One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(37)

She gulped. And said, “Did you murder Leo Chatwick?”

Poof.

He fell back against the pillows, as if she’d kicked him in the chest.

Amelia took advantage of that increased distance to draw a deep breath. Thank heaven. Now she had him on the defensive.

“What did you just ask me?”

“Did you murder Leo Chatwick?”

The hollows of his cheeks blanched. “You would ask me this now? You seemed convinced of my innocence this morning.”

“Yes. But then you left me alone all day, with only my thoughts and those ghastly cranes for company. And as I recall the scene now, I realize … you never truly answered the question.”

“I didn’t think there was any question. No one who knows me could give any credit to Bellamy’s accusations.”

“But that’s my point. I don’t know you, not very well.”

“Well enough to consent to marry me.”

She tugged on a blanket, drawing it up to her br**sts and wrapping it snugly around her body. “I consented to a betrothal. Normally those last longer than one day.”

He arched a brow at her.

She repaid the sardonic gesture with an arched brow of her own. Perhaps it was unseemly of her to pursue this line of questioning. But it was true that he’d never expressly denied Mr. Bellamy’s charges. Not that morning, not now. He seemed to think it beneath his effort, and Amelia didn’t like being made to feel beneath his effort. A man ought to be willing to earn his wife’s trust. “Where were you, before you arrived at the Bunscombes’ ball that night?”

“I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” His brow furrowed. “The servants would support that, if asked.”

“If they are loyal servants who value their employment, I’m certain they would support whatever their master said.”

His jaw tightened with anger. “See here. I have just this morning given that guttersnipe Bellamy twenty thousand pounds to fund an investigation into Harcliffe’s death. Why would I do such a thing if I were responsible?”

“I don’t know,” Amelia said. “I do know that twenty thousand pounds is a sum you toss around rather lightly. It seems to be the going rate for everything you purchase—wives, shares in horses … why not exoneration too?”

He stared hard at her for a long moment, those hazel eyes burning into hers. Then he rose to his feet and quit the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.

She winced. That was it, then. Would she find herself tossed out on the pavement? Or would he be so charitable as to send for Laurent’s coach?

The door crashed open again. The duke entered, carrying a small lockbox under his arm and a ring of keys in the other hand. He crouched beside her, setting the box on the floor and selecting a key from the ring. Once he had the velvet-lined cache open, he positioned the contents for her perusal.

“There,” he said. “Count them.”

Amelia stared down at the scattered brass discs that represented membership in the Stud Club. Each token was stamped with a horse’s head on one side and, logically, a horse’s tail on the other. So irreverent; so boyish; so very Leo. How could anyone think these misshapen coins worth killing for? “I don’t need to count them. I know there are seven.”

“You believe me, then.”

“I believe you far too intelligent to place Leo’s token with the others, if you did have it.”

With a huff, he flung his arms wide in a posture of martyrdom. “Search the house, if you like.”

“That would likely take a week. And this is but one house; you have six, and doubtless some bank vaults besides.”

“You can’t honestly suspect me of murder. Here I thought you were a woman of some sense.”

“Then treat me like one! You’ve given me no opportunity to know you, no chance to judge your character for myself. All I have are my own observations, and what I see is a man with a great deal of wealth and influence, and very little respect for others’ feelings, who has arranged his life around the procurement of a racehorse, heedless of the lives he ruins in the process. From a purely rational standpoint, I have more reason to suspect you than trust you.”

Muttering an oath, he ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia …”

“Yes, Spencer?”

He blinked, obviously surprised at her use of his Christian name.

“It was in the vows,” she explained. “Would you prefer I call you Morland?”

“I would prefer you call me Your Grace, if you mean to seek an annulment. Is that what you want?”

“I want some answers, that’s all. I’d like to feel I know something of your character, before I allow you …” She blushed. “… certain liberties.”

“I invited you to ask me questions when I proposed.” His gaze was flinty, affronted. “You asked me about cats.”

Amelia knotted her fingers in her lap. It was true, she’d accepted him easily enough, without questioning much of anything outside his bank accounts. She hadn’t considered that her lack of curiosity might be construed as an insult. To be truthful, she hadn’t believed him possessed of emotions at all.

He sat back on his heels. “Tell me what it is you’d like to know. Specifically.”