One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(5)

“Forgive me,” he said, as they circled one another. “Have we been introduced?”

“Years ago, once. I would not expect you to remember. I am Lady Amelia d’Orsay.”

The pattern of the dance parted them, and Spencer had some moments to absorb this name: Lady Amelia d’Orsay. Her late father had been the seventh Earl of Beauvale. Her elder brother, Laurent, was currently the eighth Earl of Beauvale.

And her younger brother Jack was a scapegrace wastrel who owed Spencer four hundred pounds.

She must have sensed the moment of this epiphany, for when they next clasped hands she said, “We needn’t speak of it now. It can wait for the waltz.”

He quietly groaned. This was going to be a very long set. If only he’d moved more quickly in securing the jaundiced one’s hand. Now that Lady Amelia’s brash maneuver had been successful, God only knew what stunt the ladies—or more likely, their mothers—would attempt next. Maybe he should start engaging his partners’ hands in advance of the event. But that would necessitate social calls, and Spencer did not make social calls. Perhaps he could direct his secretary to send notes? The entire situation was wearying.

The country dance ended. The waltz began. And he was forced to take her in his arms, this woman who had just made his life a great deal more complicated.

To her credit, she wasted no time with pleasantries. “Your Grace, let me be to the point. My brother owes you a great sum of money.”

“He owes me four hundred pounds.”

“Do you not view that as a great sum of money?”

“I view it as a debt which I am owed. The precise amount is inconsequential.”

“It is not inconsequential to me. I cannot imagine that you are unaware of it, but the d’Orsay name is synonymous with noble poverty. For us, four hundred pounds is a vast sum of money. We simply cannot spare it.”

“And what do you propose? Do you mean to offer me favors in lieu of payment?” He repaid her shocked expression with a cool remark: “I’m not interested.”

It was a small lie. He was a man. And she was a buxom woman, poured into a form-fitting dress. Parts of him were finding parts of her vaguely interesting. His eyes, for example, kept straying to her décolletage, so snugly framed by blue silk and ivory lace. From his advantage of height, he could spy the dark freckle dotting the inner curve of her left breast, and time and again, he found his gaze straying to the small imperfection.

“What a revolting suggestion,” she said. “Do you routinely solicit such offers from the distraught female relations of your debtors?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. He didn’t, but she was free to believe he did. Spencer was not in the habit of ingratiating himself, with anyone.

“As if I would barter my favors for four hundred pounds.”

“I thought you called it a vast sum of money.” Well above the going rate for such services, he refrained from adding.

“There are some things upon which one cannot put a price.”

He considered making an academic argument to the contrary but decided against it. Clearly the woman lacked the sense to follow logic. As was further evidenced by her next comment.

“I ask you to forgive Jack’s debt.”

“I refuse.”

“You cannot refuse!”

“I just did.”

“Four hundred pounds is nothing to you. Come now, you weren’t even after Jack’s money. He was only caught in the middle as you drove the betting high. You wanted Mr. Faraday’s token, and you have it. Let my brother’s wager be set aside.”

“No.”

She huffed an impatient breath, and her whole body seemed to exhale exasperation. Frustration exuded from her every pore, and with it wafted her own unique feminine scent. She smelled nice, actually. No cloying perfume—he supposed she couldn’t afford rich scent. Just the common aromas of plain soap and clean skin, and the merest suggestion that she tucked sprigs of lavender between her stored undergarments.

Blue eyes locked with his. “Why not?”

Spencer tempered his own exasperated sigh. He could explain to her that forgiving the debt would do both her brother and her family a great disservice. They would owe a debt of gratitude more lasting and burdensome than any debt of gold, impossible to repay. Worst, Jack would have no incentive to avoid repeating the mistake. In a matter of weeks, the youth would land in even deeper debt, perhaps to the tune of thousands. Spencer had no doubt that four hundred pounds was a large sum to the d’Orsay family, but it would not be a crippling one. And if it purchased Lady Amelia’s brother a greater portion of sense, it would be four hundred pounds well spent.

All this he might have explained. But he was the Duke of Morland. As much as he’d forfeited for the sake of that title, it ought to come with a few advantages. He shouldn’t have to explain himself at all.

“Because I won’t,” he said simply.

She set her teeth. “I see. And there is nothing I can say to persuade you otherwise?”

“No.”

Lady Amelia shuddered. He felt the tremor beneath his palm, where his hand pressed against the small of her back. Fearing she might burst out weeping—and wouldn’t that be the final polish on this sterling example of awkwardness—Spencer pulled her tightly to him and whisked her into a series of turns.