One Dance with a Duke
Page 3
Author: Tessa Dare
“It is not inconsequential to me. I cannot imagine that you are unaware of it, but the d’Orsay name is synonymous with noble poverty. For us, four hundred pounds is a vast sum of money. We simply cannot spare it.”
“And what do you propose? Do you mean to offer me favors in lieu of payment?” He repaid her shocked expression with a cool remark: “I’m not interested.”
It was a small lie. He was a man. And she was a buxom woman, poured into a form-fitting dress. Parts of him were finding parts of her vaguely interesting. His eyes, for example, kept straying to her décolletage, so snugly framed by blue silk and ivory lace. From his advantage of height, he could spy the dark freckle dotting the inner curve of her left breast, and time and again, he found his gaze straying to the small imperfection.
“What a revolting suggestion,” she said. “Do you routinely solicit such offers from the distraught female relations of your debtors?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. He didn’t, but she was free to believe he did. Spencer was not in the habit of ingratiating himself, with anyone.
“As if I would barter my favors for four hundred pounds.”
“I thought you called it a vast sum of money.” Well above the going rate for such services, he refrained from adding.
“There are some things upon which one cannot put a price.”
He considered making an academic argument to the contrary but decided against it. Clearly the woman lacked the sense to follow logic. As was further evidenced by her next comment.
“I ask you to forgive Jack’s debt.”
“I refuse.”
“You cannot refuse!”
“I just did.”
“Four hundred pounds is nothing to you. Come now, you weren’t even after Jack’s money. He was only caught in the middle as you drove the betting high. You wanted Mr. Faraday’s token, and you have it. Let my brother’s wager be set aside.”
“No.”
She huffed an impatient breath, and her whole body seemed to exhale exasperation. Frustration exuded from her every pore, and with it wafted her own unique feminine scent. She smelled nice, actually. No cloying perfume—he supposed she couldn’t afford rich scent. Just the common aromas of plain soap and clean skin, and the merest suggestion that she tucked sprigs of lavender between her stored undergarments.
Blue eyes locked with his. “Why not?”
Spencer tempered his own exasperated sigh. He could explain to her that forgiving the debt would do both her brother and her family a great disservice. They would owe a debt of gratitude more lasting and burdensome than any debt of gold, impossible to repay. Worst, Jack would have no incentive to avoid repeating the mistake. In a matter of weeks, the youth would land in even deeper debt, perhaps to the tune of thousands. Spencer had no doubt that four hundred pounds was a large sum to the d’Orsay family, but it would not be a crippling one. And if it purchased Lady Amelia’s brother a greater portion of sense, it would be four hundred pounds well spent.
All this he might have explained. But he was the Duke of Morland. As much as he’d forfeited for the sake of that title, it ought to come with a few advantages. He shouldn’t have to explain himself at all.
“Because I won’t,” he said simply.
She set her teeth. “I see. And there is nothing I can say to persuade you otherwise?”
“No.”
Lady Amelia shuddered. He felt the tremor beneath his palm, where his hand pressed against the small of her back. Fearing she might burst out weeping—and wouldn’t that be the final polish on this sterling example of awkwardness—Spencer pulled her tightly to him and whisked her into a series of turns.
Despite his efforts, she only trembled more violently. Small sounds, something between a hiccough and a squeak, emanated from her throat. Against his better judgment, he pulled back to study her face.
The woman was laughing.
His heart began to beat a little faster. Steady, man.
“It is true, what the ladies say. You do waltz like a dream.” Her eyes swept his face, catching on his brow, his jaw, and finally fixing on his mouth with unabashed interest. “And you are undeniably handsome, up close.”
“Do you hope to move me by means of flattery? It won’t work.”
“No, no.” She smiled, and her right cheek dimpled. The left did not. “I see now that you are a positively immutable gentleman, a veritable rock of determination, and my every attempt to move you would be in vain.”
“Why the laughter, then?”
