One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(27)

Some of her dreams could still come true.

“Say yes, Amelia.”

“Yes,” she said. And because it came more easily than she’d expected, she said it again. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He gave her a smile—slight, yet devastating—and to that subtle quirk of his lips Amelia impulsively hitched all her hopes and dreams. For better or for worse.

“I’ll go speak with your brother.” He gathered his gloves from the desk.

“Please do give my name to your secretary,” she said, giving in to a flutter of bridal excitement. “We can begin compiling the guest list, making the arrangements.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ll be married here, in this room. Tomorrow.”

Chapter Six

Not thirty hours later, Amelia sat in the Rose Parlor—actually, one of two rose parlors Beauvale House boasted, thanks to Winifred’s fondness for pink. With a fretful sigh, she squeezed Lily Chatwick’s hand and asked for what must have been the fifth time, “Are you certain you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Lily answered.

Amelia chewed her lip. “It just feels all wrong, to have you here.”

It all felt wrong, full stop. A wedding, before Lord Harcliffe was even in the ground? It was so tasteless, so arbitrary … and so sadly lacking in rolled icing and orchids. But evidently the Duke of Morland considered her whispered “yes” to be Amelia’s last word on the matter. Plans for these hasty nuptials had proceeded apace, whether she liked it or not. Yesterday afternoon had seen a flock of messengers descend on the Beauvale doorstep, delivering legal papers, the special license obtained from the archbishop, trunks emblazoned with the Morland crest in which to pack up her belongings. But before all these, a modiste had presented herself, flanked by two seamstresses and armed to the teeth with straight pins. Apparently the duke had been serious, when he spoke of pensioning off her blue moiré silk.

For the better part of the hour, the three women had flitted about her, measuring and clucking their tongues portentously, as if they were the three Fates of Grecian myth, sent to snip and stitch the precise shape of Amelia’s destiny.

Then early this morning, a footman had marched the long path to Amelia’s small bedchamber at the rear of the house, bearing a tower of boxes. The largest package held clouds of white petticoats and a mist-thin chemise; the smallest contained a coil of perfectly matched Baroque pearls. And one of the boxes in the middle had opened to reveal a tasteful, stylish gown of dove-gray satin. The color was understated and respectful—but quietly lovely. Amelia ran her fingers lightly over the skirt, twisting it in the sunlight to coax a lilac shimmer from the fabric.

“It’s a beautiful dress,” Lily said.

Amelia balled her hand in a fist, ashamed to have drawn attention to her own vanity. She ought to have refused to wear it and put on her plain black bombazine instead. But she had such a weakness for fine-milled fabric.

“You deserve it,” Lily said, as if she understood Amelia’s thoughts. “And you must not feel guilty on your wedding day. I’m grateful to be here, truly. What else should I be doing? Sitting weeping at home? I found ample time for that yesterday; tomorrow will bring a fresh supply of empty hours to fill. Today, I am glad for the distraction. And to be completely honest, I’m a bit relieved.”

“Relieved that you won’t have to marry him?” Amelia laughed dryly. “Yes, I understand. Better me than you.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m certain His Grace will make you a fine husband.”

“Are you? I wish I could say the same.”

Lily’s gaze caught hers. “Amelia, you would not believe what he sent to the house yesterday.”

“Not seamstresses, I hope.”

“No, no. A bank draft.”

Amelia buried her face in her hands to disguise her unladylike response. “Not that blasted horse again.”

“It’s not so bad as you suspect. I was astonished to see the—”

Bang.

The parlor door swung open with such force, the hinges rattled in the doorframe. Alarmed, Amelia shot to her feet. Lily followed suit, with considerably more grace.

The Duke of Morland filled the doorway. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Irate.

Not even the brown-black curls at his temple had the temerity to rebel this morning; they appeared to have been ruthlessly subdued with comb and pomade. His impeccable black topcoat and Hessians were matched by an equally dark expression. The duke looked angry, commanding, arrogant—and so intensely attractive it actually pained her to look him in the face. Truly, Amelia felt as though she’d swallowed all three of his nimble little seamstresses, and they were currently stitching the lining of her stomach into pleats.

From behind the duke’s imposing figure, Laurent made a chagrined expression. “Beg pardon. I tried to prevent him.”

“Good heavens, what is it?” In a defensive move, Amelia crossed her arms over her chest. Then she impulsively uncrossed them and clasped her trembling hands behind her back. He was just a man, she reminded herself. Just a mortal, imperfect man. She couldn’t let him cow her—not now, not ever.

“Lady Amelia,” he accused, “you are …” He raked her with a glance, and beneath the pearly silk, a thousand pins pricked her skin. “You are late.”