One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(23)

“Lady Amelia,” he continued, “in all our conversations, you have paid me the compliment of unflinching honesty. May I be completely frank with you now?”

She waved her hand in invitation.

“As Lily advised, I have taken Leo’s death as a reminder of my own mortality, and as a call to action. I have a ward, several years my junior. It will be two years before her introduction, and longer still before she is ready to wed. If some misfortune were to befall me in the interim, my title and estate would pass to distant relations, and her fate would be in the hands of strangers. I cannot risk it. Therefore, I have decided to marry and produce an heir.”

“Just this morning, you have decided this.”

“Yes.”

“Why me, and not Lily? Why not one of the other ladies you’ve auditioned, over the course of dozens of balls?”

He looked taken aback. “Auditioned? Is that what people believe, that I have been conducting a search for my bride? Trial by waltzing?”

“Yes, of course.”

He laughed again. Twice in one morning now. Astonishing. And this time, his laugh had a rich, velvet quality that stroked her with heat from crown to toe.

“No. That has not been my purpose, I assure you. But I will answer your question honestly. I wish to produce an heir, as quickly as possible. I have no inclination to court, flatter, or otherwise woo some silly young chit scarcely half my age. Neither do I have the patience to engage the hand of a grieving woman who will be in mourning for the next year. Dowries are of no importance to me. I simply need a sensible woman from suitable bloodlines, of robust constitution and even temperament, with whom to create a few children.”

She stared at him in horror. “You want a broodmare!”

He said evenly, “When you draw that comparison, you demean us both. I have many fine mares in my stables, and yet there is not a one of them I would allow to mother my children or manage my household, much less introduce my cousin to society. No, I do not want a broodmare. I want a wife. A duchess.”

At that moment, the magnitude of his offer struck Amelia with sudden force. It was fortunate she was still sitting down. This man would make her the Duchess of Morland. If she accepted him—barbaric, unfeeling creature that he was—she would become one of the highest-ranking, wealthiest ladies in all England. She would host grand parties, move in the most elite circles of society. And at last—oh, her heart turned over at the thought …

“I would be mistress of my own house,” she whispered.

“In point of fact, you would be mistress of six. But I almost never travel to the Scottish one.”

Amelia gripped the arm of the chair, hard. As if she might slide right off it and fall into wedlock if she didn’t hold on with all her strength. Good heavens, six estates. Surely one of them could use a vicar. She could convince Jack to resume his studies and take orders, see him settled in a wholesome country vicarage, far away from his ruffian friends …

No, no, no. There were a thousand reasons why she must refuse the duke. There had to be. She just couldn’t think of them right now.

“But …” she stammered, “but we scarcely know one another.”

“In the past several hours, I have observed you at a social event, witnessed your composure during a difficult ordeal, and engaged you in conversation that hovered some distance above the usual banalities. I am familiar with your ancestry, and I know that you come from a family rife with sons, which bodes well for my purposes of getting an heir. For my part, I am satisfied. But if you wish, you may ask me questions.” He cocked an eyebrow in anticipation.

She swallowed. “What is your age?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Have you other close family, besides this cousin?”

“No.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Of course. She is Lady Claudia, fifteen years of age.”

“Is she here with you, in Town?”

“No. She has spent the past few months in York, visiting her mother’s relations.”

Amelia paused, uncertain where to go from here. What sort of questions did one ask a gentleman of his stature? It would seem absurd to inquire after a duke’s favorite color, or preferred glovemaker. Finally she blurted out, “Do you object to cats?”

He grimaced. “Only in principle.”

“I should like to keep cats.” She perked in triumph. Here it was, her escape route from this bizarre proposal.

He tapped a finger on the desktop. “If you can keep them out of my way, I suppose that desire can be accommodated.”

Drat. No escape there.

She tried again. “What is the last book you read?”

“A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, by Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“You are joking.”

“Yes, I am.” The corner of his mouth curled in a sly, sensual manner. “Actually, I read that book some years ago.”

“Truly? And what did you think?”

“I think …” He pushed off from the desk and stood, regarding her with cool challenge in his eyes. “I think you are stalling, Lady Amelia.”

Her pulse did stall, for a moment. Then it jolted back to life, pounding feverishly in her throat. Why didn’t God apportion fine looks in equal accordance with deserving personalities? A horrid man ought to be horrid-looking. He should never be gifted with dark, curling, touchable hair; nor the noble, sculpted cheekbones of a Roman god. He most especially should not possess entrancing, deep-set hazel eyes and a wide, sensual mouth that was near devastating in repose, but even further improved by the presence of a knowing little smile.