Dancing in the Duke's Arms Read Online Free

London, June 1817

Blackberry glaze.

Biting the within of her cheek, Amelia d'Orsay suppressed a small cry of jubilation. Even at a rout like this ane, a well-bred lady'south abrupt shout of joy was likely to draw notice, and Amelia did non intendance to explain herself to the shell of young ladies surrounding her. Peculiarly when the reason for her delight was non a triumph at the carte tabular array or a proposal of marriage, merely rather the completion of a dinner carte du jour.

She could imagine it now. "Oh, Lady Amelia," one of these young misses would say, "but you could think of food at a time like this."

Well, information technology wasn't as though Amelia had planned to stand in a ballroom, dreaming of menus for their family unit summer holiday. Just she'd been puzzling for weeks over a new sauce for braised pheasant, to replace the same old applejack reduction. Something sweet, yet tart; surprising, yet familiar; inventive, notwithstanding frugal. At final, the answer had come to her. Blackberry glaze. Strained, of course. Ooh, peradventure mulled with cloves.

Resolving to enter information technology in her carte volume later, she swept the imaginary dish aside and compressed her grin to a half-smile. Summer at Briarbank would now officially be perfect.

Mrs. Bunscombe brushed past in a flounce of ruby silk. "It'southward half eleven," the hostess sang. "Nearly midnight."

Nearly midnight. At present there was a idea to quell her exuberance.

A cherub-faced debutante swaddled in tulle grasped Amelia by the wrist. "Any moment now. How tin can yous remain so calm? If he chooses me this evening, I just know I'll swoon."

Amelia sighed. And then it began. Every bit it did at every ball, when half-eleven ticked by.

"You needn't worry about making chat," a young lady dressed in light-green satin said. "He scarcely utters and then much equally a discussion."

"Are we even certain he speaks English? Wasn't he raised in Abyssinia or…"

"No, no. Lower Canada. Of form he speaks English. My blood brother plays cards with him." The 2d daughter lowered her vox. "Simply at that place is something rather primitive about him, don't you lot think? I recollect information technology'south the way he moves."

"I think it's the gossip you're heeding," Amelia said sensibly.

"He waltzes like a dream," a third girl put in. "When I danced with him, my feet scarcely skimmed the floor. And he's ever so handsome upward shut."

Amelia gave her a patient smile. "Indeed?"

At the opening of the flavor, the reclusive and obscenely wealthy Duke of Morland had finally entered society. A few weeks later, he had all London dancing to his tune. The duke arrived at every ball at the stroke of midnight. He selected a single partner from amongst the bachelor ladies. At the conclusion of one set up, he would escort the lady into supper, so…disappear.

Before two weeks were out, the papers had dubbed him "the Duke of Midnight," and every hostess in London was jostling to invite His Grace to a ball. Unmarried ladies would not dream of promising the supper set up to any other partner, for fear of missing their chance at a duke. To amplify the dramatic consequence, hostesses positioned timepieces in full view, and instructed orchestras to begin the set at the very hour of twelve. And it went without proverb, the set ended with a slow, romantic waltz.

The nightly spectacle held the entire ton in delicious, knuckle-gnawing thrall. At every ball, the atmosphere thickened with perfume and speculation equally the hour of twelve approached. Information technology was similar watching medieval knights attempting to wrest Excalibur from the rock. Surely one of these evenings, the gossips declared, some blushing ingénue would get a proper grip on the recalcitrant bachelor…and a fable would be born.

Legend indeed. In that location was no stop of stories almost him. Where a man of his rank and fortune were involved, there were always stories.

"I hear he was raised barefoot and pagan in the Canadian wilderness," said the first girl.

"I hear he was barely civilized when his uncle took him in," said the second. "And his wild beliefs gave the old duke an apoplexy."

The lady in dark-green murmured, "My brother told me at that place was an incident, at Eton. Some sort of scrape or brawl… I don't know precisely. But a boy most died, and Morland was expelled for it. If they sent down a duke's heir, you know information technology must have been dreadful."

