One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(47)

Release, yes. Relief, no. For she was still fewer than six paces away, and he could be hard for her again in a matter of three minutes. Perhaps two. Don’t ponder it overmuch, a throb in his groin warned.

The evening really had not gone as planned. Well, it had gone as planned, up to a point. The cards, the wager, her br**sts in his hands … all these he’d counted upon. He’d only meant to give her a bit of skillful stroking. Not too much. Just enough to loosen the tension in her body and offer a taste of the pleasure they could share. Just enough to prove he could be trusted, and keep her wanting more.

Well. This was clearly a different endeavor from horse-breaking.

In his best imaginings, he wouldn’t have guessed that Amelia would respond to him so passionately. He couldn’t have dreamed how strongly he’d respond to her. As a younger man, Spencer would have counted it with great pride, the fact that he’d taken an inexperienced lover from clothed and uncertain to half-naked and teetering on the verge of climax—all in under ten minutes. But the triumph rang a bit hollow tonight, as he realized his victory came with a forfeit.

He was left wanting more, too.

Not just more pleasure, more heat, more skin … although he did want all those things, and desperately … but more Amelia. He wanted to sit at the table and watch her worry that plump lower lip with her teeth as she embroidered. He wanted her to tease him for his reading choices. Most of all, he wanted to catch her staring at him, when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And he wanted the look in her eyes to be fondness, not fear.

He stared hard at the connecting door, as though he could swing the warped panel on its rusted hinges by sheer force of will.

Come to me, Amelia. You crossed a ballroom to confront me while hundreds looked on. Open that door tonight.

But when dawn came, he awoke alone.

God had a very cruel sense of humor.

Here Amelia was, the newly minted Duchess of Morland, arriving at Braxton Hall in all its early summer splendor. Through the square carriage window, she spied endless acres of rich farmland dotted with neat barns and cottages, then a pleasing expanse of rolling green parklands, and now, as they neared the Hall, a wall of towering, manicured hedges that must contain equally well-maintained gardens. Of this prestigious, lovely, verdant estate she was now mistress.

And she was a shambles.

Amelia had never traveled well. The rolling motion of a carriage always nauseated her, and she felt the effects even more strongly in warm weather. Their first day of travel hadn’t been too distressing, but the farther they went from London, the worse the roads became. Late spring rains had left this particular dirt lane rutted and uneven, so that she had not only rolling to contend with, but violent jouncing as well. She ached all over, her muscles stiff from long hours of bracing herself on the seat, and her head throbbing with a persistent, dull pain. Her gown—a sensible chocolate-brown traveling habit two years past its fitting—was wrinkled and coated with a fine layer of dust.

She was the sorriest-looking duchess to ever live, she was sure of it.

As they turned the corner onto a smoother drive, Amelia glimpsed the Hall’s brick-and-limestone façade in the distance. She hastily patted her face and smoothed stray wisps of hair, anxious to make herself presentable before facing Spencer again.

Dear Lord, how would she face him? A blush scalded her cheeks at the mere idea. What had happened last night, at the inn … Those ten minutes in his lap had been a sensual thrill the likes of which she had never thought to experience. And by undeniable, abundant evidence, his desire for her had not been feigned. She hadn’t felt sorry-looking in his arms last night, but attractive and wanton. Until he’d abruptly called a halt to the evening, leaving her confused and frustrated instead. Had he truly meant to respect their agreed-upon boundaries, or to punish her for setting them?

The carriage door opened, and harsh sunlight flooded the velvet-lined interior. Her headache renewed with double force. She hadn’t expected the sun to be so strong in late afternoon. But as she accepted the footman’s hand and alighted from the coach, Amelia realized it was not the direct rays of the sun that blinded her, but rather their reflection off the gleaming white marble entrance to Braxton Hall.

Blinking, she raised her hand to shield herself from the stabbing attack of grandeur. Briarbank was covered in ivy and moss, and it never made her wince. In a defensive move, she turned her head to the left. No marble there. Just an endless façade of crimson brick, glittering limestone, and glazed windows that faded into the distance, most likely somewhere near Cambridge. She swiveled her head to the right. An equally impressive, equally long façade fronted the Hall’s east wing, seeming to stretch half the distance to the sea.

And it was hers. All hers to manage, to make both a showplace and a home. Amelia battled the urge to hop up and down with delight.

She confined herself to a discreet twirl instead, turning just in time to watch Spencer dismount from his horse in one smooth, elegant motion. Of course, he looked magnificent. A touch of dust dimmed the shine on his Hessians, but it only enhanced his masculine appeal, as did the healthful glow of physical exertion and the bronze cast to his complexion after two days spent in the sun. As he handed the reins to a waiting groom and exchanged a few words with the man, she noticed a relaxed, easier way to his manner. He was even smiling.

Then he turned and caught her eye. The smile disappeared.