One Dance with a Duke
Page 19
Author: Tessa Dare
Very well, Amelia. I’ll answer your questions. Yes, I spent a wild youth in Lower Canada, disappearing into the wilderness for weeks at a time with people you’d consider heathen savages, causing my excellent father no end of grief. Yes, during my first year in England, I nearly pummeled Rhys St. Maur to death at Eton. Yes, I ruined your brother’s fortunes in pursuit of a horse, for reasons you will find inexplicable and unforgivable. There, now. Can’t you see I’m not a villain?
Oh, that would go over splendidly.
And if she thought he would ever discuss his true reasons for abducting her from that ballroom … well, she would wait in vain. If there was one indisputable advantage to being a duke, it was never having to explain himself to anyone.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t know one another. Ever since their waltz, he’d been seized by an intense desire to know everything about Amelia Claire d’Orsay. Hell, he’d married her in part to assuage it. He just didn’t see why words must be involved. He wanted to learn his new wife from the inside out, starting with the sweet cleft of her womanhood and working his way to her delicate fingers, which he’d discovered last night to be capped with neat round calluses from needlework.
If they were to become acquainted, Spencer could think of no more logical beginning than to know one another in the biblical sense, as God and Nature intended.
Fortunately, Spencer had considerable experience winning over wary creatures, undoing the damage wrought by other men. It had been nearly two decades since he’d broken his first mustang to halter in Canada, and at his stud farm he’d gentled countless horses since—most notably Juno, the mare carrying him now. The trick of it was knowing when to walk away. He’d give a fearful horse a few minutes’ tenderness—stroke her behind the ears, murmur encouragement, give her a reassuring pat on the withers. Nothing too bold. Just enough attention to keep her wanting more. The moment the horse began to relax and enjoy his touch, Spencer would walk away. The next time he entered the enclosure, the once-frightened horse would approach him, eager and unafraid. The technique never failed.
Of course, he’d never plied it on a woman before. He’d never needed to. He knew some men took perverse excitement in conquering a reluctant lover, but he wasn’t one of them. He liked his bed partners to be just that—partners. Willing, engaged, aware of themselves. He’d wanted Amelia because she not only possessed the virtue and lineage he required in a wife, she met his ideals for a lover. When he kissed her, she responded with an instinctive, inventive passion that made his bones weak.
Until those damned accusations planted doubt in her mind, and she’d trembled. Not with pleasure, but with fear. Oh, he could have persuaded her into consummation if he’d wished. But she would have despised him for it this morning, and he wouldn’t have liked himself much, either.
He would coax her out again. It might take a few days—time he really didn’t want to bide—but he was a man of self-discipline. With cards, horses, negotiation … He knew how to be patient when the situation required it, and how to elicit the desired response. Before a week was out, his wife would come willingly, eagerly to his bed.
The key was all in knowing when to walk away.
Amelia surveyed the rooms Spencer had procured. If indeed these accommodations truly counted as “rooms.” The inn’s best suite consisted of a small bedchamber and an even smaller antechamber. The antechamber was furnished with a table and two chairs, plus a sleeping cot, likely intended for servants. Yet both her and Spencer’s trunks had been carried up to the suite, so she assumed he meant to join her.
What he meant to do then, she was afraid to imagine.
One of the inn’s serving girls had brought up a dinner tray. After a day of rough coach travel, the mere smell of stewed beef had Amelia’s stomach roiling. She managed to choke down a bit of bread and tea. Her next thought was to undress quickly and slip into bed before the duke even returned. Surely he wouldn’t disturb her if she was already asleep. Just to be safe, she’d barricade the connecting door with her trunks.
Before she could act on the plan, however, the door opened with a rude creak. In came the duke. He had to fold nearly double to avoid hitting his head on the doorjamb, and with the addition of his imposing presence, the “rooms” shrank further.
A curt nod was his only greeting. And, as he’d caught her with a mouthful of tea, her reply was an audible gulp.
