One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(4)

And somehow more lowering than all this: She had no place of her own.

Accepting spinsterhood had not been easy for Amelia. But she could resign herself to the loneliness and disappointment, she told herself, so long as she had summers at that drafty stone cottage. Those few months made the rest of the year tolerable. Whilst her friends collected lace and linens for their trousseaux, Amelia contented herself by embroidering seat covers for Briarbank. As they entertained callers, she entertained thoughts of begonias in the window box. When she—an intelligent, thoughtful, well-bred lady—was thrown over nightly for her younger, prettier, lack-witted counterparts, she could fool herself into happiness by thinking of blackberry glaze.

Lord, the irony. She wasn’t much different from Jack. She’d impulsively wagered all her dreams on a pile of mortar and shale. And now she’d lost.

Alone on the terrace, she started to tremble. Destiny clanged against her hopes, beating them down one hollow ring at a time.

Somewhere inside, a clock was tolling midnight.

“His Grace, the Duke of Morland.”

The majordomo’s announcement coincided with the final, booming stroke of twelve.

From the head of the staircase, Spencer watched the throng of guests divide on cue, falling to either side like two halves of an overripe peach. And there, in the center, clustered the unmarried young ladies in attendance—stone-still and shriveling under his gaze.

As a general point, Spencer disliked crowds. He particularly disliked overdressed, self-important crowds. And this scene grew more absurd by the night: the cream of London society, staring up at him with unguarded fascination.

We don’t know what to make of you, those stares said.

Fair enough. It was a useful—often lucrative—thing, to be unreadable. He’d spent years cultivating the skill.

We don’t trust you. This he gleaned from the whispers, and the manner in which gentlemen guarded the walls and ladies’ hands instinctively went to the jewels at their throats. No matter. It was also a useful thing, at times, to be feared.

No, it was the last bit that had him quietly laughing. The silent plea that only rang louder every time he entered a ballroom.

Here, take one of our daughters.

God’s knees. Must he?

As he descended the travertine staircase, Spencer girded himself for yet another unpleasant half hour. Given his preference, he would retreat back to the country and never attend another ball in his life. But while he was temporarily residing in Town, he could not refuse all invitations. If he wished to see his ward Claudia well married in a few years, he must pave the way for her eventual debut. And occasionally there were high-stakes card games to be found in the back rooms of these affairs, well away from the white-powdered matrons playing whist.

So he made his appearance, but strictly on his own terms. One set, no more. As little conversation as possible. And if the ton were determined to throw their sacrificial virgins at his feet … he would do the choosing.

He wanted a quiet one tonight.

Usually he favored them young and vapid, more interested in preening for the crowd than capturing his notice. Then at the Pryce-Foster ball, he’d had the extreme misfortune to engage the hand of one Miss Francine Waterford. Quite pretty, with a vivacious arch to her brow and plump, rosy lips. The thing was, those lips lost all their allure when she kept them in constant motion. She’d prattled on through the entire set. Worse, she’d expected responses. While most women eagerly supplied both sides of any conversation, Miss Waterford would not be satisfied with his repertoire of brusque nods and inarticulate clearings of the throat. He’d been forced to speak at least a dozen words to her, all told.

That was his reward for indulging aesthetic sensibilities. Enough with the pretty ones. For his partner tonight, he would select a meek, silent, wallflower of a girl. She needn’t be pretty, nor even passable. She need only be quiet.

As he approached the knot of young ladies, his eye settled on a slender reed of a girl standing on the fringe of the group, looking positively jaundiced in melon-colored satin. When he advanced toward her, she cowered into the shadow of her neighbor. She refused to even meet his gaze. Perfect.

Just as he extended his hand in invitation, he was arrested by a series of unexpected sounds. The rattle of glass panes. The slam of a door. Heels clicking against travertine in a brisk, staccato rhythm.

Spencer swiveled instinctively. A youngish woman in blue careened across the floor like a billiard ball, reeling to a halt before him. His hand remained outstretched from his aborted invitation to Miss Melony Satin, and this newly arrived lady took hold of it firmly.

Dipping in a shallow curtsy, she said, “Thank you, Your Grace. I would be honored.”

And after a stunned, painful pause, the music began.

The clump of disappointed ladies dispersed in search of new partners, grumbling as they went. And for the first time all season, Spencer found himself partnered with a lady not of his choosing. She had selected him.

How very surprising.

How very unpleasant.

Nevertheless, there was nothing to be done. The impertinent woman queued up across from him for the country dance. Did he even know this lady?

As the other dancers fell into place around them, he took the opportunity to study her. He found little to admire. Any measure of genteel poise she might claim had fallen casualty to that inelegant sprint across the ballroom. Stray wisps of hair floated about her face; her breath was labored with exertion. This state of agitation did her complexion no favors, but it did enhance the swell of her ample bosom. She was amply endowed everywhere, actually. Generous curves pulled against the blue silk of her gown.