One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(35)

She had not seen him since.

She had rested. She’d taken tea. She’d thought to spend the afternoon unpacking her trunks and becoming acquainted with the house, but her new lady’s maid informed her that wouldn’t be necessary. His Grace had decreed they’d be leaving for Braxton Hall tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Confronted with that disquieting information, Amelia had sought refuge in a hot bath. She had dressed with great care for dinner, and then she had dined alone. When she finally summoned the courage to inquire after His Grace’s whereabouts, she was informed that the duke had gone out riding.

Pah. Her wedding day, and already she’d been abandoned for a horse.

Now, several hours after that solitary dinner, Amelia lay on the counterpane in her sheerest muslin shift, fingering the eyelet neckline and wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake. Her thoughts returned again and again to that morning, and to Mr. Bellamy’s accusations. At the time, she had rejected the idea instinctively. The Duke of Morland might be a disagreeable, arrogant, cold sort of man, but she couldn’t believe him capable of murder.

But then she thought of that bank draft. Twenty thousand pounds. He was willing to pay twenty thousand pounds for a one-tenth share in a racehorse—the exact same amount he’d settled on Amelia, who came all of one piece. Independent of any aspersions cast on the duke’s character, those amounts spoke eloquently of his priorities.

And then there was that breathtaking, violent punch to Bellamy’s jaw.

No doubt another lady would have found that moment thrilling, when her bridegroom sent fist crashing into face to defend her honor. But Amelia had had five brothers, each of whom had thrown punches ostensibly in her defense, and she knew better. Men hit one another because they felt like hitting one another, and the “fair lady’s honor” bit was usually no more than a convenient excuse.

If the duke had slammed Mr. Bellamy to the floor for insulting Amelia … what might he be capable of doing, if the stakes were something he truly cared about?

No, no, no. She’d been with him that night at the ball. Granted, he’d arrived after Leo was already dead, but … his behavior hadn’t been that of a murderer. Had it? Amelia had to be honest; she had no idea how a man would act after committing a murder. Might he promptly show his face in public, to allay suspicion? Become pale and ill when challenged, perhaps even abscond to a secluded terrace? Toss obscene amounts of money at the victim’s surviving family, marry the only witness to his suspicious behavior, and make hasty arrangements to leave town?

She flung her wrist over her eyes. Oh, Lord. What had he done?

What had she done?

She snapped up in bed. Perhaps it was not too late. The marriage was not yet consummated. If she could just escape this house and get back to Laurent’s, she could request an annulment. She rose from bed, threw a wrapper over her shoulders and opened the window. For an early summer night, it was quite cool. But if she could dress on her own, evade the servants, slip down to the street somehow, find a hack …

No, there was too much danger inherent in a furtive escape, and Amelia wasn’t stupid. Whatever Morland had done, she doubted he posed a threat to her life. She could not say the same for the miscreants who roamed the darkened London streets.

Maybe she could simply send a note to Laurent, and he would come for her in the landau. Yes, that was it. She would bribe a footman to deliver it without His Grace’s knowledge. Or if everything else failed, she could feign illness and demand a doctor’s attention. It wasn’t even that late yet. It was only just now—she peered at the mantel clock—

Twelve.

A latch scraped open, and she jumped in her skin.

The duke entered through the connecting door, and Amelia clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a bubble of inane laughter. What a ninny she’d been, to expect his arrival even a minute earlier.

After all, this was the Duke of Midnight.

Even she had to admit he lived up to the romantic appellation tonight. Standing in the doorway, dressed only in a shirt and loose trousers, he regarded her with unwavering, unnerving intent. He was obviously fresh from a bath, for his hair was still wet. Dark, untamed curls caught a warm gloss from the firelight. Amelia’s gaze bounced from one newly revealed piece of him to the next—his sinewy forearms, the wedge of chest exposed by the open collar of his shirt, his bare feet. He was so sinfully attractive, he could have been the Devil himself.

“Are you well?” he asked, his brow creasing. He probably hadn’t expected to open the door and find his bride standing at the open window, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Amelia considered feigning illness. Clutching her belly, falling to the floor, writhing in agony until a doctor or her brother arrived to rescue her. With a rueful sigh, she decided against it. From her childhood, she’d been a very poor liar.

“I am well,” she said slowly. “Only disturbed by my thoughts. And by the birds.”

“The birds?” He tilted his head and looked toward the window.

“On the canopy,” she clarified.

He crossed to the bed and flung himself on it, rolling over onto his back. The mattress protested with a loud creak.

“Yes, I see,” he muttered, lacing his hands behind his head and staring upward. “Disturbing indeed. Are they vultures?”

“I think they’re meant to be cranes.”