Lord, he was so handsome. She didn’t understand it, but somehow she forgot, when they were apart, what a fine-looking man he was. And every time she reencountered him, the simple fact of his masculine beauty startled her again with fresh, sudden force.
This man is my husband.
This man is my husband.
Surely one of these days the novelty would fade. Or at least she would learn to adjust more quickly, so each time they crossed paths in the corridor, she wouldn’t pull up short and simply stand there, open-mouthed and struck stupid.
Rather as she was doing now.
He removed his coat, unfastened his cuffs, turned up his sleeves, and lathered his hands at the small wash-stand. As he rinsed them, he asked, “You’ve eaten?”
“As much as I care to. And you?”
He nodded. “Downstairs.”
After carefully folding his coat and laying it across a trunk, he worked loose his cravat. Next he sat in one of the chairs and began on his boots. He really was remarkably self-sufficient, for a man of his rank. Amelia supposed he must not have been raised with a valet.
“You needn’t sit with me, if you’d rather be downstairs,” she said nervously. Didn’t men prefer to be down in the tavern, drinking and carousing?
He gave her a disbelieving look. “You think I’d leave you alone in a public inn? Not a chance. This is one of the better establishments, but still …” He shook his head. “At any rate, crowded alehouses really aren’t my idea of a pleasant evening.”
“Why have we stopped at an inn at all? Cambridgeshire isn’t so very far. Couldn’t we have pushed through to your estate?”
“Breaking the journey sets a kinder pace for the horses.”
Well, to be sure, she thought to herself bitterly. Heaven forfend we place human convenience ahead of the horses’ comfort.
He began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Just how far did he intend to disrobe, right in front of her?
She rose from her chair. “Well, I’m rather fatigued. I think I’ll retire early.”
To her dismay, he also stood. “Excellent idea.”
Surely he didn’t mean to go to sleep with her. Hadn’t he promised to leave her be? “On second thought, I’m not sleepy just yet. I believe I’ll work on my embroidery.”
She went to the smallest of her trunks and unbuckled the straps, knowing her needlework basket to be at the top. She imagined she felt him ogling her bottom as she bent at the waist to retrieve it, and she straightened so quickly, all the blood rushed from her head.
She stumbled, and he grasped her by the elbow to steady her. His firm, arousing touch was of no benefit as she struggled to collect her wits. Curse this wretched infatuation that turned her into a perfect simpleton whenever she came within breathing distance of his warm, male scent. It made her want to fall straight into his arms, never mind if he was a murderer or the very Devil himself.
She was used to being around strong, protective men—her brothers—and used to being embraced and comforted by them. Now she was miles away from all of them: homesick and weary, and direly in need of a hug. It occurred to her that the duke was her only potential source of strong, engulfing masculine embraces in the vicinity, and that thought made her sad indeed. For while she was tolerably certain he’d bed her tonight if she gave him the slightest encouragement, she knew she’d never be able to ask him for a hug.
She cringed to imagine his response, if she did. He probably didn’t even know how to give one.
He released her as she sank back into her chair. Drawing closer to the light, she busied herself unpacking linen, thread, and scissors. “What is your usual habit in the evenings, Your Grace? Do you keep country hours?”
“I keep my own hours, wherever I am. I typically retire around midnight.”
The word “midnight” sent a shiver through her. “And until then?”
“Until then?” His eyes caught hers, a glint of wry humor in their dark, entrancing depths. “You mean, in the absence of other nighttime activities?” He paused, giving her mind ample time to fill with other, very nocturnal activities. “When I’m not plotting my next vile act of treachery?”
He leaned forward. Heat prickled along her skin.
Finally, he said in a deep, suggestive voice, “I read.”
She stared at him, suddenly unable to speak.
“Books,” he added, as if for clarification.
“Oh,” she replied, as if she were stupid enough to need that clarification.
He opened a small valise, revealing it to be full to brimming with volumes of all sizes, in a variety of bindings. The sight caused a swift, surprising pang in her chest.
“My,” she remarked. “You must be a great reader.”
