One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(53)

Nothing she could have said would have stunned him more. Or aroused him further. He looked to the door of her suite. “Are you inviting me in?”

“To the sitting room. No further.”

He reached past her and opened the door. “By all means.”

She entered and settled herself on a divan. He located a pack of cards in a drawer, then pulled up a table and a chair for himself.

“Will it be piquet again?” he asked, striving for a bored tone as he split and shuffled the cards.

“As you wish.”

He’d been pleasantly surprised last night at how quickly her piquet improved. She’d adapted with each successive hand, integrating new points of strategy into her play. With more practice, she might prove a challenging opponent for him. Typically Spencer had to handicap himself by discarding his best cards, just to keep things remotely interesting.

But if she thought she could best him tonight, she was deluding herself. The only way that could happen is if he purposely lost.

Perhaps he ought to let her win. At least the first hand.

As he prepared to deal, she stopped him. “One round will do tonight, I think. Shall we set the wager now?”

“Very well,” he said, surprised anew. “What is your forfeit? Four hundred pounds again?”

“Four hundred pounds, and you will allow me to plan and host a musicale for Claudia.”

“Agreed,” he said. “And if I win, you will come sit on my lap and undress me to the waist.”

She sucked in a breath. Her wide-eyed gaze seemed to settle on one of his waistcoat buttons. “And … and then what will you expect me to do?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Ten minutes, as before?”

He nodded in agreement.

“Very well.”

Guilt dragged his heartbeat as Spencer dealt the cards. He’d been planning to let her win the first round. Winning had cheered her last night, boosted her confidence. And victory had looked well on her, painting her cheeks a lovely shade of rose pink.

But he couldn’t let her win this wager. Opening his home to a bevy of young chits who thought they could sing and play? Being forced to listen to them try? No, he had no desire to host a musicale, but he did want to feel Amelia’s hands on his bare skin. Very much wanted it, with an intensity that concerned him.

Amelia gathered her cards. Her pale eyebrows drew together as she studied them. Of course, carnal satisfaction wasn’t what she had in mind. She wanted to save her brother and lift Claudia’s spirits, and perhaps her own as well. Bloody hell, she just wanted to be helpful, and he was going to deny her that.

He picked up the cards he’d dealt himself. They included three aces and a royal quart. His victory was all but assured.

Before he could think better of it, Spencer flung the ace of hearts away. There. He would still play to win, but now she at least had a sporting chance.

As the round progressed, her play was distracted and rash. She made foolish mistakes. Even if Spencer had been trying to lose, he would have had a deuced difficult time of it. In the end, he won handily.

She clasped her hands in her lap and gave him a reproachful look, as if to say, Well, you blackguard, I hope you’re satisfied.

But he wasn’t. Suddenly the whole game left a bad taste in his mouth. He’d manipulated her last night at the inn, to be sure. But if she hadn’t become a most eager participant in his arms, he never would have let matters go so far. If he’d wanted a fearful, timid lover, he would have taken her on their wedding night.

“Amelia,” he said slowly, knowing he would soon regret it, “it’s late, and we’re both tired. We can forget the wager.”

“Oh, no.” She rose from her seat and skirted the table. “Let it never be said that a member of the d’Orsay family does not honor her debts.” She held out her hand. “I believe you’ll have to stand, if I’m to remove your coat.”

He stood. He was a man, not a saint.

Beginning at his navel, she ran her hands up his chest, cleaving the sides of his coat from the waistcoat beneath. That brisk, sensible touch, even muffled as it was by several layers of fabric, nearly undid him. Her hands worked over his shoulders, loosening his sleeves. He made his arms straight and pushed them slightly back, and the coat slid off easily. She shook the garment out and carefully laid it aside, so it wouldn’t be wrinkled. He stood waiting impatiently. She could have trampled the thing, and he wouldn’t have cared.

She attacked his cravat next, pulling the starched linen loose from his neck with sharp tugs. Nimble flicks of her fingertips freed his waistcoat buttons, and soon the carefully folded silk joined his coat.

Spencer’s breath was ragged. He was painfully hard. There was nothing coy or seductive about the way she was undressing him, but it was undeniably feminine, and powerfully arousing. Hers wasn’t the touch of a lover; it was the possessive, efficient touch of a wife.

His wife.

As she freed his shirt from his trousers with a swift yank, she bobbled a bit on her feet. His hands took her waist. Then they slid over her hips and down, cupping the twin curves of her firm, rounded bottom. He hadn’t bid them to do so, they just did of their own accord.

With a chiding arch of her brow, she took his hands in hers and removed them forcibly. “Not part of the wager.” Laying her hands flat against his chest, she pressed lightly and added, “Be seated.”