"You'll non believe what I've heard," Amelia said, widening her eyes. The ladies perked, leaning in close. "I hear," she whispered, "that by the light of the full moon, His Grace transforms into a ravening hedgehog."

When her companions finished laughing, she said aloud, "Really, I tin't believe he's and then interesting as to merit this much attention."

"You wouldn't say that if you lot'd danced with him."

Amelia shook her caput. She had watched this scene unfold time and over again over the past few weeks, admittedly with amusement. But she never expected—or desired—to be at the center of information technology. It wasn't sour grapes, truly information technology wasn't. What other ladies saw as intriguing and romantic, she took for self-indulgent melodrama. Really, an unmarried, wealthy, handsome duke who felt the need to control more female person attention? He must be the near vain, insufferable sort of human being.

And the ladies of his choosing—all flouncy, insipid girls in their beginning or 2nd seasons. All petite, all pretty. None of them annihilation like Amelia.

Oh, perhaps there was a hint of bitterness to information technology, afterwards all.

Really, when a lady dangled on the outer cusp of marital eligibility, as she did, society ought to let her a quiet, unannounced slide into spinsterhood. It rather galled her, to feel several years' worth of rejection revisited upon her night after dark, as the infamous duke entered at the stroke of midnight, and at twelve-oh-one his eyes slid direct by her to some primping chit with more than dazzler than brains.

Not that he had reason to notice her. Her dowry barely scraped the floorboards of the "respectable" range, and even in her first flavour, she'd never been a great beauty. Her optics were a trifle besides stake, and she blushed much too easily. And at the age of 6-and-twenty, she'd come to accept that she would e'er be a fiddling too plump.

The girls suddenly scattered, like the flighty things they were.

A deep whisper came from behind her shoulder. "You await ravishing, Amelia."

Sighing, she wheeled to confront the speaker. "Jack. What is it you're afterwards?"

Pressing a hand to his lapel, he pulled an offended expression. "Must I be after something? Can't a fellow pay his dearest sister a compliment without falling under suspicion?"

"Not when the fellow in question is y'all. And information technology'south no compliment to be called your beloved sis. I'm your simply sister. If you're after my purse, you must come up with something better than that." She spoke in a low-cal, teasing tone, hoping against all previous testify that he would protest: No, Amelia. This fourth dimension, I'yard not later on your handbag. I've ceased gambling and drinking, and I've thrown over those ne'er-do-well "friends" of mine. I'm returning to University. I'll take orders in the Church building, just as I promised our dying mother. And you lot truly practise look lovely tonight.

Eyes flicking toward the crowd, he lowered his voice. "A few bob. That's all I need."

Her chest deflated. Non even midnight, and already his optics held that wild, liquor-flared spark that indicated he was on the verge of doing something spectacularly ill-conceived.

Steering him past the elbow, she left the young ladies to titter amidst themselves and guided her blood brother through the nearest fix of doors. They stepped into the crescent of xanthous lite shining through the transom window. The night air closed around them, cloying and humid.

"I don't have anything," she lied.

"A few shillings for the hack, Amelia." He grabbed for the reticule dangling from her wrist. "We're off to the theater, a gang of us."

Off to the theater, her center. Off to the gaming hells, more likely. She clutched the beaded drawstring pouch to her bosom. "And how volition I get home, then?"

"Why, Morland volition take you." He winked. "Right after your dance. I've two pounds sterling on you tonight."

Wonderful. Another 2 pounds she'd have to siphon from her pin coin. "At tremendously long odds, I'chiliad certain."

"Don't speak similar that." A bear upon grazed her arm. Jack's expression was all of a sudden, unexpectedly sincere. "He'd be damned lucky to have y'all, Amelia. There's no lady your equal in that room."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Since their brother Hugh'south death at Waterloo, Jack had changed, and non for the amend. But in rare flashes, that dear, sensitive brother she loved would surface. She wanted and then desperately to gather him shut and concur tight to him for weeks, months…nonetheless long it took, to coax the old Jack out from this brittle shell.

"Come up now. Be a sweet sister, and lend me a crown or two. I'll send a runner to Laurent'due south, and he'll transport that garish new landau for you lot. You'll be driven home in the finest style his copper heiress tin beget."

