One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(89)

Her eyes widened with concern. “Oh. Oh, of course. You’re ill.” She lowered her voice. “Can you last to the end of the waltz? It will be less noticeable if—”

“Immediately.” He brought them to a swift halt.

“Very well, then. You go ahead, and I’ll just make our excuses to Lady Grantham.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“But I must—”

Damn it, when would she learn to stop arguing with him? With an impatient sigh, Spencer tightened one arm behind her back, bent to slide the other behind her knees, and straightened, lifting her into his arms. Her breathy gasp of surprise heated his blood.

Around them, all dancing ground to a halt.

It was a struggle to keep from grinning as he said, “We’re leaving. Together. Now.”

The man was a barbarian.

Amelia could see it in the eyes of the party guests. Because, of course, every eye in the room was on her and Spencer. The guests’ expressions mingled shock and glee. A display like this was exactly what they’d come hoping to see, and she pitied poor Lady Grantham, because this excitement would herald a swift end to the evening. The guests would empty the hall immediately, desperate to go home and discuss it amongst themselves, write letters, regale their servants with the tale. Rumors of Spencer’s uncivilized nature would double within hours of their exit from this ballroom.

He truly was a genius.

As he carried her past a slack-jawed Lady Grantham, Amelia attempted to take their leave. “Thank you so much for a lovely evening. We’ll see you at breakfast, then.”

Spencer tightened his grip on her body and said, loud enough for all to hear, “Don’t make any promises.”

Amelia couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

And with that, he carried her from the room.

As they headed for the stairs, she expected him to put her down. Obviously, if he’d needed to leave the room so quickly, he must be feeling ill. How brilliant of him, though, to let everyone believe he simply couldn’t exist another moment without carting his wife up to bed. It was true, newlyweds were forgiven all manner of rude behavior. And she counted it as a small victory, that Spencer would let a roomful of gawking dancers believe she was his weakness, rather than appear simply haughty and rude. The whole scene was immensely satisfying.

“Really,” she whispered as they mounted the stairs, “I can walk from here.”

He gave a dismissive snort and continued carrying her, taking the risers two at a time. Amelia ceased arguing. This was enjoyable, too.

He did put her back on her feet at the entrance to their suite, and after they reached the bedchamber and closed the door, he stalked off across the room, tugging at his cravat.

Wanting to give him some space to recover, Amelia went to the dressing table and removed her gloves. She undid the clasp of her bracelet and laid it on a gilt tray. “Thank you for tonight,” she said quietly, watching Spencer’s reflection as he tore off his coat and cast the garment aside. “I know what a trial it must have been.”

“Do you?” Stripped down to his waistcoat and shirt, he came to stand behind her.

Their gazes locked in the mirror. His eyes were dark and intense.

Swallowing self-consciously, Amelia reached for the clasp of her earring.

“Leave them on,” he said.

Frozen in place by the brusque command, she stared at her husband’s reflection. He didn’t look pale or ill in the least. To the contrary, he radiated strength and virility. The only one perspiring or trembling was Amelia.

“Leave the pearls,” he repeated, settling his hands on her hips. “I want you looking just as you looked down there, in the hall.”

She dropped her hands, pressing them flat atop the dressing table. The posture pitched her forward on her toes.

“Yes.” The word was a husky groan. “More. Give me a nice, full view of what you’ve been showing the other men all evening.” He yanked her hips back, so that her weight canted onto her arms. The posture thrust her bosom forward, and in the mirror, the twin swells of her br**sts puffed for attention. Even she couldn’t look away.

His hands roamed possessively over the curves of her backside and hips. “Do you really know what a trial it was, Amelia? To look on from a distance while my wife danced and flirted and captivated every man in the room? Can you truly understand how that feels?”

Yes, she thought. Yes, you ridiculous man. Of course I know what it feels like, to stand by unnoticed while you hold every woman in the room in thrall. She hadn’t considered it until this moment, but was it possible she’d enjoyed tonight partly out of revenge?

The devil in her said, “Tell me. Tell me how it feels.”

His reflected gaze trapped hers. Meanwhile, his hands were doing unseen, wicked things. “Perhaps I should say it made me immensely proud. That wouldn’t be a lie. But neither would it be the whole truth.”

She felt her skirts lifting in back, tangling about her ankles and teasing the sensitive hollows of her knees. Air rushed over her exposed legs, both cooling and inflaming her.

“The truth is”—his thigh nudged her legs apart—“it also made me angry.”

His fingers brushed the sensitive slope of her inner thigh, traveling up to stroke her sex. She was ready for him, her intimate flesh already swollen and damp with excitement, and the discovery dragged a low moan from them both. The hard ridge of his arousal branded her hip.