Oh, my. If she hadn’t already been damp between her thighs, that little speech would have done it.
“I don’t want it like this,” she said, a little less firmly than she’d like. Yes, she’d intended to share his bed, but not in the heat of passion.
As he swept her through the door, she cowered into his chest, not wishing to hit her head on the doorjamb. A frantic pulse beat at the apex of her sex, matching the rhythm of his pounding heart. She pressed her cheek to his strong chest, feeling threatened, protected, desired, conquered. Thrilled, in a dozen different ways.
He carried her through the parlor and antechamber, straight into her bedchamber. Oh, God. He really meant to take her, tonight.
He stopped short of the bed, dropping her to her feet.
Dizzy, she reeled on her toes. “I … I think you should leave.”
He made a sound of exasperation. “Amelia, turn around.”
She turned. And immediately berated herself for it. Why did she obey his arrogant commands so instinctively? He said “sit,” she sat. He said “stand,” she stood. He told her to remove her bodice, she stripped herself to the waist faster than a master chef skins an eel. It was a fortunate thing he hadn’t yet ordered her to go to the bed, lift her skirts, and be still.
A fortunate thing, indeed. Or a considerate one, on his part. Perhaps even a patient, generous, honorable thing?
Now she was more confused than ever.
“Look to your right,” he said. “What do you see there, just to the side of the mantel?”
She raised her hands in bewilderment. “A chair?”
“Between the mantel and the chair.”
“Oh.” There was a small silver frame hanging there that she didn’t recall seeing before. She took a candle from her dressing table and stepped closer, peering at it hard. “It’s …” Oh, goodness. It was her needlework—the little country scene she’d finished the other night-stretched tight and framed under spotless glass. The silver frame complemented the silver threads she’d woven into the brook, and the whole effect was … even if she did say it herself, it was really quite charming.
“You had it framed?” she asked, still staring at the embroidered vignette. “I thought you said you’d never allow it in this house.”
“I said it would never adorn a settee in this house.” His voice deepened as he came to stand behind her.
“But … but you took it from me.”
“Of course I did. Because you threatened to make it into a pillow.” He placed both hands on her shoulders. Their weight felt like a reproach. “A pillow, for Christ’s sake. Why should it have to justify its existence by serving some mundane function? It’s lovely. It’s art. In this house, we don’t sit on art. We hang it on the wall and admire it.”
She didn’t know what to say. Thank you came to her lips, but she wasn’t sure he meant his words as a compliment. In fact, she felt strangely unsettled by them.
He turned her to face him. “You are so eager to define yourself in reference to others. Jack’s sister, Claudia’s sponsor, this house’s mistress. You rail at me for not treating you as I would treat one of my horses, my possessions. For not measuring your worth by the food you serve or the musicales you could host.” He gestured impatiently toward the framed embroidery. “From the moment we met, you’ve resisted me, provoked me, demanded my respect. Then we arrive at Braxton Hall, and here … It’s as if you wish to be a settee cushion, and you’re vexed with me for refusing to sit on you.”
She shrugged off his grip on her shoulder. “You have no right—”
“Oh, I have every right.” He closed the distance between them, taking the candlestick from her hand and placing it atop the mantel. “I’m your lord and your husband, and I have all manner of rights I’ve chosen not to exercise. Yet.”
That last word gave her chills.
His hungry, dangerous gaze trapped hers. “There’s a lot going on behind those pretty blue eyes, but somewhere between those delectable ears and that remarkable brain is a seriously faulty connection, if when I call you ‘Amelia’ you hear it prefaced with ‘just.’ Believe me, I could have married ‘just anyone’ years ago.”
Did she still have knees? If so, she couldn’t feel them.
Believe him, he said? Believe that she had pretty eyes and delectable ears and a remarkable brain. Delectable. Her. Believe that a wealthy, attractive duke had held off marriage for years, but something about her—an impoverished, impertinent spinster—had changed his mind overnight.
Now his words were more than unsettling her. They were threatening everything she believed about herself, and everything she knew about him.
Which was hardly anything, come to think of it.
“What predictable arrogance,” she said, jabbing her finger in his chest. It was a juvenile gesture, but for some reason she needed to touch him. “What utter hypocrisy. You would stand here and … and analyze my character, pretend to understand all the innermost workings of my mind? This, from the man who lavishes affection on horses, but doesn’t know how to hold a wife.”
Only a fleeting spark in his eyes betrayed his surprise.
“You have no right to judge me.” She made a fist and thumped the flat side against his chest. Was that his heart, pounding against it? “Don’t you belittle me for valuing family and friendship and hospitality, simply because you can’t be bothered to care. And how dare you chastise me for seeking ways to be useful, when you’ve brought me here just to give you an heir. You married me for the most mundane function of all.”
“Oh, believe me. When we share a bed, it will be anything but mundane.” His hand shot out and captured her chin. “Do you know how I spent my day, Amelia?”
She shook her head. Just a little, because he held her jaw fast.
“With whores.”
“With …?” Her voice died in her throat. Oh, Lord.
