One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(17)

She went hot and prickly all over.

Oh, no. No, you don’t.

How dare he suggest, even tacitly, that Amelia would make a suitable paid companion? Such employment was for destitute widows and hopeless spinsters. Women with no prospects whatsoever, and no family or fortune of their own. That wasn’t her!

At least, not yet.

There he sat, so smugly handsome. She could practically hear the arrogant words echoing in his skull: I am a duke. I always have a choice. And you may as well abandon all dreams for your future and become a paid companion, because a man like me would never choose a woman like you.

Yes, well. She’d absorbed that point already, hadn’t she? Dozens of midnight snubs had taught her that lesson. But earlier that evening, when she’d taken his hand, forced him to listen, given him her opinions—not to mention her handkerchief—Amelia had felt she’d clawed her way to equal footing with the man.

Evidently not. Swiftly, surely, with a ruthless economy of words and those devastating eyes, he had put Amelia back in her place. What was it about this man that made her react so strongly? Despite his fine looks and obvious intelligence—or perhaps because of them—he, more than any man of her acquaintance, had the power to make her feel so vulnerable, lacking, and most decidedly unwanted.

Breaking eye contact with the Duke of Morland was not something Amelia wished to do. It was something she needed to do, as an act of sheer self-preservation.

For the love of God, why couldn’t she?

From the doorway, Lily cleared her throat. “Thank you all for waiting. I am ready now.”

Gratefully, Amelia turned away from the duke to face her friend. Lily’s long black hair had been replaited, and she’d changed into a dark blue day dress that was elegant in its simplicity. Or perhaps it was elegant simply because Lily wore it. Nearing thirty now, she still had the willowy figure of her youth, and the same dark, doelike eyes Amelia had always envied. Even in grief, she was stunning. And had she not been so opposed to the idea of her friend marrying any of the gentlemen in this room, Amelia would have taken umbrage on behalf of Lily, and indeed the entire female sex, that any man would have so much as a moment’s hesitation when offered the chance to apply for her hand.

With her entrance, both Lord Ashworth and the duke rose to their feet, as etiquette dictated. But then, to Amelia’s surprise—to everyone’s surprise—the Duke of Morland did more than stand.

He came forward.

“Lady Lily,” he began. “May I express my deepest sympathies for your loss.”

His “deepest sympathies?” Amelia suspected this man’s deepest sympathies would not fill a thimble.

“Let me assure you,” Morland continued, “that as a friend of Harcliffe’s, a fellow peer, and an associate in his club, my honor as a gentleman compels me to offer you any assistance you may require.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lily replied. She flicked a distressed glance in Amelia’s direction, as it became clear the duke was not yet finished speaking.

“In addition, it is my intention to make you an offer,” he said.

The room held its breath.

“I should like to make you a substantial offer for your brother’s share in the stallion Osiris.”

His words skated on the thin, tense surface of quiet. Until they crashed under a resounding chorus from every corner of the room: “What?”

“I mean to purchase his token,” the duke said.

Ashworth’s boots thunked to the floor. “You can’t purchase his token. They can only be won in a game of chance.”

Morland said coolly, “Was his not a random killing? Bad luck, in its purest form.”

That did it. Amelia’s impression of the Duke of Morland was now cemented. Not only cemented—cast in bronze. He was the most arrogant, self-absorbed, unfeeling man she’d ever had the misfortune to waltz with, bar none.

“You are supposed to offer her marriage,” Bellamy growled.

“I am duty-bound to offer her assistance. And so I have done.” He addressed Lily once again. “Madam, tomorrow I will direct my secretary to call. He will be at your disposal in any regard, whether it be making burial arrangements or securing new housing. He will also bring a bank draft constituting my offer for Leo’s share in the Stud Club, which you may review and accept or decline as you wish.”

Bellamy said, “You bastard. This is a matter of honor, and all you can think of is the damned horse.”

“All any of you can think of is the damned horse!” Amelia went to Lily’s side. “Lily’s future is her own to decide. Stop puffing up your chests and playing at this childish imitation of chivalry. All this going on about honor and duty … you own shares in an animal, for God’s sake. You are not the Knights of the Round Table. By your own admission, Leo devised this club as a joke. Don’t you have real duties to tend to, actual human relationships worth your efforts and attention? Or is this all you have in your lives, a bit of play-acting nonsense centered on a horse?”

All three fell quiet, diverting their gaze to various features of the room’s décor—tassels, fringes, lacquered trays that had probably never suffered such intense male scrutiny. Perhaps these men truly didn’t have anything in their lives worth caring about, aside from this horse and this club. It would certainly explain their pathetic silence.