One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(20)

This intrigued him.

As did the fact that, for all her harsh words declared him an enemy, her body seemed to have formed a fast friendship with his. She was still leaning against him.

“You are not intimidated by me,” he observed.

“No,” she said musingly. “Honestly, I am not. Oh, I would have been at this time yesterday. But as Lily said, this night has taught me that no one is immortal. It’s a dire realization in many respects, but oddly enough I find it somewhat freeing. Brash impertinence holds a sudden charm. I shall have to look out, or I may be in danger of becoming a real termagant.” She laughed softly to herself. “Yesterday at this time, I would have seen you as the unapproachable, imposing Duke of Morland. And you would not have seen me at all.”

No doubt it would have been the politic thing to object. To say, Oh, certainly I would have noticed you. I would pick you out from a crowd of ladies. But that would have been a lie. In all likelihood, she was right. If they’d crossed paths in the street this time yestermorn, he would not have spared her a second glance. And that would have been an unfortunate thing, for she was a woman who greatly improved on second glance. At this moment, he was discovering that the warm, even light of dawn did her features better service than the harsh shadows cast by candlelight and coal. She looked almost lovely, in the morning.

She touched a finger to the window glass. “Today, I know we are merely humans. Two flawed, imperfect, mortal beings, whose bones will one day crumble to dust. Just a woman and a man.”

At her words, space inside the carriage seemed to collapse around him. Not in a suffocating, oppressive manner, but in a way that evoked the pleasanter aspects of human closeness: physical pleasure and emotional intimacy. It had been some time—an imprudently long time, on reflection—since he’d enjoyed the former. He’d spent most of his adult life avoiding the latter. Surely the extraordinary nature of the night’s events was to blame, but Spencer found himself suddenly, intensely hungry for both.

No sooner had he thought it, than she nestled closer still. Was she seeking comfort? Or offering it?

Just a woman and a man.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted one gloved hand from his lap and placed it on her leg, a few inches above her knee.

Her thigh went rigid beneath his palm. He did not move, did not acknowledge her startled response. He simply sat there, cupping the plump curve of her thigh and enjoying the way it filled his hand.

Though for practical reasons he favored pretty little nothings in a ballroom, when it came to bed sport, Spencer’s tastes ran to substance, in multiple senses of the term. He liked a woman with something to her, both physically and intellectually. Lady Amelia met both qualifications.

True, she was no great beauty, but she had an undeniable appeal. Her mouth, in particular, he found alluring. Her lips were full and voluptuous, like the rest of her, and a lovely shade of coral pink. Then there was that lone, obstinate freckle still clinging to the inner curve of her left breast. The tiny mark only called attention to the otherwise creamy perfection of the bosom it adorned.

And after the night they’d just passed wandering through Death’s shadow, it was only natural for a man to crave … well, to crave.

In sum, he wanted her. Quite fiercely.

He eased his hand up her thigh—one inch, perhaps two. Past the concealed ridge of her garter. Her breathing went from uneven to erratic as he began brushing his thumb back and forth in a slow, even rhythm. He applied enough pressure that his touch dragged the fabric rather than sliding over it, allowing them both to enjoy the sensation of silk and linen gliding over her bare skin. Whatever petticoat she had on was delightfully spare, worn soft and supple by many launderings. Beneath the fabric, her flesh was just the right pliancy. The taut, smooth texture of a ball of risen dough-perfect for grasping, kneading, shaping with his hands.

Erotic images flooded his mind; lust pounded in his blood. He wanted to haul her straight into his lap and wrap those creamy, abundant curves around his body. He would bury his head in that magnificent bosom and clutch her bottom with both hands as he took her, right here in the carriage, letting the swaying motion of the coach bring them closer and closer to release …

Yes, she could offer him all manner of comforts—if she were the sort of woman to oblige a man that way. Simply because she remained unmarried, it did not necessarily follow that she was untouched. In fact, some alteration in the latter condition might explain the former.

There was only one way to find out.

Spreading his fingers, he gave her thigh a light, appreciative squeeze.

With a startled cry, she wrested her skirt from his grasp and scuttled sideways like a crab. There, wedged into the opposite corner of the cab, she stared hard out the window and steadfastly ignored him.

Well, that settled that.

And now Spencer looked out his own glass and prayed for a sudden snarl of unnavigable traffic. For they were nearing Bryanston Square, and thanks to his vivid imagination, he was in no condition to be seen in public.

By the time the coach drew to a halt before an ostentatious rococo edifice, his lust had ebbed. Somewhat. Enough to restore his silhouette to respectability. Spencer alighted first and then posed at the bottom, hand outstretched to assist Lady Amelia in making her descent.

She ignored his hand. And would have walked straight past him altogether, had he not grasped her elbow.

She slowly pivoted to face him. “Your Grace, I thank you for delivering me home. I shall keep you no longer.” When he did not release her, she added through gritted teeth, “You may go.”