One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(86)

As balls went, this was a much more forgiving assembly than a London rout. The country setting not only afforded more spacious rooms, but also kept the guests to a reasonable number.

Still, as they entered the Granthams’ modest hall, Amelia felt her husband’s arm tense against hers. She had the urge to murmur something encouraging, or give him a soothing touch—but she checked the impulse, knowing it would only add to his annoyance. The last thing he would want was to be fussed over. He just wanted to be let alone.

And of course, they were instantly beset. Fortunately, she’d become acquainted with several of the guests earlier that day. She made quick introductions, and once Spencer had made his typically gruff acknowledgments, she took over the burden of making conversation. They made their circuit of the entire room this way, moving from small group to small group. Spencer made his terse, barely civil greetings, and Amelia gladly did the rest. She inquired after distant relatives’ health, exchanged sympathies with those who’d known Leo, deflected impertinent questions about their hasty marriage, and accepted well-intentioned wishes of joy with equal grace. By pushing herself to the forefront, she was able to spare Spencer an undue burden of curiosity.

And as the evening wore on, she found herself enjoying the attention. This was their first public appearance together, and it was really something, to be the lady on the Duke of Morland’s arm. Despite his faint, persistent frown, Spencer hadn’t touched his top waistcoat button yet, nor tossed her over his shoulder to cart her from the room. The evening was going quite surprisingly well, and Amelia reveled in the freedom to laugh, converse, and joke as boldly as she wished.

In fact, she was having the time of her life.

When she looked up from a conversation to find her father’s old friend Mr. Twither had cornered Spencer to question him mercilessly on farriers, Amelia even resorted to a new tactic: shameless flirtation. She sidled up to the old man, complimented the turn of his legs, remarked upon his youthful vigor, praised the delightful shape of his spectacles, and then discreetly pulled Spencer away, leaving a flushed, stammering, and quite-pleased-with-himself Mr. Twither in their wake.

And then, before anyone else could approach them, she loudly decried the heat and closeness of the room, gathered two glasses of cordial from a passing servant’s tray, and beckoned Spencer aside.

“There’s an alcove just there,” she whispered, pretending to sip from her glass as she indicated a paneled screen.

He took the other glass from her hand. “After you.”

The musicians picked a fortuitous moment to strike up the first chords of the quadrille, and amidst the excitement of partnering and queuing up, Amelia and Spencer slipped behind the screen. The triangular space was small and mostly occupied by a forlorn-looking potted palm.

Spencer drained his cordial in one draught, then grimaced and wiped his mouth.

“Well …?” she asked cautiously, scanning his appearance for any signs of unease.

“This cordial is abominable.” He glowered at the glass before setting it on a ledge behind them. His eyes slanted toward the screen. “And the musicians aren’t much better.”

“Yes, but how are you? I’m so sorry about Mr. Twither. He’s harmless, you know, but he holds his end of a conversation like a dog holds a bone. Oh, and those dreadful Wexler twins.” She shook her head. “They’re shameless. Did Flora truly pinch your bottom, or did it just look that way?”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled a little, in that devastatingly handsome and seductive way he smiled on rare occasions. Between that smile and the cordial, a very pleasant tingle warmed her insides.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” he said.

“I am.” She sipped her drink. “I know you hate this sort of thing, and this must be the most trying evening imaginable—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Something thumped against the screen from the other side, startling her. Spencer’s arm slid about her waist, drawing her back. She pivoted to face him, and his hand slid over her waist as she turned, until his palm settled at the base of her spine. A palm frond tickled against her neck. Suddenly stricken with a girlish flutter of nerves, she stared hard at his cravat.

“Are you truly enjoying tonight?” she asked.

“I’m enjoying right now.”

“You’ve—” Quiet, you ninny. He’s here for you. This night is going so much better than you have any right to expect. Don’t ruin it.

“What?” he prompted, absently stroking his thumb over the small of her back.

She forced her gaze up to his and swallowed hard. The cordial must have made her bold. Or stupid. Likely both. “You’ve been staring at me so strangely all evening. I’m afraid you’re disappointed, somehow. With me.”

That mild frown he’d been wearing now etched itself into a stern mask of censure.

Words spilled from her mouth. Silly, irrational, painfully truthful words. “You’re so handsome, you see. Just ridiculously so. I think you’re the finest-looking man I’ve ever known, and I know I just don’t look like your duchess. I know feigned affection wasn’t part of our bargain, and I know you don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. But I do give a damn what they think. Just a little one; I can’t help it. And I seem to care a great deal … far too much, I fear … about what you think, so—”