Why the question? he berated himself, annoyed. Why not gratefully allow the conversation to die? And why did he find himself wondering whether Lady Amelia’s left cheek ever dimpled? Whether she smiled more genuinely, more freely in situations that did not involve debasing herself over large debts, or whether the lone dimple was merely another of her intrinsic imperfections, like the unmatched freckle on her breast?
“Because,” she answered, “anxiety and gloom are tiresome. You’ve made it clear you will not forgive the debt. I can pass the remainder of the set moping about it, or I can enjoy myself.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“The notion shocks you, I see. I know there are some”—here she raked him with a sharp glance—“who judge it a mark of their superiority to always appear dissatisfied with the available company. Before they even enter a gathering, they have made up their minds to be displeased with it. Is it so very unthinkable that I might choose the reverse? Opt for happiness, even in the face of grave personal disappointment and complete financial ruin?”
“It smacks of insincerity.”
“Insincerity?” She laughed again. “Forgive me, but are you not the Duke of Morland? The playwright of this little midnight melodrama that has played to packed houses for weeks? The entire scene is predicated on the assumption that we eligible ladies are positively desperate to catch your attention. That a dance in the Duke of Midnight’s arms is every girl’s fondest fantasy. And now you call me insincere, when I claim to be enjoying my turn?”
She lifted her chin and looked out over the ballroom. “I have no illusions about myself. I’m an impoverished gentlewoman, two seasons on the shelf, no great beauty even in my bloom of youth. I’m not often at the center of attention, Your Grace. When this waltz concludes, I don’t know when—if ever—I shall know the feeling again. So I’m determined to enjoy it while it lasts.” She smiled fiercely, defiantly. “And you can’t stop me.”
Spencer concluded this must now be the longest set in the history of dancing. Turning his head, he dutifully swept her the length of the floor, striving to ignore how every pair of eyes in the ballroom tracked their progress. Quite a crowd tonight.
When he risked a glance down at her, Lady Amelia’s face remained tilted to his.
“Can I persuade you to stop staring at me?”
Her smile never faltered. “Oh, no.”
Oh no, indeed.
“You see,” she whispered in a husky tone, that from any other woman he would have interpreted as sensual overture, “it’s not often a spinster like me has the opportunity to enjoy such a prime specimen of virility and vigor, and at such close proximity. Those piercing hazel eyes, and all that dark, curling hair … What a struggle it is, not to touch it.”
He shushed her. “You’re creating a scene.”
“Oh, you created the scene,” she murmured coyly. “I’m merely stealing it.”
Would this waltz never end?
“Did you wish to change the subject?” she asked. “Perhaps we should speak of the theater.”
“I don’t go to the theater.”
“Books, then. How about books?”
“Some other time,” he ground out. And instantly wondered what had possessed him to say that. The odd thing of it was, despite her many, many unpleasant attributes, Lady Amelia was clearly possessed of some intelligence and wit. He could not help but think that at another time, in another place, he might have enjoyed discussing books with her. But he couldn’t possibly do so here, in a crowded ballroom, with his concentration unraveling on each successive twirl.
His control of the scene was slipping.
And that made him frown.
“Ooh, that’s a dangerous glare,” she said. “And your face is turning a most impressive shade of red. It’s enough to make me believe all those dreadful rumors about you. Why, you’re actually raising the hairs on my neck.”
“Stop this.”
“I am all honesty,” she protested. “See for yourself.” She stretched up and tilted her head to the side, elongating the smooth, pale column of her neck. No freckles there. Only an enticing curve of creamy, soft-looking, sweet-smelling female skin.
Now Spencer’s heart slammed against his ribs. He didn’t know which he yearned to do more. Wring that neck, or lick it. Biting it might be a fair compromise. An action that mingled pleasure with punishment.
Because she deserved to be punished, the impertinent minx. Accepting the futility of her first argument, she’d chosen to wage a different battle. A rebellion of joy. She might not wrest a penny from him, but she would wring every possible drop of enjoyment at his expense.
