One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(70)

And bloody hell. When had he started thinking like this? About anything?

The longer he stood there, staring and not speaking, the further her smile widened.

“I’m ready for my first lesson,” she said. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Though his lips formed the word easily enough, his boots seemed rather bolted to the floor.

As she approached him, Spencer realized he’d been utterly wrong—it wasn’t anything about the new dress that made her look so appealing. The allure was all in the way she wore it. The way those curvaceous hips traded her skirts back and forth as she walked. She was cloaked in sensual confidence, and by God, she wore it well.

He cleared his throat. “We’re going to take this slowly. Of course I don’t intend to put you in a saddle today, not after …” He cleared his throat again. His face felt hot. God, could he truly be blushing?

“Is this a bad idea?” she said, looking suddenly self-conscious and unsure. “Perhaps we should wait for another day.”

“No, no. It’s a very good idea. Every lady should know how to handle horses. For her own safety, if nothing else.”

And it was a good idea for other reasons, he admitted to himself. He looked forward to spending time with her, outside of a bed. Showing her this important part of his life, so that she might come to understand what the stud farm meant to him, as well as what it didn’t. Gratifying as it had been to view her jealousy last night, he didn’t wish to awaken to her resentment every morning.

She craned her neck, surveying the vaulted ceiling. “This place looks very different in daylight. Would you give me a tour?”

He released the breath he’d been holding. “Certainly.”

He offered his arm, and she took it. They ambled slowly through the stables and outbuildings as Spencer told her of the history of the structure—built by his grandfather, expanded by his uncle, improved yet again by him—and explained the operations of the stud farm. Her comments and questions were few, but they reflected genuine interest and appreciation. No polite “I see”s or disingenuous “How very interesting”s, but rather “Is this brick locally produced?” (Yes), and “Do you breed your mares every year?” (No), and “Have you foals? Please, may we go see the foals?”

Well, of course. He should have known to start with the foals. Good Lord, the way she cooed and fawned over the ribby, spindle-legged creatures … As she crouched in the grass to stroke a white filly through the fence, Spencer considered putting the animal on a ribbon and letting it follow him around Braxton Hall. At least he’d be assured his wife’s warm reception whenever he entered a room.

“How old is she?” Amelia clapped with delight as the filly made a gangly dash for the far side of the paddock.

“Going on three months. And showing off already.”

“She’s beautiful. Can I have her?” She turned and smiled up at him. “For my riding lessons, can I choose her?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her brow wrinkled in disapproval.

“As a yearling, she’ll fetch a thousand guineas, at least,” he protested. “She can’t be saddled for a year, and even then she wouldn’t be a safe mount for you. She’s from racing stock, bred for short bursts of reckless speed. Her dam’s last colt won at Newmarket. What you need is a mature, steady gelding.”

“Do you at least have a pretty one?”

He chuckled. “Take your pick, and I’ll have the grooms braid ribbons in his mane.”

“A thousand guineas,” she said thoughtfully, propping one fist on a fencepost. “For one foal … Why, this farm must bring in a fortune each year.”

“We do well. Well enough that I haven’t raised my tenants’ rents in six years.” Spencer couldn’t keep a hint of pride out of his voice. His uncle had disagreed with him over expanding the stud farm. The late duke had thought the large pastures a waste of good farmland—land that could have been earning rents. Spencer had insisted that the stud farm would more than pay for itself, and time had proven him right. “I also employ a small army of local men, and more than a few farmers make their annual income just supplying our oats and hay. But none of it would be profitable if we didn’t produce the finest racehorses in the country. They don’t admit it aloud at their Jockey Club meetings, but England’s wealthiest racing enthusiasts all bring their custom to me.”

“But you’re not a member of the Jockey Club yourself? You don’t race any of the horses?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re a stone’s throw from Newmarket.”

He shrugged. “Never wanted to. I don’t like attending the races.” When she looked as though she might question him further on the subject, he quickly added, “I’m not interested in the glory.”

“And you don’t really need the money. So why do it?”

“Because I’m good at it. And I enjoy it.”

She rested her chin on her hand, in an attitude of reflection. “Two ways of saying the same thing.”

“I suppose they are.”

As they watched the foals a minute longer, he warmed inside. Somehow he’d known, from the moment she pressed that meticulously embroidered handkerchief into his hands, that she would comprehend this. The deep satisfaction that came from doing something exceptionally well, with both care and skill, regardless of public acclaim. And he understood, suddenly, why she kept angling to plan meals, host guests, nurture everyone around her. These were the things she did well; the things that brought her true enjoyment.