One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(87)

“Shhh.” He laid a finger against her lips.

And then said nothing.

Did he not know what to say? What a fool she was.

Lie. Oh, please. Just lie to me. Just tell me I’m lovely, and I’ll pretend to believe you, and we can forget this ever happened.

He tilted his head toward the screen and mouthed, Listen.

“Yes, yes.” A matronly laugh resonated through the screen. “Rather a coup for Lady Grantham. Their first public appearance since the wedding, I understand.”

“Thank the Lord,” the unseen lady’s companion replied in a gruff voice. “Now you can cease nattering on about the ‘true’ reason behind the marriage.”

“Oh, yes. Obviously a love match. I never doubted it.”

A loud harrumph.

“Well, I didn’t!” came the protest. “Amelia always was a delightful girl, but marriage has been very kind to her. And anyone can see His Grace is completely besotted. He won’t be torn from her side.”

Behind the screen, Amelia nearly burst out laughing. Spencer covered her mouth with his palm.

The man snorted. “Yes, and any man with two eyes can see exactly which of her charms he’s drunk on. They’re on rather public display.”

Amelia felt her eyes go wide. Spencer just flicked a devilish glance at her br**sts and kept his hand pressed to her lips.

The man lowered his voice, and she held her breath to make out his words. “I’d keep her close, too, were I the duke. If she flirts that shamelessly right in front of him, imagine what she’ll get up to when he’s not looking.”

“Oh, pish,” the lady said. “Amelia’s not like that. And what if they are in one another’s pockets? Nothing wrong with newlywed bliss.”

By this time Amelia was laughing so hard, her shoulders were shaking. Spencer gave her a quelling look, and she struggled to regain her composure. She failed. She giggled helplessly into his hand for a solid minute, tears rolling down her cheeks, until the musicians struck up a livelier tune and the gossiping couple drifted back into the crowd.

She still couldn’t stop laughing. If she stopped laughing—ceased acting like everything they’d just heard was patently ridiculous—she’d have to admit how desperately she wished it all were true. If she stopped shedding helpless tears of laughter, she would just be … crying.

Is it safe to release you? his expression asked, after a long moment.

She nodded.

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered, wiping her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but that was so …” Another inane giggle choked on a sob. “Imagine, if they only knew—”

“Knew what?” His hand shot out again. But this time he didn’t press a finger to her lips. He cupped her cheek instead, and tilted her face to his intense, searching gaze. “The truth?”

Suddenly, she wasn’t laughing anymore. She was barely breathing anymore.

“Amelia,” he whispered, “at this moment, I don’t think you’d recognize the truth if it pinched you on the bottom.”

He dropped a firm kiss on her forehead. She couldn’t decide what that kiss meant, or even whether she liked it or not.

“Here is what we’re going to do,” he said. “When this dance ends, we’re going to sneak back out of this alcove the way we came in, and we’re going to crawl out of one another’s pockets. I’m going to make my passing nod at etiquette by inviting one of those grabby Wexler twins to dance. Hopefully Flora.” She bit back a laugh, and he brushed a fingertip over her cheek. “And after that, I’m off to find a bit of brandy and quiet, and no one will notice. I’ll come back for you in an hour, and in the meantime, you’re to dance and enjoy every minute.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue. Just enjoy.”

The music ended, and he was gone before she could object. Not two seconds had passed, and she missed him already.

She remembered her half-drunk glass of cordial. After downing the remnants in one swallow, she patted her cheeks dry and slipped out from behind the screen. Without her most striking accessory—a duke on her arm—she prepared to spend the next hour resuming her life as Just Plain Amelia. Having a pleasant, if unspectacular time. Chatting with the ladies on the fringes of the ballroom.

Blending into the wallpaper.

Chapter Seventeen

His wife was the center of the party.

From his shadowed gallery overlooking the hall, Spencer nursed his brandy and watched Amelia dance with her fourth partner in as many sets. She tripped gaily down the reel, smiling as she went. Once returned to her place, she exchanged a furtive remark with an adjacent lady, and several people in her circumference laughed. All ears were tuned to her remarks. All eyes were on her—on the shimmering cobalt silk that hugged her curves tight, and the yet more brilliant blue of her eyes.

To be sure, she was a duchess now, and doubtless some measure of the assembly’s collective fascination could be attributed to her new title. But a mere title wouldn’t hold them all enthralled. It was simply Amelia. Outgoing. Vivacious. Alluring as hell. Gone was the plain, retiring spinster. Tonight, her essence was uncorked and bubbling like fine champagne. Everyone wanted to be near her. To laugh with her. To get just a taste of her intoxicating charm.

And Spencer wanted it more dearly than anyone. A quality brandy enjoyed in solitude was one of life’s saving graces, no question, and he did have a hard-earned misanthropic reputation to keep up. But he hadn’t needed to leave. He hadn’t experienced any head-spinning or blood-pounding to speak of tonight. In fact, he’d scarcely noticed the crowd this evening.