In sum, he wanted her. Quite fiercely.
He eased his hand up her thigh—one inch, perhaps two. Past the concealed ridge of her garter. Her breathing went from uneven to erratic as he began brushing his thumb back and forth in a slow, even rhythm. He applied enough pressure that his touch dragged the fabric rather than sliding over it, allowing them both to enjoy the sensation of silk and linen gliding over her bare skin. Whatever petticoat she had on was delightfully spare, worn soft and supple by many launderings. Beneath the fabric, her flesh was just the right pliancy. The taut, smooth texture of a ball of risen dough-perfect for grasping, kneading, shaping with his hands.
Erotic images flooded his mind; lust pounded in his blood. He wanted to haul her straight into his lap and wrap those creamy, abundant curves around his body. He would bury his head in that magnificent bosom and clutch her bottom with both hands as he took her, right here in the carriage, letting the swaying motion of the coach bring them closer and closer to release …
Yes, she could offer him all manner of comforts—if she were the sort of woman to oblige a man that way. Simply because she remained unmarried, it did not necessarily follow that she was untouched. In fact, some alteration in the latter condition might explain the former.
There was only one way to find out.
Spreading his fingers, he gave her thigh a light, appreciative squeeze.
With a startled cry, she wrested her skirt from his grasp and scuttled sideways like a crab. There, wedged into the opposite corner of the cab, she stared hard out the window and steadfastly ignored him.
Well, that settled that.
And now Spencer looked out his own glass and prayed for a sudden snarl of unnavigable traffic. For they were nearing Bryanston Square, and thanks to his vivid imagination, he was in no condition to be seen in public.
By the time the coach drew to a halt before an ostentatious rococo edifice, his lust had ebbed. Somewhat. Enough to restore his silhouette to respectability. Spencer alighted first and then posed at the bottom, hand outstretched to assist Lady Amelia in making her descent.
She ignored his hand. And would have walked straight past him altogether, had he not grasped her elbow.
She slowly pivoted to face him. “Your Grace, I thank you for delivering me home. I shall keep you no longer.” When he did not release her, she added through gritted teeth, “You may go.”
“Nonsense,” he replied, steering her up the stairs to the front door, which was already held open by a footman. The servant’s rose-pink livery did much to subdue any lingering carnal impulses. “I’ll see you in. I must speak with your brother.”
“Jack won’t be here. He has his own rooms in Piccadilly.”
“Not him. I meant Lord Beauvale.”
They entered the house two abreast. Only one of the two doors had been opened, forcing them to squeeze together momentarily as they stepped over the threshold. God, her body felt good against his.
“I can’t imagine why you would wish to speak with Laurent.”
“Can’t you?”
“He won’t make good on Jack’s debt, if that’s what you mean.”
The woman was obviously not thinking straight, but Spencer decided not to hold it against her. It had been a long and trying night, after all. “By all public appearances, I’ve abducted you from a ball and kept you out all night. Your brother will no doubt appreciate some explanation and assurances.”
Pulling one of his cards from his breast pocket, he flicked it on the butler’s salver. “We will await the earl in his study.” There, Spencer hoped, he might be safe from these revolting gilt plaster cockleshells hugging the ceiling like barnacles.
Once ushered inside Beauvale’s wood-paneled, shell-free study, they stood awkwardly in the center of the room. As a gentleman, he could not sit until she did—and the idea of sitting had apparently not occurred to her. Her hair had half-fallen from its coiffure, giving her a lopsided appearance. The blue silk that had so closely hugged her curves the evening previous now showed obvious signs of fatigue.
Her eyes widened at the way he was boldly appraising her form.
Spencer gave her an unapologetic shrug. “That gown has done its service, and then some. Earned its pension, I should say.”
Red bloomed from her throat to her hairline. Her jaw worked a few times. “Are you quite finished insulting me?”
“I did not insult you. That gown insults you.”
“You—” She made a gesture of exasperation. “You, sir, have no understanding of women. None at all.”
“Does any man?”
“Yes!”
Spencer cocked his head. “Name one.”
At that moment, the Earl of Beauvale entered. His hair was damp and freshly parted, and his cuffs remained unfastened. Obviously, he’d dressed in a hurry.
He bowed in Spencer’s direction. Lady Amelia crossed to her brother immediately and threw herself into his arms.
“Amelia. For God’s sake, where have you been?” Beauvale pulled back from the embrace and studied his sister. “What’s happened to you?”
“Leo is dead,” she said, burying her face in her brother’s coat.
“Harcliffe?” The earl directed his question at Spencer.
He nodded. “Attacked by footpads, last evening. We have spent the night attending his sister. She was—and remains—in a state of shock.”
“Yes, poor Lily,” the earl muttered, rubbing his sister’s arms. “Poor Leo. I can’t believe it.”
“I can’t either,” she said. “He was so young, so vivacious and well-liked. He was …” Her eyes met Spencer’s. “He was the answer to your question, Your Grace. A man of true understanding. In all the years I knew him, Leo never once spoke an unkind word to me.”
“Yes, well. We can’t all be Leo, can we?”