“Whenever I’m in London, I take the opportunity to add to my personal library.” He removed a few books, turning them over in his hands to read the bindings. “I didn’t attend university, you see. Extensive reading has been my only education.”
“Didn’t you want to go to university?”
“Not especially. Even if I had, my uncle thought it best not to send me.”
“Because of what happened at Eton? When you were sent down for the brawl with Lord Ashworth?” She was guessing, but it seemed the logical explanation for both the rumors she’d heard and the strange tension she’d observed between the men.
He gave her a long, pointed look. Well, there was one of her questions answered.
“Because,” he said coolly, selecting a book and packing the others away, “my uncle’s health was already failing, and I was his heir. Estate management was a more pressing topic of study than Latin or mathematics. I continued my studies independently.”
“Ah. Yes, it’s like that for many of us.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Oh, I didn’t mean us, as in you and me.” Peering at her needle, she threaded the eye with a strand of blue floss. “I meant, it’s like that for many of us.” She patted a hand to her breast. “Women. We don’t attend university, either, but many of us still seek to improve our minds through books.”
Clearly the duke had no idea how to receive that comparison. Frowning a little, he sat down with his book. Amelia smiled at her stitches, rather pleased with herself.
“What are you reading?” she asked, feeling emboldened and just a bit coquettish.
He held up the book for her inspection.
“Not Waverley? I thought you called yourself a great reader. You must be the last person in England to read that book.”
“I’m not. I’ve read it already, more than once.” He riffled the pages. “I don’t have the concentration for philosophy or German this evening.”
Amelia fell momentarily silent to focus on the evenness of her stitches. At length she said, “Waverley. I’ll admit, I’m surprised to hear it’s a favorite of yours.”
“I can’t imagine why. As you noted, it’s a very popular book.”
“Well, yes.” She gave him a coy glance. “But it’s a romance.”
“It is not.” He held the green-covered book at arm’s length and stared at it, as though she’d said, But it’s a pineapple. “It’s a historical novel about the Scottish uprising. There are battles.”
“There’s a love triangle.”
He made an offended huff. “Listen, am I permitted to read the thing in peace, or not?”
Very well, Amelia. I’ll answer your questions. Yes, I spent a wild youth in Lower Canada, disappearing into the wilderness for weeks at a time with people you’d consider heathen savages, causing my excellent father no end of grief. Yes, during my first year in England, I nearly pummeled Rhys St. Maur to death at Eton. Yes, I ruined your brother’s fortunes in pursuit of a horse, for reasons you will find inexplicable and unforgivable. There, now. Can’t you see I’m not a villain?
Oh, that would go over splendidly.
And if she thought he would ever discuss his true reasons for abducting her from that ballroom … well, she would wait in vain. If there was one indisputable advantage to being a duke, it was never having to explain himself to anyone.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t know one another. Ever since their waltz, he’d been seized by an intense desire to know everything about Amelia Claire d’Orsay. Hell, he’d married her in part to assuage it. He just didn’t see why words must be involved. He wanted to learn his new wife from the inside out, starting with the sweet cleft of her womanhood and working his way to her delicate fingers, which he’d discovered last night to be capped with neat round calluses from needlework.
If they were to become acquainted, Spencer could think of no more logical beginning than to know one another in the biblical sense, as God and Nature intended.
Fortunately, Spencer had considerable experience winning over wary creatures, undoing the damage wrought by other men. It had been nearly two decades since he’d broken his first mustang to halter in Canada, and at his stud farm he’d gentled countless horses since—most notably Juno, the mare carrying him now. The trick of it was knowing when to walk away. He’d give a fearful horse a few minutes’ tenderness—stroke her behind the ears, murmur encouragement, give her a reassuring pat on the withers. Nothing too bold. Just enough attention to keep her wanting more. The moment the horse began to relax and enjoy his touch, Spencer would walk away. The next time he entered the enclosure, the once-frightened horse would approach him, eager and unafraid. The technique never failed.
