One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(28)

“Late,” she echoed, disbelieving.

“Eight minutes late.” Striding into the room, he drew a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “The wedding was to begin at half-ten. It is now ten thirty”—he raised an eyebrow and paused dramatically—“nine. Nine minutes late.”

Struggling to remain calm, Amelia advanced to meet him in the center of the room. “Your Grace,” she muttered, “you have allowed me a betrothal of precisely twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours, in which to reorder my life from that of an unmarried woman to that of a duchess. Now you would begrudge me nine minutes’ delay?”

He glowered at her. “Yes.”

Laurent crossed to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder, drawing her away. “Amelia,” he said quietly, “it’s not too late. You needn’t do this, you know.”

At the warm solicitude in his voice, her resolve nearly crumbled. For something like twenty-six hours now, Laurent had been urging her to reconsider this whole enterprise. If she said no, even at the last moment, Amelia knew her brother would support her decision. He’d done the same ten years ago, when she’d been unable to stomach marriage to that horrid Mr. Poste. Never mind the money, he’d insisted, your happiness is worth more than gold.

When she’d been granted that reprieve, Amelia had felt nothing but relief. At the age of sixteen, she never could have conceived that Papa’s debt would balloon so catastrophically, nor that a country widower’s suit would be the last she’d entertain.

Amelia lowered her voice to a whisper. “This is an opportunity, Laurent. An opportunity for us. Once I am a duchess, I can help our brothers in ways even you cannot. The alliance will greatly improve Michael’s chances of marrying well. Perhaps I can secure a living for Jack, get him out of London and away from his unsavory friends.”

Her brother shook his head. “I fear Jack may be a lost cause.”

“Don’t ever say that. If Mama were here, could you say that to her face?”

“If Mama were here, could you marry this man? She wouldn’t have wanted this for you. She wanted her children to marry for love.”

“And yet you defied her,” she said gently.

After Papa died, the debts had mounted higher and higher still. Laurent had made the very sacrifice at which Amelia had once balked: he’d married, sensibly and disaffectionately, to secure the d’Orsay family’s future. She loved him for it and often despised herself for leaving him no other choice. “I can’t cry off this time, Laurent. It isn’t only about the family. I want my own household, my own children. This may be my last chance. I’m not sixteen any longer.”

No, she was older and wiser—and undeniably lonelier. And disagreeable as his demeanor might be, the Duke of Morland compared favorably to Mr. Poste. Morland wasn’t thirty years older than she. He had straight teeth. He didn’t reek of tallow and sweat. He knew how to kiss. Properly.

And he was a duke. A duke with six estates, who would settle twenty thousand pounds on her, and some property besides. In her shortsighted, selfish girlhood, she’d let slip one chance to help her family. If this man saw fit to offer her security and children, Amelia supposed she could promise him punctuality in trade.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Laurent cast a wary glance at the duke. “I’ve no compunction about tossing him out on his ear, if you like.”

“No, no. You are very good, but I am decided.” She truly believed the sentiment she’d expressed to the duke the other night, during their waltz. Contentment was largely a matter of individual choice. “I am decided, and I will be happy.”

Spencer was displeased. Greatly displeased. Twelve minutes now. He could have been married already, perhaps even ordering the carriage for their departure. Instead he was standing here awkwardly in the center of the room, watching his intended bride confer with her brother in heated whispers.

Damn it, he hated weddings. He didn’t remember ever attending any others, but he was certainly making this one his last.

To think, not an hour ago, he’d been congratulating himself on his brilliance. He needed a wife, and here was his chance to obtain one without the nuisance of a courtship. When a man of his wealth and station proposed marriage to a lady of hers … They both knew she couldn’t possibly have refused.

But she had no problem keeping him waiting. Spencer didn’t like being made to wait. The waiting was making him uneasy, and he didn’t like feeling uneasy.

This was why he’d insisted on a small, private ceremony in her home. If there was no crowd, no music, no fanfare, he reasoned, he would remain perfectly calm and in control. Except that now a ten-minute delay had him fretting like a schoolboy. And that fact had him resenting her further, because he was intelligent enough to realize that this churning tempest inside him must mean something. Something about him, something about her … something about them, perhaps? He didn’t know. He just wanted to marry the woman, take her home, and puzzle it out in bed.

“Your Grace?”

His head whipped up. Lady Amelia stood before him. And whatever exorbitant sum he’d paid that dressmaker, it hadn’t been nearly enough.

Standing with her hands clasped behind her back, she played her figure to its best advantage. Her waist was trim and defined, her hips cuppable, her bosom delectable. Silk covered those lushly proportioned curves, clinging in all the right places. Its silvery, iridescent shade reminded him of dew on heather, or the belly of a trout; and it contrasted pleasantly with the warm, milky texture of her skin. She was all softness and sleekness, and his gaze slipped over her easily even as his thoughts snagged. He wrestled to make sense of her, define her, understand what it was she signified to him and why. He couldn’t say she looked elegant or stunning or beautiful.