This was the very attitude responsible for her brother’s debt. Jack would not quit the card table, even when he had no hope of recouping his losses. He stayed in, risked hundreds he did not have, because he wanted to win one last hand. It was precisely the temperament one might expect from a family such as the d’Orsays—a lineage rich with centuries of pride and valor, perpetually strapped for gold.
Lady Amelia wanted to best him at something. She wanted to see him brought low. And through no particular skill or perception of her own, she was perilously close to succeeding.
Spencer came to an abrupt halt. Implausibly, the room kept spinning around him. Damn it, this couldn’t be happening. Not here, not now.
But the signs were unmistakable. His pulse pounded in his ears. A wave of heat swamped his body. The air was suddenly thick as treacle and tasted just as vile.
Devil, damn, blast. He needed to leave this place, immediately.
“Why have we stopped?” she said. “The waltz isn’t over.” Her voice sounded as though it came from a great distance, filtered through cotton wool.
“It’s over for me.” Spencer swung his gaze around the room. An open set of doors to his left beckoned promisingly. He attempted to release her, but she clutched at his shoulders and held him fast. “For God’s sake,” he said, “let me—”
“Let you what?” Her eyes darting to the side, she whispered, “Let you go? Let you abandon me here on the dance floor, to my complete and total humiliation? Of all the unchivalrous, ungentlemanly, unforgivable …” When she ran out of descriptors, she threw him an accusatory glare that implied a thousand more. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Very well, then. Don’t.”
He slid his hands to her waist, grasped tight with both hands, and bodily lifted Lady Amelia d’Orsay—two, four … six inches off the floor. Until they looked one another eye-to-eye, and her slippers dangled in midair.
He spared a brief moment to savor the way indignant shock widened those pale blue eyes.
And then he carried her out into the night.
Chapter Two
Before Amelia could even catch her breath, the duke had swept her straight through the doors. They emerged onto the exact same circlet of terrace where she’d argued with Jack, not a half hour ago. The Bunscombe gardens were getting good use this evening.
Dropping her to the ground with dispatch, Morland warded off her complaint with an open palm. “You asked for it.” Then he sagged against a marble pillar, tugging at his cravat. “Bloody hell, it’s hot in there.”
“It is not inconsequential to me. I cannot imagine that you are unaware of it, but the d’Orsay name is synonymous with noble poverty. For us, four hundred pounds is a vast sum of money. We simply cannot spare it.”
“And what do you propose? Do you mean to offer me favors in lieu of payment?” He repaid her shocked expression with a cool remark: “I’m not interested.”
It was a small lie. He was a man. And she was a buxom woman, poured into a form-fitting dress. Parts of him were finding parts of her vaguely interesting. His eyes, for example, kept straying to her décolletage, so snugly framed by blue silk and ivory lace. From his advantage of height, he could spy the dark freckle dotting the inner curve of her left breast, and time and again, he found his gaze straying to the small imperfection.
“What a revolting suggestion,” she said. “Do you routinely solicit such offers from the distraught female relations of your debtors?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. He didn’t, but she was free to believe he did. Spencer was not in the habit of ingratiating himself, with anyone.
“As if I would barter my favors for four hundred pounds.”
“I thought you called it a vast sum of money.” Well above the going rate for such services, he refrained from adding.
“There are some things upon which one cannot put a price.”
He considered making an academic argument to the contrary but decided against it. Clearly the woman lacked the sense to follow logic. As was further evidenced by her next comment.
“I ask you to forgive Jack’s debt.”
“I refuse.”
“You cannot refuse!”
“I just did.”
“Four hundred pounds is nothing to you. Come now, you weren’t even after Jack’s money. He was only caught in the middle as you drove the betting high. You wanted Mr. Faraday’s token, and you have it. Let my brother’s wager be set aside.”
“No.”
She huffed an impatient breath, and her whole body seemed to exhale exasperation. Frustration exuded from her every pore, and with it wafted her own unique feminine scent. She smelled nice, actually. No cloying perfume—he supposed she couldn’t afford rich scent. Just the common aromas of plain soap and clean skin, and the merest suggestion that she tucked sprigs of lavender between her stored undergarments.
Blue eyes locked with his. “Why not?”
