have you special recipes or menus?”
“I do.” A genuine smile warmed Amelia’s face. Here was some consolation. “An entire book of them.”
The handful of hours between Amelia’s arrival at Braxton Hall and dinner were a whirlwind. Ill or no, she had little time to rest. This was her first evening in residence as the Duchess of Morland. She might have entered the house looking like a poorhouse case, but by the time she descended those marble stairs for dinner, she was resolved that she would look and act the part of a duchess.
No one would mistake her for a paid companion, or worse, a lady’s maid.
Dinner plans were no simple task. She was forced to rely on Mrs. Bodkin’s estimate of the kitchen stores and devise an elegant yet simple menu that could be prepared from available foodstuffs within the allotted time. Fortunately, the housekeeper seemed overjoyed to assist in any way. After sending the older woman off to the kitchens with a list of dishes, a few custom recipes, and many verbal instructions for the cook, Amelia permitted herself ten minutes’ rest on a chaise longue covered in sumptuous brocade. Her entire suite of rooms—she’d counted six of them so far—was decorated in positively regal shades of royal blue, cream, and gold. From where she lay, she studied the intricate Greek key pattern trimming the plastered ceiling. If she let her head fall to one side, she saw four exquisitely turned wooden legs supporting a polished stone tabletop, which held a blue-and-white Chinese vase, which in turn accommodated a large arrangement of fresh-cut flowers.
Orchids. At last, she had her orchids.
The entire tableau was one of beauty, elegance, and harmony. Merely gazing upon it filled her with quiet joy. After years of living with Winifred’s ostentatious displays of pink shells and overfed cherubs, Amelia reveled in the abundant evidence of her precursor’s restraint and good taste.
For ten minutes. And then she went back to work.
Once the maid had drawn her bath, Amelia sent her off to press the new pearl-gray silk from her wedding. The gown was unquestionably the best she had, and this occasion demanded her best.
Amelia could manage a bath on her own—she’d done so for years—but time was short, and she couldn’t be late for dinner. This was what she’d been waiting for all her life, to be mistress of her own house. She would show Spencer and Claudia both. Soon they would adore her. They would wonder how they’d ever survived without her. One well-planned, satisfying meal, and the duke would realize his immense fortune in marrying a plain, unassuming spinster. He might even rise from his seat, walk the length of the table, and humbly kneel at her side, gazing up at her with sheer worship in his eyes. Amelia, he would say, in that husky, thrilling voice of his, I don’t know how I’ve lived without you. You’ve made our house a home. I’ll do anything, say anything. Just promise me you’ll never, ever leave.
Or so it was amusing to dream.
Working quickly before the water could go cold, Amelia wrestled out of her traveling habit. Stripped down to chemise and stays, she then stood in the center of the room, uncertain what to do with the dress. She didn’t want to just throw the whole dusty mess atop a clean bed. Another lady might have dumped the garments in a heap on the floor, but Amelia’s sense of tidiness and her respect for good fabric just wouldn’t allow it. Surely this room had a closet with a hook or two …
Turning slowly in place, she spied a sliding wood panel to one side of the bed. It blended so perfectly into the wainscoting, she hadn’t noticed the closet on first inspection.
Enjoying the way the carpet’s thick pile cushioned her bare toes, she hurried to the door. It was heavier than she’d expected, but by leaning her full weight into the effort, she managed to slide it open.
On the other side was Spencer.
Upon seeing her, he froze—right in the middle of removing his shirt.
“Oh!” Mortified, Amelia dropped the entire bundle of fabric. Which only increased her embarrassment, since she now stood before him in just her shift and stays. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. Her eyes riveted to the rippling muscles of his abdomen and the line of dark hair bisecting them. “I … I thought this was a closet.”
Lowering his shirt, he flicked a bemused glance at the room behind him. “No. Not a closet.”
“Of course not.” Her face burned. Obviously it was the duke’s bedchamber—an exact mirror of her own, but done up in rich, masculine colors and fabrics—and this sliding door connected the two suites. “I just wasn’t expecting … I mean, this arrangement is very—”
“Convenient?”
“Unusual. That’s what I meant to say.”
She shifted her weight uneasily. His gaze dipped to her bosom.