This bitter, ill-conceived remark was repaid with cold silence. As it deserved to be. Even Spencer realized it had been an unfeeling thing to say, motivated by envy.
Envy for a dead man, at that. How nonsensical.
Nothing about this night had made sense, from the moment she’d caromed across that ballroom and grasped his hand in hers. He’d danced with her, argued with her, carted her from the dance floor like some sort of primeval cave dweller, and then together they’d spent the night attending an impromptu vigil. On a morning that should have found him taciturn and withdrawn, she’d made him chatty. Now he found himself taking spiteful swipes at the poor dead fool who earned a word of her praise. It all added up to one inescapable conclusion.
He was rather taken with Amelia Claire d’Orsay.Irrational, perhaps; unexpected, certainly. But there it was.
The earl spoke over his sister’s shoulder. “Thank you for seeing her home, Your Grace.”
It was a clear dismissal, just like her less eloquent version at the doorstep: You may go. But Spencer remained undeterred. He was the Duke of Morland; he would not be dismissed. And once he’d set his mind on something—or someone—he couldn’t rest without making it his.
He said, “I should advise you, Beauvale, that upon hearing of this tragedy, we left the Bunscombe residence together in surreptitious fashion. To others in attendance, it may have appeared to be an illicit assignation.”
“I see.” The earl frowned. “But nothing happened.”
Spencer looked to Lady Amelia.
“Amelia?” Beauvale prompted. “Nothing happened, did it?”
“Oh, no. No. Most definitely not.” Her deep blush did not lend the impression of veracity.
“I see.” Beauvale glared in Spencer’s direction. “People will be talking?”
“Yes, they will. It cannot be helped. In fact, the gossip is likely to increase with the announcement of a betrothal. We may as well make the engagement brief.”
Silence.
Brother and sister stared at him in open-mouthed shock. Spencer rocked idly on his heels, waiting.
Lady Amelia left her brother’s side and went to the nearest chair. At last, the thought had occurred to her to sit.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she began, “but this has already been a rather unbelievable night. And it is giving way to a positively apocryphal morning. I thought I just heard you refer to an engagement.”
“Yes. Ours.”
More stunned silence.
Spencer cleared his throat. “It is not my aim to be cryptic. Allow me to make my intentions perfectly clear. Beauvale, I am offering to marry your sister.”
The earl lifted a brow. “Do you mean you are requesting the honor of her hand?”
“Is that not what I just said?”
“No,” Lady Amelia said, with an odd little laugh. “No, it is most definitely not.” Regarding Spencer closely, she added, “Laurent, will you leave us?”
“Yes,” her brother said, drawing out the word. “Reluctantly. I shall wait in the parlor.”
“Thank you,” she said coolly. “We won’t be long.”
Chapter Five
Amelia stared at the duke. His health was robust, his expression composed, his bearing everything ducal, if not downright regal. He looked quite fit indeed. Still, the question tumbled out.
“Are you insane?”
“No,” he answered swiftly. “No, I am in possession of my mental faculties, and in excellent physical health. If you wish further assurances prior to the wedding, I can refer you to my personal physician.”
Good Lord, was he serious?
His mild expression told her he was.
“That will not be necessary. Allow me to rephrase my question. What on earth are you thinking, suggesting we should marry?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He sat casually on the edge of Laurent’s desk. “Your reputation is endangered.”
“Only because you are endangering it! Nothing happened between us. Why would you lead my brother to believe otherwise?”
“You are the one who led him to believe otherwise, with your stammering and blushing. I am merely taking the honorable course, by not contradicting you.”
“The honorable course? Well, this is a fresh development. Were you taking the honorable course when you groped me in the carriage?”
“That was … an experiment.”
“An experiment,” she echoed in disbelief. “Pray tell me, what did you learn?”
“Two things. First, it assured me of your virtue.”
“My virtue? You were—” Oh, there was no use in mincing words now. “You were able to divine my virginity, by fondling my leg.”
“Yes.”
She covered her eyes with one hand, then traced her left eyebrow with a fingertip. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Are you suggesting a woman is some sort of … piece of fruit to you? One squeeze, and you know if she’s ripe?”
“No.” He laughed softly. A low, brief chuckle. It took her by surprise, for she had not thought him a man capable of humor. “It was not what I squeezed that convinced me, but rather your reaction to being squeezed.”
Amelia’s face burned as she recalled her squawk of surprise, and the alacrity with which she had sought the farthest corner of the cab. Even that distance had not been far enough. The heat of his touch had lingered on her thigh, then melted and spread over her entire body. Her mind had been in upheaval, her pulse a mad riot.
She was not sure she had recovered, even now.
She took a deep breath. “You say this experiment of yours brought you to two conclusions, Your Grace. Dare I ask, what was the second?”
He gave her a bold, scorching look. “That I would not find it a chore to bed you.”
Oh, Lord.
What, pray tell, was the appropriate response to that? Her own body could not come to an accord on the matter. A blush burned on her cheeks, her stomach twisted itself into a knot, and her blood skittered merrily through her veins.