One Dance with a Duke (10 page)

“Just this morning, you have decided this.”

“Yes.”

“Why me, and not Lily? Why not one of the other ladies you’ve auditioned, over the course of dozens of balls?”

He looked taken aback. “Auditioned? Is that what people believe, that I have been conducting a search for my bride? Trial by waltzing?”

“Yes, of course.”

He laughed again. Twice in one morning now. Astonishing. And this time, his laugh had a rich, velvet quality that stroked her with heat from crown to toe.

“No. That has not been my purpose, I assure you. But I will answer your question honestly. I wish to produce an heir, as quickly as possible. I have no inclination to court, flatter, or otherwise woo some silly young chit scarcely half my age. Neither do I have the patience to engage the hand of a grieving woman who will be in mourning for the next year. Dowries are of no importance to me. I simply need a sensible woman from suitable bloodlines, of robust constitution and even temperament, with whom to create a few children.”

She stared at him in horror. “You want a broodmare!”

He said evenly, “When you draw that comparison, you demean us both. I have many fine mares in my stables, and yet there is not a one of them I would allow to mother my children or manage my household, much less introduce my cousin to society. No, I do not want a broodmare. I want a wife. A duchess.”

At that moment, the magnitude of his offer struck Amelia with sudden force. It was fortunate she was still sitting down. This man would make her the Duchess of Morland. If she accepted him—barbaric, unfeeling creature
that he was—she would become one of the highest-ranking, wealthiest ladies in all England. She would host grand parties, move in the most elite circles of society. And at last—oh, her heart turned over at the thought …

“I would be mistress of my own house,” she whispered.

“In point of fact, you would be mistress of six. But I almost never travel to the Scottish one.”

Amelia gripped the arm of the chair, hard. As if she might slide right off it and fall into wedlock if she didn’t hold on with all her strength. Good heavens, six estates. Surely one of them could use a vicar. She could convince Jack to resume his studies and take orders, see him settled in a wholesome country vicarage, far away from his ruffian friends …

No, no, no. There were a thousand reasons why she must refuse the duke. There had to be. She just couldn’t think of them right now.

“But …” she stammered, “but we scarcely know one another.”

“In the past several hours, I have observed you at a social event, witnessed your composure during a difficult ordeal, and engaged you in conversation that hovered some distance above the usual banalities. I am familiar with your ancestry, and I know that you come from a family rife with sons, which bodes well for my purposes of getting an heir. For my part, I am satisfied. But if you wish, you may ask me questions.” He cocked an eyebrow in anticipation.

She swallowed. “What is your age?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Have you other close family, besides this cousin?”

“No.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Of course. She is Lady Claudia, fifteen years of age.”

“Is she here with you, in Town?”

“No. She has spent the past few months in York, visiting her mother’s relations.”

Amelia paused, uncertain where to go from here. What sort of questions did one ask a gentleman of his stature? It would seem absurd to inquire after a duke’s favorite color, or preferred glovemaker. Finally she blurted out, “Do you object to cats?”

He grimaced. “Only in principle.”

“I should like to keep cats.” She perked in triumph. Here it was, her escape route from this bizarre proposal.

He tapped a finger on the desktop. “If you can keep them out of my way, I suppose that desire can be accommodated.”

Drat. No escape there.

She tried again. “What is the last book you read?”

“
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
, by Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“You are joking.”

“Yes, I am.” The corner of his mouth curled in a sly, sensual manner. “Actually, I read that book some years ago.”

“Truly? And what did you think?”

“I think …” He pushed off from the desk and stood, regarding her with cool challenge in his eyes. “I think you are stalling, Lady Amelia.”

Her pulse did stall, for a moment. Then it jolted back to life, pounding feverishly in her throat. Why didn’t God apportion fine looks in equal accordance with deserving personalities? A horrid man ought to be horrid-looking. He should never be gifted with dark, curling, touchable hair; nor the noble, sculpted cheekbones of a Roman god. He most especially should not possess entrancing, deep-set hazel eyes and a wide, sensual mouth that was near devastating in repose, but even further improved by the presence of a knowing little smile.