"Her proper noun is Winifred. She's the Countess of Beauvale now, and you ought to speak of her with respect. It'south her fortune that purchased Michael's commission and supports young William at schoolhouse. It'due south thank you to her and Laurent that I fifty-fifty take a home."

"And I'm the worthless ingrate who brings the family unit nothing just disgrace. I know, I know." His flinty gaze clashed with a forced smiling. "It's worth a few coins to be rid of me, isn't information technology?"

"Can't you understand? I don't desire to be rid of you at all. I love yous, you fool." She smoothed that incorrigible wisp of hair that always curled at his left temple. "Won't you let me assistance you, Jack?"

"Of course. If you'll start with a shilling or two."

With clumsy fingers, she loosened the strings of her reticule. "I will requite you everything I accept, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"Yous must promise me y'all'll join us this summertime, at Briarbank."

The d'Orsays always summered at Briarbank—a rambling stone cottage overlooking the River Wye, down the slope from the ruins of Beauvale Castle. Amelia had been planning this summertime's holiday for months, downwardly to the final damask tablecloth and saucer of currant jelly. Briarbank was the answer to everything, she knew it. It had to be.

Hugh's death had devastated the entire family, but Jack near of all. Of all her brothers, the two of them had been the fastest friends. Hugh had been just ane yr older, but several years wiser, and his serious bent had always balanced Jack'south wilder personality. Without that check on his impulsive nature, Amelia feared Jack's grief and recklessness were conspiring to disaster.

What he needed was love, and time to heal. Fourth dimension spent far from Town, and close to domicile and family—what remained of both. Here in London, Jack was surrounded by temptation, constantly pressured to keep pace with his spendthrift peers. At Briarbank, he would surely render to his practiced-humored self. Young William would come up on his break from schoolhouse. Michael would yet be at sea, of form, simply Laurent and Winifred would bring together them, at least for a week or ii.

And Amelia would be the perfect hostess. Just as Mama had ever been. She would fill up every room with great vases of snapdragons, arrange theatricals and parlor games, serve braised pheasant with blackberry glaze.

She would make everyone happy, by sheer force of will. Or blackmail, if she must.

"I've a crown and iii shillings here," she said, extracting the coins from the pouch, "and six pounds more saved at domicile." Saved, scrimped, scraped together, one penny at a fourth dimension. "It'southward yours, all of it—but you must promise me August at Briarbank."

Jack tsked. "He didn't tell you?"

"Who? Who didn't tell me what?"

"Nosotros're not opening the cottage this summertime. It was but settled this week. We're letting it out."

"Letting it out?" Amelia felt as though all the blood had been allow from her veins. Of a sudden dizzy, she clutched her brother'south arm. "Briarbank, allow out? To strangers?"

"Well, not to strangers. We've put the word around at the clubs and expect inquiries from several good families. It's a plum holiday cottage, you lot know."

"Yes," she scrap out. "Yes, I exercise know. Information technology's so ideal, the d'Orsay family unit has summered there for centuries. Centuries, Jack. Why would we dream of leasing it out?"

"Haven't we outgrown the drape-mall and tea biscuits routine? It'south wearisome equally tombs out there. Halfway to Ireland, for God'south sake."

"Dull? What on earth tin you lot mean? You lot used to live for summers there, angling on the river and—" Comprehension struck, numbing her to the toes. "Oh, no." She dug her fingers into his arm. "How much did you lose? How much practise you owe?"

His optics told her he'd resigned all pretense. "Iv hundred pounds."

"4 hundred! To whom?"

"To Morland."

"The Duke of Midni—" Amelia scrap off the absurd nickname. She refused to puff the man'southward notoriety further. "But he's non fifty-fifty arrived yet. How did you manage to lose four hundred pounds to him, when he'southward not fifty-fifty here?"

"Non tonight. Days ago at present. That's why I must get out. He'll be here any moment, and I can't face him until I've fabricated good on the debt."

Amelia could only stare at him.

"Don't look at me similar that, I tin can't conduct it. I was holding my own until Faraday put his token in play. That's what brought Morland to the table, drove the betting sky-high. He's out to gather all 10, you know."