Of course, he’d never plied it on a woman before. He’d never needed to. He knew some men took perverse excitement in conquering a reluctant lover, but he wasn’t one of them. He liked his bed partners to be just that—partners. Willing, engaged, aware of themselves. He’d wanted Amelia because she not only possessed the virtue and lineage he required in a wife, she met his ideals for a lover. When he kissed her, she responded with an instinctive, inventive passion that made his bones weak.
Until those damned accusations planted doubt in her mind, and she’d trembled. Not with pleasure, but with fear. Oh, he could have persuaded her into consummation if he’d wished. But she would have despised him for it this morning, and he wouldn’t have liked himself much, either.
He would coax her out again. It might take a few days—time he really didn’t want to bide—but he was a man of self-discipline. With cards, horses, negotiation … He knew how to be patient when the situation required it, and how to elicit the desired response. Before a week was out, his wife would come willingly, eagerly to his bed.
The key was all in knowing when to walk away.
Amelia surveyed the rooms Spencer had procured. If indeed these accommodations truly counted as “rooms.” The inn’s best suite consisted of a small bedchamber and an even smaller antechamber. The antechamber was furnished with a table and two chairs, plus a sleeping cot, likely intended for servants. Yet both her and Spencer’s trunks had been carried up to the suite, so she assumed he meant to join her.
What he meant to do then, she was afraid to imagine.
One of the inn’s serving girls had brought up a dinner tray. After a day of rough coach travel, the mere smell of stewed beef had Amelia’s stomach roiling. She managed to choke down a bit of bread and tea. Her next thought was to undress quickly and slip into bed before the duke even returned. Surely he wouldn’t disturb her if she was already asleep. Just to be safe, she’d barricade the connecting door with her trunks.
Before she could act on the plan, however, the door opened with a rude creak. In came the duke. He had to fold nearly double to avoid hitting his head on the doorjamb, and with the addition of his imposing presence, the “rooms” shrank further.
A curt nod was his only greeting. And, as he’d caught her with a mouthful of tea, her reply was an audible gulp.
Lord, he was so handsome. She didn’t understand it, but somehow she forgot, when they were apart, what a fine-looking man he was. And every time she reencountered him, the simple fact of his masculine beauty startled her again with fresh, sudden force.
This man is my husband.
This man is my husband.
Surely one of these days the novelty would fade. Or at least she would learn to adjust more quickly, so each time they crossed paths in the corridor, she wouldn’t pull up short and simply stand there, open-mouthed and struck stupid.
Rather as she was doing now.
He removed his coat, unfastened his cuffs, turned up his sleeves, and lathered his hands at the small wash-stand. As he rinsed them, he asked, “You’ve eaten?”
“As much as I care to. And you?”
He nodded. “Downstairs.”
After carefully folding his coat and laying it across a trunk, he worked loose his cravat. Next he sat in one of the chairs and began on his boots. He really was remarkably self-sufficient, for a man of his rank. Amelia supposed he must not have been raised with a valet.
“You needn’t sit with me, if you’d rather be downstairs,” she said nervously. Didn’t men prefer to be down in the tavern, drinking and carousing?
He gave her a disbelieving look. “You think I’d leave you alone in a public inn? Not a chance. This is one of the better establishments, but still …” He shook his head. “At any rate, crowded alehouses really aren’t my idea of a pleasant evening.”
“Why have we stopped at an inn at all? Cambridgeshire isn’t so very far. Couldn’t we have pushed through to your estate?”
“Breaking the journey sets a kinder pace for the horses.”
Well, to be sure, she thought to herself bitterly. Heaven forfend we place human convenience ahead of the horses’ comfort.
He began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Just how far did he intend to disrobe, right in front of her?
She rose from her chair. “Well, I’m rather fatigued. I think I’ll retire early.”
To her dismay, he also stood. “Excellent idea.”
Surely he didn’t mean to go to sleep with her. Hadn’t he promised to leave her be? “On second thought, I’m not sleepy just yet. I believe I’ll work on my embroidery.”
She went to the smallest of her trunks and unbuckled the straps, knowing her needlework basket to be at the top. She imagined she felt him ogling her bottom as she bent at the waist to retrieve it, and she straightened so quickly, all the blood rushed from her head.