Spencer tempered his own exasperated sigh. He could explain to her that forgiving the debt would do both her brother and her family a great disservice. They would owe a debt of gratitude more lasting and burdensome than any debt of gold, impossible to repay. Worst, Jack would have no incentive to avoid repeating the mistake. In a matter of weeks, the youth would land in even deeper debt, perhaps to the tune of thousands. Spencer had no doubt that four hundred pounds was a large sum to the d’Orsay family, but it would not be a crippling one. And if it purchased Lady Amelia’s brother a greater portion of sense, it would be four hundred pounds well spent.
All this he might have explained. But he was the Duke of Morland. As much as he’d forfeited for the sake of that title, it ought to come with a few advantages. He shouldn’t have to explain himself at all.
“Because I won’t,” he said simply.
She set her teeth. “I see. And there is nothing I can say to persuade you otherwise?”
“No.”
Lady Amelia shuddered. He felt the tremor beneath his palm, where his hand pressed against the small of her back. Fearing she might burst out weeping—and wouldn’t that be the final polish on this sterling example of awkwardness—Spencer pulled her tightly to him and whisked her into a series of turns.
Despite his efforts, she only trembled more violently. Small sounds, something between a hiccough and a squeak, emanated from her throat. Against his better judgment, he pulled back to study her face.
The woman was laughing.
His heart began to beat a little faster. Steady, man.
“It is true, what the ladies say. You do waltz like a dream.” Her eyes swept his face, catching on his brow, his jaw, and finally fixing on his mouth with unabashed interest. “And you are undeniably handsome, up close.”
“Do you hope to move me by means of flattery? It won’t work.”
“No, no.” She smiled, and her right cheek dimpled. The left did not. “I see now that you are a positively immutable gentleman, a veritable rock of determination, and my every attempt to move you would be in vain.”
“Why the laughter, then?”
Why the question? he berated himself, annoyed. Why not gratefully allow the conversation to die? And why did he find himself wondering whether Lady Amelia’s left cheek ever dimpled? Whether she smiled more genuinely, more freely in situations that did not involve debasing herself over large debts, or whether the lone dimple was merely another of her intrinsic imperfections, like the unmatched freckle on her breast?
“Because,” she answered, “anxiety and gloom are tiresome. You’ve made it clear you will not forgive the debt. I can pass the remainder of the set moping about it, or I can enjoy myself.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“The notion shocks you, I see. I know there are some”—here she raked him with a sharp glance—“who judge it a mark of their superiority to always appear dissatisfied with the available company. Before they even enter a gathering, they have made up their minds to be displeased with it. Is it so very unthinkable that I might choose the reverse? Opt for happiness, even in the face of grave personal disappointment and complete financial ruin?”
“It smacks of insincerity.”
“Insincerity?” She laughed again. “Forgive me, but are you not the Duke of Morland? The playwright of this little midnight melodrama that has played to packed houses for weeks? The entire scene is predicated on the assumption that we eligible ladies are positively desperate to catch your attention. That a dance in the Duke of Midnight’s arms is every girl’s fondest fantasy. And now you call me insincere, when I claim to be enjoying my turn?”
She lifted her chin and looked out over the ballroom. “I have no illusions about myself. I’m an impoverished gentlewoman, two seasons on the shelf, no great beauty even in my bloom of youth. I’m not often at the center of attention, Your Grace. When this waltz concludes, I don’t know when—if ever—I shall know the feeling again. So I’m determined to enjoy it while it lasts.” She smiled fiercely, defiantly. “And you can’t stop me.”
Spencer concluded this must now be the longest set in the history of dancing. Turning his head, he dutifully swept her the length of the floor, striving to ignore how every pair of eyes in the ballroom tracked their progress. Quite a crowd tonight.
When he risked a glance down at her, Lady Amelia’s face remained tilted to his.
“Can I persuade you to stop staring at me?”
Her smile never faltered. “Oh, no.”
Oh no, indeed.
