One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(19)

This very morning, as a matter of fact.

“It was a very grave shock,” he said. “But Lily seems to have taken it well.”

“Perhaps it seems so, to you. But I know better. Leo’s death is only now becoming real to her. When the shock wears off, she will be stricken with grief. I will call again this afternoon. Perhaps offer to stay with her for a few days.” She shot him a look, her blue eyes catching a sharp gleam from the window glass. “Only until other arrangements can be made.”

He tried to understand the anger in her tone, and failed. It was becoming a maddening habit, this trying to understand her.

“Your Grace, if I may speak freely—”

“I haven’t yet managed to prevent you.”

“Your ‘offer’ to Lily last night was unconscionable. I have never encountered a person so vain, arrogant, presumptuous, self-absorbed, and utterly heartless.”

Her charges surprised Spencer, but they did not wound him overmuch. When spoken in such a distraught, irrational tone, words were easy to dodge—like so many china shepherdesses hurled in a fit of pique.

She continued, “From all evidence, you care more for horses than for people.”

“You have concluded wrongly.”

“Oh, have I concluded wrongly?” she said, mocking his deep tone. “How so?”

“It is true that I find the average horse more pleasant to be around than the average person. Most true horsemen would agree. But it does not follow that I value all horses above all people. And I am not pursuing ownership of Osiris simply because he is a horse, but because he is the horse I am determined to have, at any cost.”

“Precisely,” she muttered. “At any cost, including that of friendship, dignity, honor.”

Spencer shook his head. It would be futile to explain his reasons for wanting that horse. She couldn’t comprehend them, even if he tried.

The carriage rattled on, and their elbows rattled against each other. They sat sharing the front-facing seat. Spencer supposed he might have crossed to the opposite seat, once the others had alighted. That would have been the proper thing to do. But he hadn’t felt like moving. Lady Amelia was leaning against him, just slightly—no doubt fatigued and chilled. And once again, he found himself enjoying the soft weight of her body against his.

As that pleasure gathered and spread, so did his unbiddable curiosity. He could not rid his mind of it, this desire to keep speaking with her, to listen to whatever she might say. To discover, to know, to understand.

He said, “You disdain the importance I place on horses.”

“I do. With all due respect to the horses.”

“What is it then, that’s most important to you?”

“My family,” she replied instantly. “And my home.”

“A house in Bryanston Square?” Spencer could not mask his surprise. From the direction she’d given, he knew it must be one of those newer, boxy town houses. Not the sort of history-rich, time-faded abode in which he would picture Lady Amelia d’Orsay.

“No, not that house. That is Laurent’s house, built to his wife’s tastes. I refer to our ancestral home in Gloucestershire. Beauvale Castle is in ruins, but we have a cottage where we summer. It’s called Briarbank, for its position directly overlooking the River Wye.”

“A pleasing prospect.”

“It is. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a house more happily situated. Mama and I, we used to walk out every morning to gather lavender and fresh—” She sniffed. “All my fondest memories are of Briarbank.”

“Will you be leaving Town soon, to summer there?”

She tensed. “Not this year. This year, my brothers intend to let the cottage out. You see, Your Grace, my brother Jack has a debt to pay.”

“I see,” he said, after a pause. “So this is the true root of your anger, my refusal to forgive your brother’s debt. Not my offer to Lily.”

“Well, the root of my anger has since forked into several branches of irritation, and your treatment of Lily is one of them. But yes.” Jutting out her chin, she turned her face to the window.

Spencer couldn’t bring himself to fault her persistence. Throughout his life, if there was a common trait amongst the few people he’d unreservedly admired, it was loyalty. But in this case, the sentiment was severely misapplied. That brother of hers was on a swift course to ruin her entire family. “I fail to see how—”

“Your Grace.” She cut him off with an impatient gesture. “By my counting, we’ve spent close to seven hours in one another’s company. And you’ve spoken more words to me in the last few minutes than in previous six-and-some hours combined. Are you always this chatty in the mornings?”

Chatty? Spencer had been called many unflattering things in his life, but no one had ever accused him of being chatty. Remarkable.

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m not. Are you always this inhospitable?”

She gave a breathy sigh. “No. But as you say, it has been an extraordinary night. Even before you arrived at the Bunscombes’ ball.”

Her remark put him back on that darkened terrace and had him mentally searching his pockets for her handkerchief. He shouldn’t like to lose it. She’d obviously invested great care in its design and creation. But unlike the young ladies who netted purses and lacquered tea trays as a means of displaying their dubious “accomplishments,” Lady Amelia had embroidered that square of linen for no one’s appreciation but her own.