One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(13)

The seat cushion resettled as Lady Amelia pivoted in Spencer’s direction. “But why would he do that?”

Bellamy said, “Care to answer the lady, Your Grace?”

Spencer stared hard out the carriage window. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the horse.”

“But Mr. Bellamy has said, one token is sufficient for securing breeding privileges. Why insist on obtaining them all? Why such greed?”

Spencer heard the accusation in her voice. She blamed his “greed” for her brother’s debt. “Where Osiris is concerned, I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I don’t like to share.”

Bellamy shook his head. “There you have it, Lady Amelia. His Grace is uninterested in brotherhood, friendship, the preservation of a fixture in London society. He only cares for the horseflesh involved. I tell you, Morland—you may not like to share, but you’ll have to. You’re not getting my token unless you pry it from my cold, dead hands. The Stud Club was Leo’s creation, and I’ll not allow you to destroy his legacy.”

“But you do want me to marry his sister.”

“No. Er, yes.” Bellamy growled with frustration. “I mean, I do not want it. I wish to God there were someone—anyone—else. But there isn’t.”

Lady Amelia made a strange, inarticulate noise. Did it convey dismay? Frustration? Amusement? At least she wasn’t weeping any longer.

Clearly, Bellamy could not translate her outburst any better than Spencer could. Cocking his head, he eyed the two of them carefully. “That is, unless you are already engaged. Did we interrupt something on the terrace back there?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, laughing as she did. “Whatever you interrupted, it was not that.”

“Then, Your Grace, honor compels you to make an offer to Lily.”

“Excuse me,” said Lady Amelia, “but precisely what is honorable about deciding a woman’s future without so much as soliciting her opinion? If Lily wanted to marry, she might have done so years ago. We are not living in the Dark Ages, sirs. A lady’s consent is generally considered a prerequisite before any wedding plans are made.”

“Yes, but even in these modern times, sometimes circumstances—such as a death or impending poverty—make a lady’s decision for her.”

“I cannot speak for Lily, Mr. Bellamy. But I can tell you, I have faced such circumstances. And they have never made the decisions for me.”

So, Spencer thought to himself, Lady Amelia had received offers of marriage. And refused them. He had been wondering whether her spinsterhood was a condition arrived at by choice, or merely from a lack of alternatives.

Damn it, why was he wondering about her? Why did he feel this need to know everything about an impertinent, managing, none-too-pretty female? But he did. Oh, he did not want to engage in anything so gauche or peril-fraught as inquiry. He merely wanted a reference—the comprehensive codex of all things Amelia Claire d’Orsay. A chart of her ancestry back to the Norman invaders. The catalogue listing every book she’d ever read. A topographical map indicating the precise location of every freckle on her skin.

Ashworth spoke. “We’ve arrived.”

The carriage rolled to a quiet halt before Harcliffe Manor. As they waited for the footman to open the door, Bellamy leaned forward and spoke directly to Spencer.

“Lily may be deaf, but she is not stupid. She reads lips, and she speaks with diction every bit as aristocratic as yours. Look at her when you speak; that’s all that is required. Do not raise your voice or speak in simplistic terms, as if she were your senile great-aunt. Do not talk about her as if she isn’t in the room. Do not treat her as anything less than your social and intellectual equal.”

Spencer bristled. “Why are you directing all this admonishment at me?”

“Because before this night’s through, you will have a private audience with her. You will make Lily an offer, Morland. You will. Or by God, I’ll call you out.”

Chapter Three

“A duel?” Amelia cried. “Whatever for? So we will have two deaths tonight, instead of one?”

Ignoring her, the duke said icily, “Just try it, Bellamy. I will take pleasure in prying that token from your cold, dead hands.”

Really, these men were impossible.

When the carriage door swung open, Amelia rose from her seat and bustled between Bellamy and Morland, who sat trading murderous glares. As she exited the coach, the men followed her.

Rushing up to claim the front stoop, she stood blocking the door and addressed them firmly, in the tone her mother had used to address her quarreling brothers. If these grown men were going to behave like boys squabbling over marbles, someone with sense had to take charge. For Lily’s sake.

“Hold a moment, if you please. Before we go in, I will have my say.”

The three men stared up at her, and Amelia’s resolve began to waver. They may have been behaving like children, but they were, all three of them, quite large, powerful, and intimidating men. A duke, a warrior, a scoundrel. She was unused to commanding the attention of such men. La, she was unused to commanding the attention of any men, aside from her own brothers. Her navel was still turning cartwheels whenever she so much as thought of glancing in the duke’s direction. And thanks to the smoky, amber glow of the carriage lamp, she was getting her first clear look at Lord Ashworth and Mr. Bellamy.