“You see,” she whispered in a husky tone, that from any other woman he would have interpreted as sensual overture, “it’s not often a spinster like me has the opportunity to enjoy such a prime specimen of virility and vigor, and at such close proximity. Those piercing hazel eyes, and all that dark, curling hair … What a struggle it is, not to touch it.”
He shushed her. “You’re creating a scene.”
“Oh, you created the scene,” she murmured coyly. “I’m merely stealing it.”
Would this waltz never end?
“Did you wish to change the subject?” she asked. “Perhaps we should speak of the theater.”
“I don’t go to the theater.”
“Books, then. How about books?”
“Some other time,” he ground out. And instantly wondered what had possessed him to say that. The odd thing of it was, despite her many, many unpleasant attributes, Lady Amelia was clearly possessed of some intelligence and wit. He could not help but think that at another time, in another place, he might have enjoyed discussing books with her. But he couldn’t possibly do so here, in a crowded ballroom, with his concentration unraveling on each successive twirl.
His control of the scene was slipping.
And that made him frown.
“Ooh, that’s a dangerous glare,” she said. “And your face is turning a most impressive shade of red. It’s enough to make me believe all those dreadful rumors about you. Why, you’re actually raising the hairs on my neck.”
“Stop this.”
“I am all honesty,” she protested. “See for yourself.” She stretched up and tilted her head to the side, elongating the smooth, pale column of her neck. No freckles there. Only an enticing curve of creamy, soft-looking, sweet-smelling female skin.
Now Spencer’s heart slammed against his ribs. He didn’t know which he yearned to do more. Wring that neck, or lick it. Biting it might be a fair compromise. An action that mingled pleasure with punishment.
Because she deserved to be punished, the impertinent minx. Accepting the futility of her first argument, she’d chosen to wage a different battle. A rebellion of joy. She might not wrest a penny from him, but she would wring every possible drop of enjoyment at his expense.
This was the very attitude responsible for her brother’s debt. Jack would not quit the card table, even when he had no hope of recouping his losses. He stayed in, risked hundreds he did not have, because he wanted to win one last hand. It was precisely the temperament one might expect from a family such as the d’Orsays—a lineage rich with centuries of pride and valor, perpetually strapped for gold.
Lady Amelia wanted to best him at something. She wanted to see him brought low. And through no particular skill or perception of her own, she was perilously close to succeeding.
Spencer came to an abrupt halt. Implausibly, the room kept spinning around him. Damn it, this couldn’t be happening. Not here, not now.
But the signs were unmistakable. His pulse pounded in his ears. A wave of heat swamped his body. The air was suddenly thick as treacle and tasted just as vile.
Devil, damn, blast. He needed to leave this place, immediately.
“Why have we stopped?” she said. “The waltz isn’t over.” Her voice sounded as though it came from a great distance, filtered through cotton wool.
“It’s over for me.” Spencer swung his gaze around the room. An open set of doors to his left beckoned promisingly. He attempted to release her, but she clutched at his shoulders and held him fast. “For God’s sake,” he said, “let me—”
“Let you what?” Her eyes darting to the side, she whispered, “Let you go? Let you abandon me here on the dance floor, to my complete and total humiliation? Of all the unchivalrous, ungentlemanly, unforgivable …” When she ran out of descriptors, she threw him an accusatory glare that implied a thousand more. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Very well, then. Don’t.”
He slid his hands to her waist, grasped tight with both hands, and bodily lifted Lady Amelia d’Orsay—two, four … six inches off the floor. Until they looked one another eye-to-eye, and her slippers dangled in midair.
He spared a brief moment to savor the way indignant shock widened those pale blue eyes.
And then he carried her out into the night.
Chapter Two
Before Amelia could even catch her breath, the duke had swept her straight through the doors. They emerged onto the exact same circlet of terrace where she’d argued with Jack, not a half hour ago. The Bunscombe gardens were getting good use this evening.
Dropping her to the ground with dispatch, Morland warded off her complaint with an open palm. “You asked for it.” Then he sagged against a marble pillar, tugging at his cravat. “Bloody hell, it’s hot in there.”