She added, “I mean, I’ve never seen this sort of papering before, done up in such complimentary colors. It’s so clever, the way the gold in my room is mirrored with a dark blue in yours, but both carpets have the same pattern of …”
“Mm-hm.” He nodded thoughtfully at her cleavage. He wasn’t hearing a word she said.
“The same pattern of unicorns. Alternating with rounds of cheese.”
Another vacant nod. “Indeed.”
Amelia’s face heated. Here she was, dreaming of elaborate menus and blathering on about room décor—and he didn’t care. He’d married her for one reason only, and if she’d momentarily forgotten it, the intensity with which he was currently staring at her breasts would have been a certain reminder. He wanted to bed her, and get an heir. That was all. Despite his assurances to the contrary when he’d proposed, she was here in his home as a glorified broodmare.
No, scratch the “glorified.” He likely treated his broodmares with greater affection.
She stepped back, nearly tripping over the heap of clothing at her feet. No way to pick it up without giving him an even bolder view of her cleavage. Discreetly kicking the garments aside, she put one shoulder to the door panel and prepared to slide it closed. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
His hand shot out to grasp the edge of the door. Amelia pushed anyway, but the slab of oak wouldn’t budge.
“About Claudia,” he said. “She’s very … young.” He sighed. “I wish that had gone differently, downstairs.”
Was this what constituted an apology, in Spencer’s world? It didn’t quite merit absolution in Amelia’s. She nodded. “So do I.”
His gaze seemed to have settled on her hips now, his lips curving in masculine approval. Yes, yes. They were wide and strong. Excellent for breeding, as she’d been informed by many a well-meaning matron in her day.
Amelia cleared her throat. The message in the inarticulate sound was clear: Hullo? I’m up here.
He dragged his eyes back up to her face. But he took his time about it, and as his gaze stroked over her, a pleasant warmth buzzed through her veins. Lord, what a hopeless situation. She enjoyed being lusted after; there was no pretending otherwise.
But she couldn’t stop herself from craving affection in the bargain—even though he’d never offered it, and she’d accepted him knowing that full well. He was a man. Not just a man, but a powerful, attractive duke. He could separate his physical needs from his emotions—but for Amelia, the two were hopelessly entangled. That meant he had all the power.
Not to mention the physical force. As they stood there—her whole strength marshaled to close the door and his one hand holding it open—it occurred to her how easily he could overpower her, if he wished. For God’s sake, he’d lifted her six inches into the air in that ballroom, and she wasn’t especially light.
Her eyes went to the door handle.
“There’s only one latch,” he said, guessing her thoughts. “It’s on my side.”
She swallowed hard. “I see.”
“Don’t worry.” With an arrogant grin, he released his grip on the door and stepped back. “I’ll never lock it.”
Amelia shifted her weight, and the door slid shut with a satisfying bang. She thought she heard him laugh.
Chapter Eleven
Dinner was a miserable business.
Against all reason, Spencer had hoped for a swift improvement in Claudia’s demeanor. Obviously, the fact of his marriage had taken his ward by surprise. But with a few hours to grow used to the idea, perhaps she would embrace Amelia as a welcome addition to the household.
No. No embracing going on tonight.
Spencer sat at the head of the table. Amelia and Claudia faced one another across an arctic expanse of white linen and bevel-cut crystal, but their eyes never met. One would think the fish course had been served live and wriggling, considering the violence with which Claudia stabbed it.
“How was your time in York?” Spencer asked her. “Can I expect good reports from your tutors?”
“I don’t know.” She jabbed at a fillet of turbot. “I was rather a disappointment to my German master.”
“What of your music?”
“The music master was rather a disappointment to me.” Sniffing, she laid down her fork. “The shops were lovely, though.”
“I sent you to York so that you might improve your mind, not distribute your pin money to the local merchants. Why should I bother arranging for tutors if you learn nothing from them?”
Resentful eyes snapped up to his. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”
“Aren’t you hungry, dear?” Amelia interjected in a smooth, conciliatory tone. She nodded at Claudia’s abandoned fish. “You didn’t touch your soup, either.”
The girl still refused to look at her.
“Please excuse me.” Chair legs scraped the floor as Claudia rose to her feet. “I’ve little appetite this evening.”