"All ten of what? All ten tokens?"

"Yeah, of course. The tokens are everything." Jack fabricated an expansive gesture. "Come now, you can't be so out of apportionment as that. It's only the virtually elite gentlemen'south society in London."

When she just blinked at him, he prompted, "Harcliffe. Osiris. Ane stud equus caballus, ten brass tokens. You've heard of the club, I know you accept."

"I'm sorry. I've no idea what you're talking about. You seem to exist telling me you've wagered our ancestral domicile against a brass token. And lost."

"I was in for hundreds already; I couldn't back down. And my cards…Amelia, I swear to you, they were unbeatable cards."

"Except that they weren't."

He gave a fatalistic shrug. "What's washed is done. If I had some other means of raising the funds, I would. I'm sorry you're disappointed, but there'south always next year."

"Yep, only—" But adjacent yr was a whole yr away. God only knew what trouble would find Jack in the concurrently. "In that location must be another style. Enquire Laurent for the money."

"Yous know he can't requite it."

Of course he was right. Their eldest brother had married prudently, most sacrificially. The family had been desperate for funds at the time, and Winifred had come with bags of money from her mining magnate male parent. The problem was, the bags of coin came cinched tightly with strings, and simply Laurent's father-in-law could loosen them. The old human being would never authorize the apply of 4 hundred pounds to pay off a gaming debt.

"I have to leave earlier Morland arrives," he said. "You sympathize."

Jack unlooped the reticule from her limp wrist, and she did not fight him as he shook the coins into his palm. Yes, she understood. Even if nothing remained of their fortune, the d'Orsays would cling to their pride.

"Take you at least learned your lesson now?" she said quietly.

He vaulted the low terrace rail. Rattling the coins in his palm, he backed away into the garden. "You know me, Amelia. I never was any good with lessons. I but copied my slate from Hugh'south."

Every bit she watched her brother disappear into the shadows, Amelia hugged her artillery across her chest.

What cruel turn of events was this? Briarbank, rented for the summertime! All the happiness stored up in those cobbled floors and rustic hearths and bundles of lavander hanging from the rafters—wasted on strangers. All her elaborate menus and planned excursions, for goose egg. Without that cottage, the d'Orsay family had no true center. Her brother had nowhere to recover from his grief.

And somehow more lowering than all this: She had no identify of her ain.

Accepting spinsterhood had not been like shooting fish in a barrel for Amelia. Just she could resign herself to the loneliness and thwarting, she told herself, and so long as she had summers at that drafty rock cottage. Those few months made the residue of the year tolerable. Whilst her friends collected lace and linens for their trousseaux, Amelia contented herself by embroidering seat covers for Briarbank. As they entertained callers, she entertained thoughts of begonias in the window box. When she—an intelligent, thoughtful, well-bred lady—was thrown over nightly for her younger, prettier, lack-witted counterparts, she could fool herself into happiness by thinking of blackberry coat.

Lord, the irony. She wasn't much different from Jack. She'd impulsively wagered all her dreams on a pile of mortar and shale. And at present she'd lost.

Lone on the terrace, she started to tremble. Destiny clanged against her hopes, beating them downward one hollow ring at a time.

Somewhere inside, a clock was tolling midnight.

*

"His Grace, the Duke of Morland."

The majordomo's proclamation coincided with the concluding, booming stroke of twelve.

From the head of the staircase, Spencer watched the throng of guests divide on cue, falling to either side like two halves of an overripe peach. And there, in the heart, amassed the unmarried young ladies in omnipresence—stone-all the same and shriveling under his gaze.

As a general point, Spencer disliked crowds. He especially disliked over-dressed, self-important crowds. And this scene grew more absurd by the night: the cream of London guild, staring up at him with unguarded fascination.

We don't know what to make of you, those stares said.

Off-white enough. It was a useful—ofttimes lucrative—affair, to be unreadable. He'd spent years cultivating the skill.

We don't trust you. This he gleaned from the whispers, and the manner in which gentlemen guarded the walls and ladies' easily instinctively went to the jewels at their throats. No affair. It also was a useful thing, at times, to exist feared.

