One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(49)

“Your …” Claudia stood blinking at Amelia. Then she turned and blinked up at Spencer. “Your …”

“My wife. The duchess. Your new cousin.” He gave her a pointed look. “The lady to whom you must curtsy and apologize. Now.”

The girl dipped in a curtsy, tripping over a few words of apology. Then she looked up at Spencer with the resentful eyes of a puppy that had been kicked not once, but many times.

“I’m …” Amelia cleared her throat. “I’m so happy to meet you, Claudia. The duke has told me many wonderful things about you.”

“How curious,” she said. “None of his letters mentioned you at all.”

“Claudia,” Spencer warned.

Amelia squeezed his arm, then withdrew her hand. “I do hope we can be friends,” she said brightly, moving forward to lay the same hand on Claudia’s wrist. It was probably futile, but she had to make the attempt.

A prolonged, awkward silence ensued. Just when Amelia thought the tension could not possibly become worse, it did.

Claudia began to cry.

“You married?” Ignoring Amelia entirely, the girl turned brimming eyes on Spencer. “Without even telling me? How could you—”

“Hush,” he muttered, drawing his ward aside. “Don’t make a scene.”

Amelia almost laughed. Too late for that bit of advice. Truly, she couldn’t blame the girl. In any normal betrothal, they would have become acquainted well before the wedding. Claudia would have had weeks or months to adjust to the idea of a new duchess at Braxton Hall, rather than having Amelia thrust upon her unawares one afternoon. No, she couldn’t fault the girl for her resentment. She faulted Spencer for it. It was just one more example of the duke making an impulsive, arrogant decision with no regard for the feelings of those affected.

“Well,” she said, “the two of you must have a great deal to discuss.” She turned her back on Spencer. “Mrs. Bodkin, would you be so kind as to show me to my chambers now? We can discuss dinner arrangements on the way.”

The housekeeper brightened. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Cook will be so pleased to receive your direction. Have you special recipes or menus?”

“I do.” A genuine smile warmed Amelia’s face. Here was some consolation. “An entire book of them.”

The handful of hours between Amelia’s arrival at Braxton Hall and dinner were a whirlwind. Ill or no, she had little time to rest. This was her first evening in residence as the Duchess of Morland. She might have entered the house looking like a poorhouse case, but by the time she descended those marble stairs for dinner, she was resolved that she would look and act the part of a duchess.

No one would mistake her for a paid companion, or worse, a lady’s maid.

Dinner plans were no simple task. She was forced to rely on Mrs. Bodkin’s estimate of the kitchen stores and devise an elegant yet simple menu that could be prepared from available foodstuffs within the allotted time. Fortunately, the housekeeper seemed overjoyed to assist in any way. After sending the older woman off to the kitchens with a list of dishes, a few custom recipes, and many verbal instructions for the cook, Amelia permitted herself ten minutes’ rest on a chaise longue covered in sumptuous brocade. Her entire suite of rooms—she’d counted six of them so far—was decorated in positively regal shades of royal blue, cream, and gold. From where she lay, she studied the intricate Greek key pattern trimming the plastered ceiling. If she let her head fall to one side, she saw four exquisitely turned wooden legs supporting a polished stone tabletop, which held a blue-and-white Chinese vase, which in turn accommodated a large arrangement of fresh-cut flowers.

Orchids. At last, she had her orchids.

The entire tableau was one of beauty, elegance, and harmony. Merely gazing upon it filled her with quiet joy. After years of living with Winifred’s ostentatious displays of pink shells and overfed cherubs, Amelia reveled in the abundant evidence of her precursor’s restraint and good taste.

For ten minutes. And then she went back to work.

Once the maid had drawn her bath, Amelia sent her off to press the new pearl-gray silk from her wedding. The gown was unquestionably the best she had, and this occasion demanded her best.

Amelia could manage a bath on her own—she’d done so for years—but time was short, and she couldn’t be late for dinner. This was what she’d been waiting for all her life, to be mistress of her own house. She would show Spencer and Claudia both. Soon they would adore her. They would wonder how they’d ever survived without her. One well-planned, satisfying meal, and the duke would realize his immense fortune in marrying a plain, unassuming spinster. He might even rise from his seat, walk the length of the table, and humbly kneel at her side, gazing up at her with sheer worship in his eyes. Amelia, he would say, in that husky, thrilling voice of his, I don’t know how I’ve lived without you. You’ve made our house a home. I’ll do anything, say anything. Just promise me you’ll never, ever leave.

Or so it was amusing to dream.

Working quickly before the water could go cold, Amelia wrestled out of her traveling habit. Stripped down to chemise and stays, she then stood in the center of the room, uncertain what to do with the dress. She didn’t want to just throw the whole dusty mess atop a clean bed. Another lady might have dumped the garments in a heap on the floor, but Amelia’s sense of tidiness and her respect for good fabric just wouldn’t allow it. Surely this room had a closet with a hook or two …