One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(67)

Maybe she’d spoken too soon. Perhaps this was the very best part. Holding him, in every way. Feeling as close as two people could possibly be.

It didn’t last long enough.

All too soon, he withdrew from her body. “Are you terribly hurt?”

“Not terribly. I’ll do.”

“Good.” He rolled over and slumped onto his back. “I failed miserably at that gentleness bit.”

“I noticed.” She eased the fabric of her shift back down over her body. “It’s all right.”

With one arm, he drew her close, tucking her body against his. She rested her head on his chest, enthralled by the forceful, distant thumping of his heart. It eventually slowed, as did his breaths.

“It will get better,” he mumbled sleepily. “You’ll see. It only hurts the once.” His grip on her arm went slack as he drifted into sleep. A gentle snore rumbled through his chest.

She clutched his waist, shivering despite the heat he radiated. Could he have any idea what she’d just surrendered to him? Not just her body, but her trust, her heart, her future. She would love him soon, if she didn’t already. From this moment forward he possessed the ability to make her indescribably happy, and the power to devastate her completely. He’d revealed to her flashes of true emotion and vulnerability tonight, but then-tonight he’d been at an extreme of frustrated lust. What would the morning bring? She could only cling to a thin cord of optimism and hope that his … desire, or regard, or whatever he felt for her … hadn’t been exorcised with the force of his climax.

You’ll see. It only hurts the once.

She prayed it was the truth.

Chapter Fourteen

Amelia awoke with the first rays of dawn, desperate with need—for the chamber pot.

That urgent matter resolved, she tiptoed to the wash-stand and quietly washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and brushed out her hair. The knowledge that Spencer lay abed nearby excited her, no matter that he was asleep and oblivious. The mere fact of being in a handsome, virile man’s bedchamber—and of being that handsome, virile man’s lover—gave her a quiet thrill. As she brushed her hair, she imagined he was awake and watching her intently, growing aroused at the undulation of her unbound br**sts beneath her shift, and the silhouette of her thighs through the sheer muslin.

After finishing her toilette, she turned to find him still asleep. However, as she watched, he made a low moan and turned over onto his back. At least the arousal part of her fantasy had been true. The bed linens tangling about his hips outlined an impressive ridge. Just looking at him, recalling the force of his passion last night, her own sex heated and grew damp.

But she didn’t want to wake him, not yet. Not while she had his whole suite to herself, and the opportunity to explore.

Explore she did. Oh, she did not snoop. That would have been low, and demeaning to them both. She didn’t open a single drawer or cupboard. But what lay open to her for observation, she absorbed—thoroughly, and with a certain greed.

She looked at all the paintings on the walls and she imagined she could tell which ones had been hanging there for generations and which ones Spencer had brought in himself. It was plain to see why he appreciated her embroidered vignette. He favored landscapes-wild, rugged ones in particular. Seascapes, mountain ranges, forests, and vast plains.

Adjacent to the bedchamber, he had a small room like a study, with a desk he clearly never used. She supposed the library downstairs was his center of business. But there was one side of the room it seemed the maids were forbidden to touch. A generous leather armchair lounged near the hearth, and a low table supported a haphazard pile of sporting newspapers, ledgers, cards, and books. Several books.

My, but the man had a great many books.

There were six chambers in all, and in every room there were books. Even the dressing room had a niche of built-in shelves that were likely intended for hats but had been overtaken by books. And none of the volumes were in any order whatsoever. Not that she could discern, at any rate.

Amelia skipped her fingers over the leather bindings. Several titles were familiar to her, but three times as many were not. Still, she felt among friends. She never would have classified herself a scholar or a bluestocking; she was simply a great reader. A lover of books. And she found ample evidence to suggest that Spencer shared her affection. She found novels, plays, philosophy, several agricultural tomes, the stray scientific treatise, and volume after volume of poetry. Cracks and creases on the spines proved that most of the books had been read, at least once, and the wide variation of subject matter suggested their collector to be in possession of not only a keen mind, but an open one.

If she’d been aroused earlier, she was desperate for him now. She smiled, wondering what he would say if he knew this worn, jumbled collection of books was such a powerful aphrodisiac.

She moved noiselessly to the bedchamber and perched on the mattress edge, careful not to disturb his sleep.

The soft, early morning light was kind to him. He was always handsome, in any lighting, but dawn had a way of illuminating his features evenly without casting those harsh, judgmental shadows on his deep-set eyes and slashing cheekbones. He looked so youthful. The way his eyelashes rested against his cheek—long and thick, as only undeserving men’s eyelashes grew—gave the throbbing pulse of desire a sharp, sweet edge. How had she ever thought this would feel less intimate in the morning?