No, it was the last bit that had him quietly laughing. The silent plea that only rang louder every time he entered a ballroom.

Here, have i of our daughters.

God'southward knees. Must he?

As he descended the travertine staircase, Spencer girded himself for yet some other unpleasant half hour. Given his preference, he would retreat dorsum to the country and never attend another ball in his life. Merely while he was temporarily residing in Town, he could not refuse all invitations. If he wished to run into his ward Claudia well-married in a few years, he must pave the manner for her eventual debut. And occasionally there were high-stakes card games to exist found in the back rooms of these diplomacy, well away from the white-powdered matrons playing whist.

And so he fabricated his appearance, but strictly on his own terms. I set, no more. As trivial chat as possible. And if the ton were determined to throw their sacrificial virgins at his feet…he would practice the choosing.

He wanted a placidity 1 tonight.

Usually he favored them young and vapid, more interested in preening for the crowd than capturing his discover. Then at the Pryce-Foster ball, he'd had the extreme misfortune to engage the hand of one Miss Francine Waterford. Quite pretty, with a vivacious arch to her brow and plump, rosy lips. The thing was, those lips lost all their allure when she kept them in constant motion. She'd prattled on through the entire prepare. Worse, she'd expected responses. While most women eagerly supplied both sides of any conversation, Miss Waterford would non be satisfied with his repertoire of brusque nods and inarticulate clearings of the throat. He'd been forced to speak at least a dozen words to her, all told.

That was his advantage for indulging aesthetic sensibilities. Enough with the pretty ones. For his partner tonight, he would select a meek, silent, wallflower of a girl. She needn't be pretty, nor even passable. She need only exist quiet.

As he approached the knot of young ladies, his eye settled on a slender reed of a girl standing on the fringe of the group, looking positively jaundiced in melon-colored satin. When he avant-garde toward her, she cowered into the shadow of her neighbor. She refused to even meet his gaze. Perfect.

Merely as he extended his paw in invitation, he was arrested by a series of unexpected sounds. The rattle of glass panes. The slam of a door. Heels clicking against travertine in a brisk, staccato rhythm.

Spencer swiveled instinctively. A youngish adult female in blue careened across the flooring like a billiard ball, reeling to a halt before him. His mitt remained outstretched from his aborted invitation to Miss Melony Satin, and this newly-arrived lady took concord of it firmly.

Dipping in a shallow curtsy, she said, "Thanks, Your Grace. I would be honored."

And after a stunned, painful pause, the music began.

The clump of disappointed ladies dispersed in search of new partners, grumbling as they went. And for the get-go time all flavor, Spencer found himself partnered with a lady non of his choosing. She had selected him.

How very surprising.

How very unpleasant.

Nevertheless, there was zero to be done. The impertinent adult female queued upwardly across from him for the country trip the light fantastic toe. Did he even know this lady?

As the other dancers fell into place around them, he took the opportunity to study her. He found piddling to admire. Any measure of genteel poise she might claim had fallen casualty to that inelegant sprint across the ballroom. Stray wisps of hair floated nearly her confront; her breath was labored with exertion. This state of agitation did her complexion no favors, but it did enhance the groovy of her ample bosom. She was amply endowed everywhere, actually. Generous curves pulled against the blue silk of her gown.

"Forgive me," he said, as they circled 1 another. "Have we been introduced?"

"Years ago, in one case. I would non wait you lot to think. I am Lady Amelia d'Orsay."

The pattern of the dance parted them, and Spencer had some moments to blot this proper noun: Lady Amelia d'Orsay. Her belatedly father had been the 7th Earl of Beauvale. Her elder brother, Laurent, was currently the 8th Earl of Beauvale.

And her younger blood brother Jack was a scapegrace wastrel who owed Spencer four hundred pounds.

She must take sensed the moment of this epiphany, for when they next clasped hands she said, "Nosotros needn't speak of it now. Information technology can wait for the waltz."