“Yes, whores. I rose before dawn and rode hard, all the way to London, exhausting three horses on the way. I then spent the entire afternoon turning Whitechapel’s most undistinguished establishments inside out, searching for the prostitute who found Leo’s body. I spoke to whores of every shape and size. Dark ones, fair ones, plump ones, thin ones, ugly ones, pretty ones … a rare few who were genuine beauties. And for a shilling, any one of them would have cheerfully dropped to her knees or hiked her skirts for me. But I didn’t want any of them. The whole damned day, I thought only of you.”
His eyes bored into hers. “I thought of you as I rode home, without changing horses in Cambridge as I should have done. I pushed that horse harder than I had any right to do, and yes, she deserved a bit of soothing and apology for it. I never abuse my cattle, but I came damn near to it today. And I didn’t do it because I just wanted a ‘mundane’ tup, Amelia. I sure as hell didn’t do it because I wanted to come home to roast beef and a nice buttered roll. I did it all just to find that blasted token. So I could show you I’m not a murderer. Earn your trust, convince you there’s nothing to fear.”
With a bitter chuckle, he released her chin. “And the damnedest thing of it is—at this moment, you should be afraid. Terrified.”
He advanced on her, backing her up until she collided with the wall. The beaded edge of the paneling pressed against her spine. His desirous gaze roamed over her body, turning her firm in places and soft in others.
“You should be trembling in your slippers, because I am tired and frustrated and about two heartbeats away from throwing you to the bed, ripping that dress from your body, and making you mine, whether you wish it or not.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
He braced his arms against the wall, caging her between them. His heat and scent surrounded her. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. I’d take you right here, never mind the bed.”
His eyes were dark and wild and hungry, and the intensity in them was enough to make her feel invaded already. Gone was the man who’d kissed her in Laurent’s study with such patient skill. There was nothing of seduction in his manner now—only possession, naked and raw.
Though she was shivering to the roots of her hair, she forced herself to hold his gaze and remain absolutely still. Until the heat smoldering between their bodies could melt steel.
At last, her patience was rewarded. He sighed, and the strength tensed in his arms relaxed. It was plain he was exhausted, in both body and mind.
“For God’s sake, Amelia …”
She took that narrow window of opportunity and bolted through it. Ducking under his arm, she darted sideways and ran for the other side of the room.
With a curse, he lunged at her. Instead of skirting the bed as she had, he vaulted atop it, attempting to cut off her path of retreat. He fell to his knees on the mattress, pitching forward to grab at her as she passed. He caught only a fold of her skirt, and the fabric tore as she wrestled away.
She hurried toward the connecting door, glancing back to see him sprawled on the bed, clutching a swatch of shredded muslin and glaring pure murder.
“Damn it, don’t you run from me.”
Marshaling all her strength, she slid back the panel. The creak of wood was matched by a creak of the mattress as he hastened to rise and give chase. With a little cry of alarm, she scurried through the door and began to slide it closed. Just as the panel was nearly shut, his hand shot into the narrowing gap. But the door’s momentum and Amelia’s desperate energy were too much for him this time. The door banged home, mashing his fingers against the jamb.
Roaring in pain, he withdrew his hand, and the weight of her body propelled the panel to its resting place. With trembling fingers, Amelia fitted and secured the door’s only latch, locking herself in Spencer’s bedchamber.
Breathing hard, she turned her back to the door and melted against it with relief.
Bang.
She jumped. He pounded the door again, and then again.
“Let me in there,” he demanded, his voice muffled by the thick wood.
She swallowed hard. “No.”
“What’s to keep me from walking around and entering the other way?”
“I’ve locked that door, too,” she lied, rattling the keys on her chatelaine.
More muffled curses. Then the loud crash of something breaking against the wall.
She hugged herself tight, trying to stop trembling. Suddenly, the door panel shifted against her back, as if he’d leaned his weight on the other side.
And everything went quiet.
On the outside, at least. Inside Amelia, a whole symphony was playing. Her pulse drummed furiously in her ears. A phantom violist played frantic melodies on the taut strings of her nerves. And in her heart, a chorus of thousands sang. Hallelujah, hosanna, glory be to God on high!
Spencer wanted her. He really, truly, desperately wanted her. Her, Amelia. She wasn’t “just” a wife to him, a mother for his heirs. He’d said it himself, he could have married “just anyone” years ago. She was reason enough for a duke to debase himself by crawling through the seediest districts of London. Reason enough for the most horse-mad gentleman she’d ever known to risk the health of a valuable, favored mount.
She had pretty eyes. And delectable ears. She touched her fingers to her own earlobes, absurdly wishing she had some way to taste them and judge for herself.
He’d called her an artist. She had a remarkable brain, he’d said. He enjoyed arguing with her. He’d thought of her all day.
Oh, my. Oh my God.
She’d waited her whole life to feel this way. Really, truly wanted. Not just nice to have around, or vaguely lusted after, but desired for both her body and her mind. Joy shouted from every corpuscle of her body—and she needed to be alone with it for just a little while longer, or …