She stumbled, and he grasped her by the elbow to steady her. His firm, arousing touch was of no benefit as she struggled to collect her wits. Curse this wretched infatuation that turned her into a perfect simpleton whenever she came within breathing distance of his warm, male scent. It made her want to fall straight into his arms, never mind if he was a murderer or the very Devil himself.
She was used to being around strong, protective men—her brothers—and used to being embraced and comforted by them. Now she was miles away from all of them: homesick and weary, and direly in need of a hug. It occurred to her that the duke was her only potential source of strong, engulfing masculine embraces in the vicinity, and that thought made her sad indeed. For while she was tolerably certain he’d bed her tonight if she gave him the slightest encouragement, she knew she’d never be able to ask him for a hug.
She cringed to imagine his response, if she did. He probably didn’t even know how to give one.
He released her as she sank back into her chair. Drawing closer to the light, she busied herself unpacking linen, thread, and scissors. “What is your usual habit in the evenings, Your Grace? Do you keep country hours?”
“I keep my own hours, wherever I am. I typically retire around midnight.”
The word “midnight” sent a shiver through her. “And until then?”
“Until then?” His eyes caught hers, a glint of wry humor in their dark, entrancing depths. “You mean, in the absence of other nighttime activities?” He paused, giving her mind ample time to fill with other, very nocturnal activities. “When I’m not plotting my next vile act of treachery?”
He leaned forward. Heat prickled along her skin.
Finally, he said in a deep, suggestive voice, “I read.”
She stared at him, suddenly unable to speak.
“Books,” he added, as if for clarification.
“Oh,” she replied, as if she were stupid enough to need that clarification.
He opened a small valise, revealing it to be full to brimming with volumes of all sizes, in a variety of bindings. The sight caused a swift, surprising pang in her chest.
“My,” she remarked. “You must be a great reader.”
“Whenever I’m in London, I take the opportunity to add to my personal library.” He removed a few books, turning them over in his hands to read the bindings. “I didn’t attend university, you see. Extensive reading has been my only education.”
“Didn’t you want to go to university?”
“Not especially. Even if I had, my uncle thought it best not to send me.”
“Because of what happened at Eton? When you were sent down for the brawl with Lord Ashworth?” She was guessing, but it seemed the logical explanation for both the rumors she’d heard and the strange tension she’d observed between the men.
He gave her a long, pointed look. Well, there was one of her questions answered.
“Because,” he said coolly, selecting a book and packing the others away, “my uncle’s health was already failing, and I was his heir. Estate management was a more pressing topic of study than Latin or mathematics. I continued my studies independently.”
“Ah. Yes, it’s like that for many of us.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Oh, I didn’t mean us, as in you and me.” Peering at her needle, she threaded the eye with a strand of blue floss. “I meant, it’s like that for many of us.” She patted a hand to her breast. “Women. We don’t attend university, either, but many of us still seek to improve our minds through books.”
Clearly the duke had no idea how to receive that comparison. Frowning a little, he sat down with his book. Amelia smiled at her stitches, rather pleased with herself.
“What are you reading?” she asked, feeling emboldened and just a bit coquettish.
He held up the book for her inspection.
“Not Waverley? I thought you called yourself a great reader. You must be the last person in England to read that book.”
“I’m not. I’ve read it already, more than once.” He riffled the pages. “I don’t have the concentration for philosophy or German this evening.”
Amelia fell momentarily silent to focus on the evenness of her stitches. At length she said, “Waverley. I’ll admit, I’m surprised to hear it’s a favorite of yours.”
“I can’t imagine why. As you noted, it’s a very popular book.”
“Well, yes.” She gave him a coy glance. “But it’s a romance.”
“It is not.” He held the green-covered book at arm’s length and stared at it, as though she’d said, But it’s a pineapple. “It’s a historical novel about the Scottish uprising. There are battles.”
“There’s a love triangle.”
He made an offended huff. “Listen, am I permitted to read the thing in peace, or not?”
