One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(61)

He followed her to the back of the service wing, where she approached the nearest entrance, a small door at the rear. She pulled a key from her chatelaine and fit it in the lock. How did she know the house so well, so quickly? Damn, Spencer had lived at Braxton Hall for almost fifteen years, and he’d never even used this door.

“Where are we going?” he asked as they navigated a dim, narrow corridor.

She turned and stared at him. “The kitchen, of course.”

“Oh. Of course.” Shaking his head, Spencer followed her into the kitchen and watched as Amelia went to a cupboard and pulled out two covered dishes. She set them on the butcher-block counter in the center of the room, then snagged a plate and flatware from a shelf.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, watching her arrange a single place setting, then pour a large glass of wine.

“No, you are.”

She whipped the cover from a platter of cold meats. Spencer counted ham, roasted beef, chicken legs, tongue …

“No lamb,” she said. “And there’s bread.”

He stared at the growing buffet before him. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

“Beg pardon?” Using the side of her wrist, she brushed back a stray lock of hair.

“Out in the stables. You said you’d waited up to speak with me.”

“It will keep until morning. Here’s pickle.”

“No,” he said, bracing his hands on the wood surface. “No, I don’t think it will keep. It was important enough to keep you up late, drive you out of the house in search of me. What was it?”

Ignoring his question, she plunked a small crock down on the table. “Butter.”

“For God’s sake, I’m not interested in butter!”

“Very well.” She took the crock away.

He thrust a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Amelia. What’s going on?”

“Why won’t you eat?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why don’t you treat me like you treat your horses?”

He could only stare at her.

Looking a bit embarrassed, she crossed her arms and regarded the ceiling.

“Why don’t I treat you …” He shook his head to clear it. “Here’s a thought. Perhaps because you’re not a horse?”

“No, I’m not. In your view, it would seem I am some lesser creature by far. At least the horses are turned out now and then.”

She grabbed the butter crock again and thunked it down on the table, reaching for a knife. With her other hand, she split open a roll. “No one eats in this house,” she muttered. She dipped her knife in butter and coated the bread with short, tense strokes. “I may not be a woman of any exceptional accomplishment. Nor do I possess a great deal of beauty or grace. But I’m good at this.” She leveled the knife at him. “Planning menus, managing a household, entertaining guests. Taking care of people. And you would deny me the chance to do any of it.”

“I haven’t denied you anything.” Good Lord. If anyone was being denied in this marriage, it was him.

“You’ve denied me everything! I’ve been removed to the country, away from all my family and friends. My meals are spurned, as are my overtures of friendship. I’m not permitted to host guests. You wouldn’t even allow me to make a silly little seat cushion.” She threw the knife down, and it landed with a loud clatter. “What does it signify to you, anyway?”

“Amelia …”

“And that’s another thing. The horses are ‘my dear,’ ‘my sweet,’ ‘my pet.’ I’m just Amelia.” She pronounced the name in an exaggerated drawl, mimicking his deep voice.

Spencer’s chin jerked. She’d overheard him in the stables? How long had she been standing there? The thought of her eavesdropping on him inflamed his irritation.

“Just Amelia,” he repeated. “Very well, I confess to the egregious offense of addressing you by your Christian name. But with God as my witness, I have never referred to you, in speech or in thought, as ‘just’ anything.”

She set her jaw.

“Do you wish me to address you in endearments, then? Do you truly want to be known as ‘my dear,’ ‘my darling,’ ‘my pet’? I cannot yet truthfully call you my wife.”

“No,” she said. “You are right. Insincerely uttered endearments are much worse than none at all. Please forget I ever voiced the complaint.” She took an angry sip of wine. And then another. “I’m tired of arguing.”

“So am I.” Rounding the table, he came to stand directly in front of her. Heat built between their bodies. He took the wineglass from her hand, brushing her hand with his fingertips. Just that simple touch electrified him. God, he was more than taken with her. He was damn near consumed.

Never breaking eye contact, he drained the remaining wine. As she watched him, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Spencer casually set aside the wineglass, and tension all but audibly crackled between them. He thought it might have been the last dregs of his patience, evaporating into the air.

“Well?” he said darkly.

She didn’t miss the alteration in his tone. Anxiety overtook her expression. She blinked furiously, looking everywhere but at him. Reaching for the butter crock, she said, “I should clean up here.”