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.”