One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(21)

“Nonsense,” he replied, steering her up the stairs to the front door, which was already held open by a footman. The servant’s rose-pink livery did much to subdue any lingering carnal impulses. “I’ll see you in. I must speak with your brother.”

“Jack won’t be here. He has his own rooms in Piccadilly.”

“Not him. I meant Lord Beauvale.”

They entered the house two abreast. Only one of the two doors had been opened, forcing them to squeeze together momentarily as they stepped over the threshold. God, her body felt good against his.

“I can’t imagine why you would wish to speak with Laurent.”

“Can’t you?”

“He won’t make good on Jack’s debt, if that’s what you mean.”

The woman was obviously not thinking straight, but Spencer decided not to hold it against her. It had been a long and trying night, after all. “By all public appearances, I’ve abducted you from a ball and kept you out all night. Your brother will no doubt appreciate some explanation and assurances.”

Pulling one of his cards from his breast pocket, he flicked it on the butler’s salver. “We will await the earl in his study.” There, Spencer hoped, he might be safe from these revolting gilt plaster cockleshells hugging the ceiling like barnacles.

Once ushered inside Beauvale’s wood-paneled, shell-free study, they stood awkwardly in the center of the room. As a gentleman, he could not sit until she did—and the idea of sitting had apparently not occurred to her. Her hair had half-fallen from its coiffure, giving her a lopsided appearance. The blue silk that had so closely hugged her curves the evening previous now showed obvious signs of fatigue.

Her eyes widened at the way he was boldly appraising her form.

Spencer gave her an unapologetic shrug. “That gown has done its service, and then some. Earned its pension, I should say.”

Red bloomed from her throat to her hairline. Her jaw worked a few times. “Are you quite finished insulting me?”

“I did not insult you. That gown insults you.”

“You—” She made a gesture of exasperation. “You, sir, have no understanding of women. None at all.”

“Does any man?”

“Yes!”

Spencer cocked his head. “Name one.”

At that moment, the Earl of Beauvale entered. His hair was damp and freshly parted, and his cuffs remained unfastened. Obviously, he’d dressed in a hurry.

He bowed in Spencer’s direction. Lady Amelia crossed to her brother immediately and threw herself into his arms.

“Amelia. For God’s sake, where have you been?” Beauvale pulled back from the embrace and studied his sister. “What’s happened to you?”

“Leo is dead,” she said, burying her face in her brother’s coat.

“Harcliffe?” The earl directed his question at Spencer.

He nodded. “Attacked by footpads, last evening. We have spent the night attending his sister. She was—and remains—in a state of shock.”

“Yes, poor Lily,” the earl muttered, rubbing his sister’s arms. “Poor Leo. I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t either,” she said. “He was so young, so vivacious and well-liked. He was …” Her eyes met Spencer’s. “He was the answer to your question, Your Grace. A man of true understanding. In all the years I knew him, Leo never once spoke an unkind word to me.”

“Yes, well. We can’t all be Leo, can we?”

This bitter, ill-conceived remark was repaid with cold silence. As it deserved to be. Even Spencer realized it had been an unfeeling thing to say, motivated by envy.

Envy for a dead man, at that. How nonsensical.

Nothing about this night had made sense, from the moment she’d caromed across that ballroom and grasped his hand in hers. He’d danced with her, argued with her, carted her from the dance floor like some sort of primeval cave dweller, and then together they’d spent the night attending an impromptu vigil. On a morning that should have found him taciturn and withdrawn, she’d made him chatty. Now he found himself taking spiteful swipes at the poor dead fool who earned a word of her praise. It all added up to one inescapable conclusion.

He was rather taken with Amelia Claire d’Orsay.

Irrational, perhaps; unexpected, certainly. But there it was.

The earl spoke over his sister’s shoulder. “Thank you for seeing her home, Your Grace.”

It was a clear dismissal, just like her less eloquent version at the doorstep: You may go. But Spencer remained undeterred. He was the Duke of Morland; he would not be dismissed. And once he’d set his mind on something—or someone—he couldn’t rest without making it his.

He said, “I should advise you, Beauvale, that upon hearing of this tragedy, we left the Bunscombe residence together in surreptitious fashion. To others in attendance, it may have appeared to be an illicit assignation.”

“I see.” The earl frowned. “But nothing happened.”

Spencer looked to Lady Amelia.

“Amelia?” Beauvale prompted. “Nothing happened, did it?”

“Oh, no. No. Most definitely not.” Her deep blush did not lend the impression of veracity.

“I see.” Beauvale glared in Spencer’s direction. “People will be talking?”