One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(63)

Believe him, he said? Believe that she had pretty eyes and delectable ears and a remarkable brain. Delectable. Her. Believe that a wealthy, attractive duke had held off marriage for years, but something about her—an impoverished, impertinent spinster—had changed his mind overnight.

Now his words were more than unsettling her. They were threatening everything she believed about herself, and everything she knew about him.

Which was hardly anything, come to think of it.

“What predictable arrogance,” she said, jabbing her finger in his chest. It was a juvenile gesture, but for some reason she needed to touch him. “What utter hypocrisy. You would stand here and … and analyze my character, pretend to understand all the innermost workings of my mind? This, from the man who lavishes affection on horses, but doesn’t know how to hold a wife.”

Only a fleeting spark in his eyes betrayed his surprise.

“You have no right to judge me.” She made a fist and thumped the flat side against his chest. Was that his heart, pounding against it? “Don’t you belittle me for valuing family and friendship and hospitality, simply because you can’t be bothered to care. And how dare you chastise me for seeking ways to be useful, when you’ve brought me here just to give you an heir. You married me for the most mundane function of all.”

“Oh, believe me. When we share a bed, it will be anything but mundane.” His hand shot out and captured her chin. “Do you know how I spent my day, Amelia?”

She shook her head. Just a little, because he held her jaw fast.

“With whores.”

“With …?” Her voice died in her throat. Oh, Lord.

“Yes, whores. I rose before dawn and rode hard, all the way to London, exhausting three horses on the way. I then spent the entire afternoon turning Whitechapel’s most undistinguished establishments inside out, searching for the prostitute who found Leo’s body. I spoke to whores of every shape and size. Dark ones, fair ones, plump ones, thin ones, ugly ones, pretty ones … a rare few who were genuine beauties. And for a shilling, any one of them would have cheerfully dropped to her knees or hiked her skirts for me. But I didn’t want any of them. The whole damned day, I thought only of you.”

His eyes bored into hers. “I thought of you as I rode home, without changing horses in Cambridge as I should have done. I pushed that horse harder than I had any right to do, and yes, she deserved a bit of soothing and apology for it. I never abuse my cattle, but I came damn near to it today. And I didn’t do it because I just wanted a ‘mundane’ tup, Amelia. I sure as hell didn’t do it because I wanted to come home to roast beef and a nice buttered roll. I did it all just to find that blasted token. So I could show you I’m not a murderer. Earn your trust, convince you there’s nothing to fear.”

With a bitter chuckle, he released her chin. “And the damnedest thing of it is—at this moment, you should be afraid. Terrified.”

He advanced on her, backing her up until she collided with the wall. The beaded edge of the paneling pressed against her spine. His desirous gaze roamed over her body, turning her firm in places and soft in others.

“You should be trembling in your slippers, because I am tired and frustrated and about two heartbeats away from throwing you to the bed, ripping that dress from your body, and making you mine, whether you wish it or not.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

He braced his arms against the wall, caging her between them. His heat and scent surrounded her. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. I’d take you right here, never mind the bed.”

His eyes were dark and wild and hungry, and the intensity in them was enough to make her feel invaded already. Gone was the man who’d kissed her in Laurent’s study with such patient skill. There was nothing of seduction in his manner now—only possession, naked and raw.

Though she was shivering to the roots of her hair, she forced herself to hold his gaze and remain absolutely still. Until the heat smoldering between their bodies could melt steel.

At last, her patience was rewarded. He sighed, and the strength tensed in his arms relaxed. It was plain he was exhausted, in both body and mind.

“For God’s sake, Amelia …”

She took that narrow window of opportunity and bolted through it. Ducking under his arm, she darted sideways and ran for the other side of the room.

With a curse, he lunged at her. Instead of skirting the bed as she had, he vaulted atop it, attempting to cut off her path of retreat. He fell to his knees on the mattress, pitching forward to grab at her as she passed. He caught only a fold of her skirt, and the fabric tore as she wrestled away.

She hurried toward the connecting door, glancing back to see him sprawled on the bed, clutching a swatch of shredded muslin and glaring pure murder.

“Damn it, don’t you run from me.”

Marshaling all her strength, she slid back the panel. The creak of wood was matched by a creak of the mattress as he hastened to rise and give chase. With a little cry of alarm, she scurried through the door and began to slide it closed. Just as the panel was nearly shut, his hand shot into the narrowing gap. But the door’s momentum and Amelia’s desperate energy were too much for him this time. The door banged home, mashing his fingers against the jamb.

Roaring in pain, he withdrew his hand, and the weight of her body propelled the panel to its resting place. With trembling fingers, Amelia fitted and secured the door’s only latch, locking herself in Spencer’s bedchamber.