One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(56)

After several moments spent wrestling his own lust into submission, Spencer raised his head. Scrubbing one palm over his face, he blinked at the card table, where their round of piquet remained played out before him. No matter how he stared at the cards, they didn’t make sense. Once he’d handicapped himself by discarding the ace, Amelia had a true chance to win. She’d neglected to reckon her points correctly and played the cards far below her skill level. On impulse, he reached for her discard pile and flipped it over.

A one-eyed knave winked up at him, and beneath it, two kings.

She couldn’t possibly have been so stupid as to discard those cards. There was only one way to explain it. She hadn’t even tried to win. All that talk about hosting a party, reaching out to Claudia—what she’d wanted, more than any of it, was simply to be held. By him. And of course, he’d sent her fleeing in fear.

Emotion caught in his throat, prickly and raw. His patience was exhausted, and he felt shabby as hell. One thing was certain—the next time he took Amelia in his arms …

He would not let her go.

Chapter Twelve

The summer she was twelve years old, Amelia made the grave mistake of screeching at a speckled toad within her brothers’ hearing. Therefore, naturally, her brothers had spent the next month foisting toads upon her. They’d hidden them in her cupboards, her sewing kit, even under her pillow … Pharaoh was plagued by fewer toads than Amelia shooed from her room that summer. She detested the bulge-eyed animals, but could she do the expedient thing—pick up the toad lurking in her empty chamber pot and merely toss it out the window? No. She had to catch the loathsome lump in her hands, carry it outside in the dead of night, and turn it loose in the garden no worse for wear. Because that was what Amelia did. She was a nurturer. She couldn’t help but take care of creatures, even the vile, unwanted ones.

Especially the vile, unwanted ones.

It was perverse and irrational and likely the sign of some severe mental defect—but the further Spencer displayed his gross incompetence as a sensitive human being, the more he engaged her sympathy. The worse he bungled every opportunity to put her at ease, the greater her own desire to soothe. And the longer he kept her at arm’s length—emotionally speaking, at least—the more she yearned to hold him tight.

When she awoke the next morning alone, staring up at the stamped plaster ceiling, Amelia had to be honest with herself. She’d been delaying consummation in hopes of girding her heart first. But after last night, she knew it to be a hopeless cause. That embrace had stirred her too deeply. True, Spencer had abandoned their chaste hug to press for further liberties, and his lustful aggression should have dispelled her cravings for tenderness. But when he aroused her desire with those demanding kisses and skillful hands, the longing wouldn’t stay put between her legs. It filled her, consumed her. The longer she denied him her body, the more she risked her heart.

Well, then. That was that. She would go to him today.

Bolting upright in bed, she threw off her coverlet. She wrapped a light blanket around her shoulders and moved to the edge of the mattress, sending her bare toes down to scout the carpet for her slippers.

Inwardly, she resolved to banish all craving for romance. And even if that resolve faltered—what was the worst that could happen, really? She would waste a few months’ unrequited affection on him; he would remain indifferent to her. The world had seen graver injustices. Before long, a baby would fill the void. And the sooner she shared Spencer’s bed, the sooner that baby would come along.

Softly, she padded across the carpet. Now that she’d made the decision, she didn’t want to wait. Nighttime encounters were too personal, too intimate. Surely the act would feel anything but romantic in the bright light of morning. She wouldn’t even bother to brush her hair.

Putting her muscle into it, she slid open the connecting door to Spencer’s room.

He wasn’t there.

A woman was. Two women, actually—a pair of chambermaids, briskly making the bed. Each froze instantly, pillow in hand, to gawp at Amelia. Behind them, a curtain fluttered in the open window, silently mocking her surprise.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the maids said, curtsying briefly before returning to their work.

Amelia firmed her spine and cleared her throat. “My husband …”

“Oh, he’s not here, ma’am. Mr. Fletcher said business took His Grace away early this morning,” said the younger girl. “Before dawn, even.”

Crisp linen snapped. The elder maid gave her partner a stern look, but the young girl chattered on. “The duke’s not expected back until very late, is what I heard.”

“Yes, I know that,” Amelia said firmly, even though she’d had no idea. She made a mental note to speak with Mrs. Bodkin about the staff gossiping, and to question why this Mr. Fletcher was having predawn words with a fresh-faced chambermaid. “What I meant to say was, my husband’s bed linens should have no starch. Remove those, and start again.”

She made as graceful an exit as she could, considering the circumstances. At least she managed not to shut her wrapper in the door. It hadn’t been a lie, that bit about the starch. When she’d removed Spencer’s shirt last night, she’d noticed reddened skin at his throat and wrists—no doubt he was sensitive to whatever starch was being used on his collar and cuffs. She’d speak with his valet later about using an alternate preparation.