One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(60)

He turned to her and said with cool, even disdain, “Who let you in here?”

“No one.”

“Damn it, tell me—” At his harsh tone, the horse started. Spencer paused a moment to calm her again, then made a visible effort to temper his voice before speaking again. “Tell me who let you in here,” he said calmly. “Whoever he is, he’s just lost his post.”

“I’m telling you, no one let me in. I came on my own. I entered through the tack room.” The anger in his eyes as he stared at her, juxtaposed with the tender way he still caressed the mare’s ear … it was just too much. Too insulting, too disheartening.

“God, Amelia.” He shook his head. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I heard you ride up to the house. I thought you’d be in directly, but then you weren’t. I was tired of waiting and tired in general, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you so I thought …” She clapped a hand over a sudden burst of laughter. If only he knew what she’d come out here to say.

He frowned at her, and she giggled again. Suddenly, the situation was unbearably funny. Her absurd envy for a horse. His unfailing knack for saying the wrong thing on every occasion. The whole dratted marriage.

“I was thinking of you, you insufferable man.” She laughed into her palm, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “All day long, I’ve been thinking of you.”

Spencer stared at her, his jaw working as he debated what to say. If he told her he’d been thinking of her all day, too, would it sound trite and insincere? Would it even do the truth justice? To say he’d been merely “thinking” of her seemed inadequate. What was the word for it, when over the course of an endless, wearying, ultimately fruitless day, one’s every act, thought, intent, and breath were directed toward a single purpose—a single person? He supposed he could tell her he’d been “thinking” of her so fiercely all day long that when he’d seen her standing there in the shadows, gripping the door of Juno’s stall, for a moment he’d wondered if his extreme fatigue and longing had conspired to create a hallucination. And that when she’d startled and he’d caught her, and there’d been no further doubt that the soft, trembling flesh beneath his fingers was absolutely real—he hadn’t been sure how to keep touching her without completely losing control.

But whatever he wished to say, before he could get a word of it out, she turned on her heel and fled.

Just bloody perfect.

After wiping his hands and tossing a word or two to the groom at the entry, he hurried after her. She was halfway up the green by the time he caught up. Head down, arms tucked securely around her middle, she made purposeful strides through the grass. The hem of her frock was damp and translucent, tangling about her ankles. The sight made him thirsty.

“Listen to me,” he said, matching her stride for stride. “You’re welcome to visit the stables any time you wish, but don’t ever sneak in alone like that. The mare you startled—she can be dangerous when provoked. Not only does she kick, she bites. She’s taken a few fingers in her day.”

“Ah. So that’s the key to earning your affection, is it? Perhaps I should try snapping at you, and then I’d merit better treatment.”

It was his turn to laugh. “You’ve been snapping at me since the night we met.”

“Well, then. That hasn’t worked.”

“What do you mean? I’ve married you, haven’t I?”

Her stride hitched. Then she resumed her pace. Then she stopped again.

“You’ve married me, yes. And when you proposed, you told me you wanted a duchess, not a broodmare. Silly me, to assume the former ranked above the latter in your taxonomy.”

He bit off his response, because it would only have angered her further. It would doubtless be a very grave error to tell her he found her pronunciation of “taxonomy” indescribably arousing.

Huffing at his silence, she turned and forged on. And now Spencer was beginning to find the entire conversation gratifying.

She was jealous. Envy was the farthest thing from fear. It implied she wanted more from him, not less. She’d come out to the stables looking for him. By her own admission, she’d been thinking of him all day.

“For two people married a total of four days,” he observed, catching up to her again, “we seem to argue a great deal.”

“Are you expecting me to apologize?”

“No. I rather enjoy it.” And he did. He loved the give-and-take of it, their even match of wits, the responses she provoked from him. She drew him out of his own head and forced him to interact, in a way few people could do. And then there was the lovely pink of her cheeks and the way a defiant posture emphasized her bosom. He enjoyed those things, too. “But I think we’re just using it as a substitute.”

“A substitute? For what?”

“For what we’re not doing.” He lifted one eyebrow and slid his gaze down her body.

“Is that all you ever think about? Getting me in a bed?”

“Lately? Yes. Just about.”

She shot him a glare that didn’t quite disguise her satisfied blush. He allowed himself to fall behind a few steps, that he might enjoy the brisk sway of her hips as she walked. Perhaps this day hadn’t been so fruitless after all.