He quietly groaned. This was going to be a very long ready. If but he'd moved more than apace in securing the jaundiced 1'southward hand. At present that Lady Amelia's brash maneuver had been successful, God only knew what stunt the ladies—or more than likely, their mothers—would attempt adjacent. Perchance he should offset engaging his partners' hands in accelerate of the event. But that would necessitate social calls, and Spencer did not make social calls. Maybe he could direct his secretary to send notes? The entire situation was wearying.

The state dance concluded. The flit began. And he was forced to take her in his artillery, this woman who had but made his life a swell deal more than complicated.

To her credit, she wasted no fourth dimension with pleasantries. "Your Grace, let me exist to the bespeak. My brother owes you a great sum of money."

"He owes me four hundred pounds."

"Practice yous non view that as a corking sum of money?"

"I view information technology equally a debt which I am owed. The precise amount is inconsequential."

"It is not inconsequential to me. I cannot imagine that yous are unaware of it, but the d'Orsay proper name is synonymous with noble poverty. For us, 4 hundred pounds is a vast sum of coin. We simply cannot spare it."

"And what do you propose? Do you lot mean to offering me favors in lieu of payment?" He repaid her shocked expression with a cool remark: "I'1000 not interested."

It was a minor prevarication. He was a homo. And she was a buxom woman, poured into a form-fitting apparel. Parts of him were finding parts of her vaguely interesting. His optics, for example, kept straying to her décolletage, so snugly framed by bluish silk and ivory lace. From his advantage of elevation, he could spy the dark freckle dotting the inner curve of her left breast, and time and once more, he found his gaze straying to the small imperfection.

"What a revolting suggestion," she said. "Practice y'all 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 y'all called it a vast sum of coin." Well higher up the going rate for such services, he refrained from adding.

"At that place are some things upon which ane cannot put a toll."

He considered making an academic argument to the contrary, simply decided confronting information technology. Clearly the woman lacked the sense to follow logic. Every bit was farther evidenced by her side by side comment.

"I ask you to forgive Jack'southward debt."

"I decline."

"You cannot refuse!"

"I but did."

"Four hundred pounds is cipher to you. Come now, y'all weren't even after Jack'southward money. He was simply caught in the center as yous drove the betting loftier. You wanted Mr. Faraday's token, and you have information technology. Let my brother's wager be set up bated."

"No."

She huffed an impatient jiff, and her whole body seemed to exhale in exasperation. Frustration exuded from her every pore, and with information technology wafted her ain unique feminine odor. She smelled nice, actually. No cloying perfume—he supposed she couldn't afford rich smell. Simply the mutual aromas of obviously soap and clean skin, and the merest suggestion that she tucked sprigs of lavender between her stored undergarments.

Blue optics locked with his. "Why not?"

Spencer tempered his own exasperated sigh. He could explain to her that forgiving the debt would exercise both her brother and her family a keen disservice. They would owe a debt of gratitude more lasting and burdensome than any debt of gilt, impossible to repay. Worst, Jack would take no incentive to avoid repeating the mistake. In a thing of weeks, the youth would country in fifty-fifty deeper debt, perhaps to the melody 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 exist 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 championship, information technology ought to come with a few advantages. He shouldn't have to explicate himself at all.

"Considering I won't," he said simply.

She set her teeth. "I meet. And there is nothing I tin say to persuade you otherwise?"

"No."

Lady Amelia shuddered. He felt the tremor beneath his palm, where his paw pressed confronting the small of her back. Fearing she might burst out weeping—and wouldn't that be the final polish on this sterling instance 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 adult female was laughing.

His heart began to beat out a fiddling faster. Steady, man.

"It is true, what the ladies say. You do waltz similar a dream." Her eyes swept his face, communicable on his forehead, his jaw, and finally fixing on his mouth with unabashed interest. "And you are undeniably handsome, upwards close."

"Practice you hope to move me by ways of flattery? Information technology won't work."

"No, no." She smiled, and her right cheek dimpled. The left did not. "I encounter at present that you are a positively immutable admirer, a veritable rock of conclusion, and my every attempt to move you lot would be in vain."

"Why the laughter, and then?"

