One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(10)

Together they followed the path the other men had taken, walking alongside one another. He did not offer his arm. He did, however, point out a toad in the path an instant before she would have stepped on it.

As they rounded the front corner of the house and approached the paved driveway where the carriages and drivers sat waiting, he spoke once again. “What does it stand for, the C?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your initial.” He patted his pocket again.

“Oh.” Understanding dawned. “Claire. It stands for Claire. Amelia Claire.”

He nodded and walked on.

Amelia purposely fell behind.

Ninny, ninny. They passed a piece of bronze statuary, and Amelia longed to bash her head against it. What an absolute muffin she was. He’d asked her a question once. She had to answer it three times? “Claire,” she mimicked quietly, adopting the voice of a parrot. “It stands for Claire. Amelia Claire.”

She recognized, and rued, the giddy flutter in her belly: infatuation. It could not have happened at a worse time. Nothing good could come of it. And of all the gentlemen in London, this one? She hadn’t been exaggerating in the ballroom, when she’d told him he danced divinely and was undeniably handsome. Nor when she’d confessed an unchaste longing to touch his dark, curling hair. And he really did lift the hairs on her neck. True, all of it true.

He’s horrid, she silently told herself. Loutish, arrogant, insufferable! He refused to release Jack from debt. He insulted you. He bodily hauled you from a ballroom and then offered you money to just please go away! And for heaven’s sake, you are on your way to tell Lily Chatwick her twin brother is dead. You are a depraved, deranged woman, Amelia Claire-Claire-Claire d’Orsay!

It was just … something about those few unrehearsed moments, when a strange rustling in the hedge made them forget debts and insults and act on instinct alone. And she’d rushed to his side with her treasured handkerchief, and he’d put his body between her and the unknown. She could not escape the feeling that they’d formed an unspoken alliance and were now acting as a team.

He touched a hand to his coat pocket again. He kept doing that. And every time he did, her knees went weak.

Oh, Lord.

They reached the carriage. It was an impressive conveyance. Jet-black, glossy, emblazoned with the Morland ducal crest, and drawn by a team of four perfectly matched black horses.

The duke helped her in, closing one of his hands about her fingers and placing the other against the small of her back. Bellamy and Ashworth had already situated themselves on the rear-facing seat, leaving Amelia and Morland to share the front-facing one.

Nothing about this situation should thrill her. It was terrible, the way his authoritative command to the driver shot sparks to her toes. It was unpardonable, how she sat toward the middle of the seat and allowed her body to fall against his as the carriage lurched into motion.

“How did Harcliffe die?” the duke asked.

Thank you, Amelia said silently, scooting away from him until she hugged the outer edge of the seat. Thank you for reminding me of the gravity of our situation and the utter inappropriateness of my thoughts.

“Footpads,” said Bellamy. “He was beaten to death in the street, in Whitechapel. It appears to have been a random attack.”

“Good God.”

It was too dark for Amelia to make out the expressions of anyone in the coach. She reckoned, therefore, it was too dark for them to see hers. And so she permitted herself a rush of hot, silent tears.

This wasn’t right. Waterloo was over; the war had ended. Young, handsome men at the peak of vitality were supposed to stop dying. Only a few weeks ago, she’d spied Leo at the theater. He’d taken a box with some of his friends. The lot of them were loud and disruptive in the way only Leo’s friends could be, because Leo was always forgiven everything. Everyone loved him so.

Amelia shuddered. Beaten to death, by footpads. If such a thing could happen to Leo … it could so easily have been Jack.

“It could have been me,” said Bellamy. “God, it should have been me. I was supposed to go with him tonight, but I begged off.” His rough voice cracked. “What a damned bloody waste. If I’d been there, I might have prevented it.”

“Or you might have been killed, too.”

“Better me than him. He had a title, responsibilities, a sister to protect.” He swore violently. “What will become of Lily now? This is all my fault. The boxing match was my idea in the first place. And I begged off. I begged off, to spend the evening with that harlot Carnelia.” He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

Amelia supposed he must refer to the very scandalous, very married Lady Carnelia Hightower. Though her mind reeled, she remained silent. The last thing she wanted was to remind all three men there was a lady in the carriage and cause them to temper their remarks. For Lily’s sake, she wanted to gather all the information she could. For once, the quality of being invisible to men worked in her favor.

The duke cleared his throat. “You called it a random attack. If that is the case … well then, random is random. It might have been anyone.”

“It wouldn’t have been me.” This came from Ashworth, the taciturn giant across from her. “I cannot die.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” Amelia asked, abandoning her intention to remain silent. It was such a shocking statement to make, and something in the low rasp of his voice told her he did not speak from arrogance.