Time for desperate measures.

“If I marry you, will you forgive Jack’s debt?”

Say no
, she willed silently.
Please say no, or I cannot be responsible for my actions. If you say yes, I may be driven to embrace you. Or worse, give my consent
.

“No,” he said.

Waves of relief and disappointment crashed within her, leaving Amelia feeling rather adrift. But her course was now clear. “In that case, Your Grace, I’m afraid I cannot—”

“I will, of course, settle a substantial sum on you, as part of the marriage contracts. Twenty thousand, I should think, and some property. In addition, you would receive a generous allowance for your discretionary spending. Several hundred pounds.”

“Several hundred pounds? A year?”

“Don’t be absurd. Quarterly.”

Amelia’s mind blanked. In recent years, she’d become expert at counting up small sums of money, down to the last ha’penny. Two shillings, ten pence at the draper’s, and so forth. But sums so large as these … they simply weren’t in her arithmetic.

“Your allowance will be yours to spend as you wish, but I would advise against wasting tuppence on your brother. Even if you pay his debt, you won’t be summering at your cottage. You’ll come to my estate in Cambridgeshire.”

“Braxton Hall.”

He nodded.

She knew it well by reputation. Though the current duke never entertained, his aunt and uncle had, and the older society matrons sometimes waxed nostalgic about the epic grandeur that was Braxton Hall. It was said to be the largest, most lavish house in East Anglia, surrounded by beautiful parklands and gardens.

She allowed herself one quiet, plaintive sigh for those gardens.

“Have no doubt that I will provide for your every material comfort. In return, I ask only that you continue to receive my attentions until such time as a son is born. And of course, I will demand your fidelity.”

She recalled his terse words last night, when he spoke of that blasted stallion:
I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I do not like to share
. Such words, such a tone, such an attitude of absolute entitlement—they were repugnant in reference to a horse. They were perfectly debasing, when applied to a woman. Debasing and demeaning and … God help her, arousing.

“I see,” she said, struggling for equanimity. “And may I expect your fidelity in kind?”

“Curse that Wollstonecraft woman. Very well. Until you have birthed a son, you may be assured of my faithfulness. At that time, we can revisit our arrangement. If you wish, we need not even live on the same estate.”

It only became worse. So she was not even to be possessed, but merely to be
rented
.

When confronted with her stunned silence, he added, “Is that not egalitarian?”

“Egalitarian, yes. Also cold, convenient, and heartless.”

“Well, you can hardly be expecting romantic declarations. They would be transparently false, and an insult to us both.”

Amelia rose to her feet and said calmly, “I do find myself sufficiently insulted for one morning.”

“My patience is also at an end.” He met her in the center of the room. “I have made you an offer of marriage. I am certain it is the most generous and beneficial offer you will ever receive—likely the last such offer you will ever receive. I have answered all your impertinent
questions and made you some extremely generous promises. Now, madam, may I have your answer?”

Oh, yes. She would give him an answer.

But she would take some satisfaction from him first.

“One last question, Your Grace. You have said earlier, you would not find it a chore to bed me. How am I to be assured of the same? Perhaps I would find it a chore to bed
you.”

He took a step backward, as though he needed the extra distance to properly glare at her. Or perhaps because he suspected her of carrying an infectious disease of the brain.

She smiled, enjoying the triumph of setting him on edge. “Don’t look so alarmed, Your Grace. I do not intend to squeeze your thigh.”

At this moment, she made the error of dropping her gaze to those thighs. Those very thick, very muscular thighs that looked as squeezable as granite.

“Don’t you?”

She wrenched her eyes back up to his face. “No. You see, when it comes to such matters, women appreciate a touch more finesse.”

He gave a derisive, but—she imagined—also
defensive
laugh.

“I may be a virgin, Your Grace, but I am not ignorant.”

“Don’t tell me. More subversive reading material?”

She ignored his feeble attempt at taunting. “Before I give an answer to your proposal, I would like to perform an experiment of my own.”