Why the question? he berated himself, annoyed. Why non gratefully allow to the chat to die? And why did he find himself wondering whether Lady Amelia's left cheek ever dimpled? Whether she smiled more than genuinely, more freely in situations that did non involve debasing herself over large debts, or whether the lone dimple was simply another of her intrinsic imperfections, like the unmatched freckle on her breast?

"Because," she answered, "anxiety and gloom are tiresome. Y'all've made it clear y'all will not forgive the debt. I can pass the remainder of the set moping about information technology, or I tin can enjoy myself."

"Enjoy yourself."

"The notion shocks you, I see. I know there are some"—hither she raked him with a sharp glance—"who judge it mark of their superiority to always appear dissatisfied with the available visitor. Before they even enter a gathering, they have made up their minds to be displeased with it. Is it and 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 nosotros eligible ladies are positively desperate to catch your attention. That a dance in the Duke of Midnight'south 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 virtually myself. I'm an impoverished gentlewoman, 2 seasons on the shelf, no keen beauty even in my bloom of youth. I'm non frequently at the center of attention, Your Grace. When this waltz concludes, I don't know when—if ever—I shall know the feeling again. And then I'1000 adamant to savour it while it lasts." She smiled fiercely, defiantly. "And you tin can't stop me."

Spencer concluded this must now be the longest prepare in the history of dancing. Turning his head, he dutifully swept her the length of the flooring, striving to ignore how every pair of optics in the ballroom tracked their progress. Quite a crowd tonight.

When he risked a glance down at her, Lady Amelia'south face remained tilted to his.
"Can I persuade you to cease staring at me?"

Her smile never faltered. "Oh, no."

Oh no, indeed.

"You run into," she whispered in a husky tone, that from any other woman he would have interpreted as sensual overture, "it'due south not often a spinster similar me has the opportunity to relish such a prime specimen of virility and vigor, and at such close proximity. Those piercing hazel eyes, and all that nighttime, curling hair… What a struggle it is, not to bear upon it."

He shushed her. "You're creating a scene."

"Oh, you created the scene," she murmured coyly. "I'grand merely stealing it."

Would this flit never end?

"Did you wish to change the subject area?" she asked. "Perhaps we should speak of the theater."

"I don't go to the theater."

"Books, then. How almost books?"

"Some other time," he ground out. And instantly wondered what had possessed him to say that. The odd thing of information technology was, despite her many, many unpleasant attributes, Lady Amelia was clearly possessed of some intelligence and wit. He could not help but think that in some other time, in another place, he might have enjoyed discussing books with her. But he couldn't possibly practise 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 confront is turning a near impressive shade of red. It's enough to brand me believe all those dreadful rumors most 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 cavalcade of her neck. No freckles there. Only an enticing curve of flossy, 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 cervix, or lick it. Biting it might be a off-white compromise. An action that mingled pleasure with punishment.

Because she deserved to be punished, the impertinent minx. Accepting the futility of her first statement, she'd called to wage a unlike battle. A rebellion of joy. I may non wrest a penny from y'all, but I will wring every possible drop of enjoyment at your expense.

This was the very attitude responsible for her brother's debt. Jack would not quit the bill of fare 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. Information technology was precisely the temperament 1 might expect from a family unit 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 detail skill or perception of her own, she was perilously close to succeeding.

Spencer came to an abrupt halt. Implausibly, the room kept spinning effectually 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 estrus swamped his trunk. The air was all of a sudden thick as treacle, and tasted but 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 altitude, filtered through cotton fiber-wool.

"It'south 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 consummate and total humiliation? Of all the unchivalrous, ungentlemanly, unforgivable…" When she ran out of descriptors, she threw him an accusatory glare that implied a 1000 more. "I won't stand for information technology."

"Very well, then. Don't."

He slid his easily to her waist, grasped tight with both hands, and bodily lifted Lady Amelia d'Orsay—ii, 4…six inches off the floor. Until they looked 1 another centre-to-eye, and her slippers dangled in mid-air.

He spared a brief moment to savor the way indignant shock widened those pale blue eyes.

And and so he carried her out into the night.

hawleysuppris.blogspot.com

Source: https://tessadare.com/bookshelf/one-dance-with-a-duke/

Share this post