One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(48)

“Good Lord.” His boots clicked against stone as he covered the distance between them, and just as Amelia was learning to expect, he took what could have been a mildly awkward situation and made it twelve times worse. “You look dreadful.”

She squirmed under his gaze. “I’m sorry. The carriage …”

“Yes, obviously. Come inside and rest.” Laying a hand to the small of her back, he guided her up the marble steps toward the open door. The muscles flanking her spine were bunched and stiff. His thumb found the worst of the knots and traced firm circles over it. She sealed her lips over a grateful moan.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he chided her. “You might have ridden part of the journey, if you’d liked.”

“I don’t ride.”

He halted, looking down at her. “You don’t ride,” he repeated in a tone of disbelief. “At all?”

“No,” she said, chastened.

“Surely you’re joking. I know your family epitomizes noble poverty, but don’t the d’Orsays have some cattle to their name?”

“Of course we do. I just never cared to learn.”

He merely shook his head and resumed guiding her up the stairs and into the house. The butler and housekeeper came forward to greet them.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.” The silver-haired butler bowed to the duke. He then turned to Amelia and made the same gesture of respect to her. “Your Grace.”

“I gather you received my express,” Spencer said.

“Yesterday morning, Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtsied. “Our congratulations on your marriage. Her Grace’s chambers are aired and readied.”

“Very good. Her Grace is unwell. See that she rests.” In a brisk tone, he introduced the servants as Clarke and Mrs. Bodkin.

“What a lovely entrance hall,” she said, by way of indirect compliment. She hoped to make the housekeeper a quick ally. Peering at one of the dozen gilt-framed paintings on the far wall, she wondered aloud, “Is that a Tintoretto?”

“Yes,” Spencer answered.

“I thought so.” Her family had owned one quite like it, once. It had fetched enough at auction to pay their expenses for a year.

“Spencer!”

Amelia’s gaze jerked to the top of the staircase, where a young woman stood clinging to the banister.

“Spencer, you’re home!”

And this must be Claudia. Hadn’t Spencer said his ward was visiting relations in York? But it could be no one else. The family resemblance was subtle, but clear. The cousins shared the same dark, curling hair and fine cheekbones—features that must recall their fathers’ side of the family. Claudia’s innocent features contrasted with a developed figure. She teetered on that fulcrum between youth and womanhood.

“What are you doing home?” Spencer called to her. “You’re meant to be in York another week yet.”

“Oh, I begged them to send me home early. And when the decrepit old bat refused, I simply misbehaved until she was glad to be rid of me. We sent a letter, but it must have crossed you on your journey.” The young lady tripped down the cascading river of marble that formed the front hall stairs, pale pink muslin fluttering behind her. As she hurried toward the duke, everything about her—from her fists balled in excitement to her bright, flushed expression—bespoke joy and affection. The girl clearly adored him.

“Incorrigible chit.” The words might have been a reproach, but Amelia didn’t miss the warmth softening his eyes. In his own reserved, masculine way, he clearly adored her, too.

The realization hit Amelia very queerly. It was encouraging, she supposed, to learn that her new husband was capable of genuine, tender affection. But it was also disheartening, to contrast that depth of emotion with his treatment of her.

When Claudia reached the bottom of the stairs, she rushed toward her guardian at a startling velocity. At the last second, however, she pulled up short and looked askance at Amelia. “Is this my new companion?”

Amelia’s already-upset stomach clenched further. This didn’t bode well.

“No,” Spencer said slowly. “No, she is not your new companion.”

“Of course not.” Claudia smiled. “Just from looking at her, I knew she must be the new companion’s lady’s maid, but I wanted to be certain she wasn’t the companion first. It would have been rude of me to assume otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Amelia swiveled to face Spencer, so slowly she heard her own vertebrae creak. Then she lifted her eyebrows. It was all the reaction she could manage.

Oblivious, Claudia went on, “Is my new companion traveling separately?”

Spencer clenched his jaw. “There is no new companion.”

“But …” Her brow wrinkled. “But you promised that when you came back from Town, you’d br—”

“Claudia.” At the sharp command in his voice, the girl startled and looked up at him with the bewildered eyes of a puppy that had just been kicked. Heavens, this just became worse and worse.

Spencer lifted Amelia’s hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. She stared stupidly at her own fingers, resting leaden and numb atop his arm.

“Lady Claudia,” he said firmly, obviously hoping to inspire some return to decorum, “may I introduce Amelia Claire d’Orsay Dumarque, the Duchess of Morland. She is not your new companion. She is my new bride.”