A wild panic flared in his eyes. Or perhaps that amber spark was desire?

Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. It was panic, surely panic. And she relished it.

“What sort of experiment did you have in mind?”

“A kiss.”

“Is that all?” He stepped forward, angling his head as though he would press a chaste kiss to her cheek.

She held up a hand between them. “On the lips, if you please. And do it properly.”

“Properly.” Disbelief echoed in his tone.

His gaze searched her face, and Amelia inwardly cringed as she pictured herself through his eyes. Plump cheeks, gone bright pink with a blush. Puffy eyes, certainly not improved by the purple circles under them this morning. Disheveled blond hair, hanging loose against one side of her neck. What had she been thinking, to bait him thus? Why not simply refuse his proposal and be done with it?

Because she wanted this, she admitted. She wanted this kiss. She wanted to feel
wanted
. In all honesty, some depraved part of her wanted to go back to his carriage and do everything differently. To find out what would have happened if she hadn’t startled and moved away, but allowed him to keep caressing and kneading her thigh. Perhaps trail his fingers up and up, to the warm, damp place between her legs …

The very thought made her weak.

His gaze settled on her lips.

She held her breath. Braced herself. Grew an inch out of sheer anticipation.

And then he took two steps away.

Oh, Lord. He’d rejected her. In a darkened carriage, she was good enough for a squeeze, but one honest look at her in full daylight, and he’d decided she simply wasn’t worth the trouble.

He cleared his throat. “If I’m to do this properly …”

With his left hand, he began loosening his right glove. First, he undid the small closure at the wrist. Then he began at the little finger and worked inward, working the close-fitted black kid loose with firm, confident tugs. After separating his thumb from its leather sheath, he
raised his hand to his mouth. A shiver ran through her as he caught the middle finger of the glove between his teeth … and pulled.

Oh, his hand was lovely. Amelia couldn’t tear her gaze from his fingers as they worked. They were long and dexterous, graceful yet strong. Soon he had the second glove loosened, and when he stared her straight in the eye, took that nub of leather between his teeth, and slowly pulled his right hand free … she couldn’t help it.

She sighed. Audibly.

At once, she understood why men threw away so much money on opera dancers. She wondered why similar establishments did not exist for ladies. Perhaps they did, and she was simply innocent of them. There was a powerful, illicit thrill to watching a man bare himself—even these relatively innocent parts of himself—for her benefit.

Tossing his gloves atop Laurent’s desk, the duke closed the distance between them. He raised his hands—not to her face, but to her hair. Those long, deft fingers plucked the hairpins from her debilitated upsweep. He stood close to her as he worked, almost as though he held her in an embrace. The pose gave Amelia an intimate view of the strong line of his jaw, and the exposed curve of his throat beneath it, where the rough beginnings of whiskers dotted his skin. He smelled of brandy and leather and starch; and beneath all these commonplace scents simmered the unique musk of his skin. She inhaled deeply.

As he freed the last pin, her hair tumbled around her shoulders. His fingers raked deliciously over her scalp as he arranged the locks to his satisfaction.

“There,” he said. Strong, warm hands cupped her face and tilted it to his. “Now we can do this properly.”

A surge of excitement flooded every inch of her body. And it didn’t come from the heat of his breath on her
lips, or the firm pressure of his hands bracketing her face. Its origin was that tiny word: “we.”
Now
we
can do this properly
.

It wasn’t that
he
would kiss
her. They
were going to kiss.

His lips brushed hers, slowly, sensually. And in an abrupt, volcanic explosion, Amelia d’Orsay’s world gained a whole new continent.

She’d suffered a number of Mr. Poste’s kisses, back when he’d courted her. Could it truly have been almost ten years ago? Those horrid kisses still lurked in her memory: wet, grabby embraces that had made her feel helpless and ashamed.

But this was different. So different. The Duke of Morland had spent the past several hours assaulting her feelings with one rude, arrogant remark after the other. The man had no notion of polite discourse.