One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(44)

Her fists uncurled, and she ran one damp palm over her skirts before reaching for the cards. “Agreed.”

With trembling fingers, Amelia began to gather the cards. The duke’s small discard pile lay off to one side, with the result that she reached for it last and added it to the bottom of the pile. As she turned the deck on its side to divide it for shuffling, the card she saw gave her a violent start.

The ace of spades.

Quickly masking her surprise, she split the deck and shuffled with energy. The duke had discarded the ace of spades. It made no sense. No one discarded an ace in piquet. There was only one way to account for such a thing.

He’d sabotaged himself and allowed her to win. She’d thought herself gaining on him in skill, improving to his level. But in reality, he’d been in control of their match since the very beginning, manipulating the results. And now …

She looked up, and his intent, desirous gaze trapped hers.

Now she’d played right into his hands.

With an odd sensation in her chest, equal parts dread and anticipation, Amelia dealt the cards. She played them as best she knew how. And she lost. Badly.

She never had a chance.

“A stroke of luck,” he said. In a matter of seconds, he had the cards stowed and the table shoved aside. Then he patted his knee meaningfully. It was uncomfortably close to the gesture one might use to call a dog.

She needn’t obey it. He could make no claim on her honor, when he’d secured the wager through trickery.

Oh, but she wanted …

She wanted.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “No more. I’m a man of my word, remember? Come here, then.” He extended a hand to her, in almost a gallant gesture.

And Amelia accepted. She’d wanted to learn how to enjoy physical passion without risking her heart. Wasn’t this the perfect opportunity? It was only ten minutes.

She rose from her chair and crossed the short distance to his seat before turning sideways and perching awkwardly on his knees.

“Not like that,” he said impatiently. Grasping her by the hips, he lifted her and half-stood, repositioning them both as he sat back down.

Amelia discovered, with some horror, that she was now straddling his lap. The thick folds of her skirts bunched up between them.

“Much better,” he said, still cupping her hips in his big, strong hands. He raised his eyebrows in expectation. “You remember the penalty. Lower your bodice.”

“On my own? But my buttons …”

“I daresay you can manage.”

Drat him, he was right. A lady didn’t grow up in genteel d’Orsay poverty without learning the trick of undoing her own buttons. She slowly raised her arms and folded them at the elbows, reaching behind her head for the topmost button of her gown, positioned at the base of her neck.

Clutching her hips tighter, he released a soft groan.

It took just a brief glance downward to learn the reason for it. With her arms raised like this, the bodice was straining at the seams. At the same time, the position thrust her br**sts upward, with the combined result that twin scoops of flesh threatened to overflow her neckline.

His eyes fixed on the exposed tops of her br**sts, and Amelia felt unspeakably tawdry. Her fingers trembled as she released the first button. Then another and another still. By the time she’d reached the fourth, her bosom was rapidly lifting and falling with her nervous breaths, and the duke’s breathing had taken on an audible rasp. She paused, unable to reach the fifth button.

“More,” he whispered roughly. Desire was plain in his voice. “Go on.”

Carefully, she lowered her arms and bent them behind her back, flexing her shoulder blades together and stretching her fingers toward the valley between them. His breath caught again. If the previous posture had put her br**sts on display, this position all but served them up. His face hovered inches from her brimming cle**age as she undid the fifth button, then the sixth. Although her neckline gaped, her tightly laced stays kept her br**sts pert and round.

Seven now. Then eight.

How many buttons were there? Ten? Twelve? Twenty wouldn’t be enough. She loved the way he was looking at her, and the power she wielded over him as she eased each button loose. She didn’t feel tawdry anymore. She felt erotic and sensual and wanton … and completely not herself, for those were certainly not words that applied to Amelia d’Orsay.

But she wasn’t Amelia d’Orsay any longer, was she? She was Amelia Dumarque, the Duchess of Morland.

She was this man’s wife.

As her fingers neared the midpoint of her back, the bodice began to fall away from her body. His pupils widened with anticipation.

With a little roll of her shoulder, she dislodged one sleeve from its tenuous position on her arm. The fabric slid downward, taking half of her bodice with it. She pulled that arm free, and then easily bared the other. A chemise and stays still covered her torso, but she’d never felt so exquisitely naked. Uncertain what else to do with them, she allowed her hands to dangle at her sides.

With possessive leisure, his eyes roamed every curve of her body. Perspiration beaded in the valley between her br**sts. The room was thick with leftover afternoon heat, and even if it weren’t—his bold appraisal was heating her from the inside out. No man had ever looked at her this way. Oh, she’d been ogled by Mr. Poste, and by a fair number of other men since. When framed by the right neckline, her bosom never failed to draw men’s notice. Unfortunately, none of her other attributes held their attention beyond that brief, greedy glance.