And as the evening wore on, she found herself enjoying the attention. This was their first public appearance together, and it was really something, to be the lady on the Duke of Morland’s arm. Despite his faint, persistent frown, Spencer hadn’t touched his top waistcoat button yet, nor tossed her over his shoulder to cart her from the room. The evening was going quite surprisingly well, and Amelia reveled in the freedom to laugh, converse, and joke as boldly as she wished.

In fact, she was having the time of her life.

When she looked up from a conversation to find her father’s old friend Mr. Twither had cornered Spencer to question him mercilessly on farriers, Amelia even resorted to a new tactic: shameless flirtation. She sidled up to the old man, complimented the turn of his legs, remarked upon his youthful vigor, praised the delightful shape of his spectacles, and then discreetly pulled Spencer away, leaving a flushed, stammering, and quite-pleased-with-himself Mr. Twither in their wake.

And then, before anyone else could approach them, she loudly decried the heat and closeness of the room, gathered two glasses of cordial from a passing servant’s tray, and beckoned Spencer aside.

“There’s an alcove just there,” she whispered, pretending to sip from her glass as she indicated a paneled screen.

He took the other glass from her hand. “After you.”

The musicians picked a fortuitous moment to strike up the first chords of the quadrille, and amidst the excitement of partnering and queuing up, Amelia and Spencer slipped behind the screen. The triangular space was small and mostly occupied by a forlorn-looking potted palm.

Spencer drained his cordial in one draught, then grimaced and wiped his mouth.

“Well …?” she asked cautiously, scanning his appearance for any signs of unease.

“This cordial is abominable.” He glowered at the glass before setting it on a ledge behind them. His eyes slanted toward the screen. “And the musicians aren’t much better.”

“Yes, but how are you? I’m so sorry about Mr. Twither. He’s harmless, you know, but he holds his end of a conversation like a dog holds a bone. Oh, and those dreadful Wexler twins.” She shook her head. “They’re shameless. Did Flora truly pinch your bottom, or did it just look that way?”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled a little, in that devastatingly handsome and seductive way he smiled on rare occasions. Between that smile and the cordial, a very pleasant tingle warmed her insides.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” he said.

“I am.” She sipped her drink. “I know you hate this sort of thing, and this must be the most trying evening imaginable—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Something thumped against the screen from the other side, startling her. Spencer’s arm slid about her waist, drawing her back. She pivoted to face him, and his hand slid over her waist as she turned, until his palm settled at the base of her spine. A palm frond tickled against her neck. Suddenly stricken with a girlish flutter of nerves, she stared hard at his cravat.

“Are you truly enjoying tonight?” she asked.

“I’m enjoying right now.”

“You’ve—” Quiet, you ninny. He’s here for you. This night is going so much better than you have any right to expect. Don’t ruin it.

“What?” he prompted, absently stroking his thumb over the small of her back.

She forced her gaze up to his and swallowed hard. The cordial must have made her bold. Or stupid. Likely both. “You’ve been staring at me so strangely all evening. I’m afraid you’re disappointed, somehow. With me.”

That mild frown he’d been wearing now etched itself into a stern mask of censure.

Words spilled from her mouth. Silly, irrational, painfully truthful words. “You’re so handsome, you see. Just ridiculously so. I think you’re the finest-looking man I’ve ever known, and I know I just don’t look like your duchess. I know feigned affection wasn’t part of our bargain, and I know you don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. But I do give a damn what they think. Just a little one; I can’t help it. And I seem to care a great deal … far too much, I fear … about what you think, so—”

“Shhh.” He laid a finger against her lips.

And then said nothing.

Did he not know what to say? What a fool she was.

Lie. Oh, please. Just lie to me. Just tell me I’m lovely, and I’ll pretend to believe you, and we can forget this ever happened.

He tilted his head toward the screen and mouthed, Listen.

“Yes, yes.” A matronly laugh resonated through the screen. “Rather a coup for Lady Grantham. Their first public appearance since the wedding, I understand.”

“Thank the Lord,” the unseen lady’s companion replied in a gruff voice. “Now you can cease nattering on about the ‘true’ reason behind the marriage.”

“Oh, yes. Obviously a love match. I never doubted it.”

A loud harrumph.

“Well, I didn’t!” came the protest. “Amelia always was a delightful girl, but marriage has been very kind to her. And anyone can see His Grace is completely besotted. He won’t be torn from her side.”

Behind the screen, Amelia nearly burst out laughing. Spencer covered her mouth with his palm.

The man snorted. “Yes, and any man with two eyes can see exactly which of her charms he’s drunk on. They’re on rather public display.”

Amelia felt her eyes go wide. Spencer just flicked a devilish glance at her breasts and kept his hand pressed to her lips.

The man lowered his voice, and she held her breath to make out his words. “I’d keep her close, too, were I the duke. If she flirts that shamelessly right in front of him, imagine what she’ll get up to when he’s not looking.”

“Oh, pish,” the lady said. “Amelia’s not like that. And what if they are in one another’s pockets? Nothing wrong with newlywed bliss.”

By this time Amelia was laughing so hard, her shoulders were shaking. Spencer gave her a quelling look, and she struggled to regain her composure. She failed. She giggled helplessly into his hand for a solid minute, tears rolling down her cheeks, until the musicians struck up a livelier tune and the gossiping couple drifted back into the crowd.

She still couldn’t stop laughing. If she stopped laughing—ceased acting like everything they’d just heard was patently ridiculous—she’d have to admit how desperately she wished it all were true. If she stopped shedding helpless tears of laughter, she would just be … crying.

Is it safe to release you? his expression asked, after a long moment.

She nodded.

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered, wiping her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but that was so …” Another inane giggle choked on a sob. “Imagine, if they only knew—”

“Knew what?” His hand shot out again. But this time he didn’t press a finger to her lips. He cupped her cheek instead, and tilted her face to his intense, searching gaze. “The truth?”

Suddenly, she wasn’t laughing anymore. She was barely breathing anymore.

“Amelia,” he whispered, “at this moment, I don’t think you’d recognize the truth if it pinched you on the bottom.”

He dropped a firm kiss on her forehead. She couldn’t decide what that kiss meant, or even whether she liked it or not.

“Here is what we’re going to do,” he said. “When this dance ends, we’re going to sneak back out of this alcove the way we came in, and we’re going to crawl out of one another’s pockets. I’m going to make my passing nod at etiquette by inviting one of those grabby Wexler twins to dance. Hopefully Flora.” She bit back a laugh, and he brushed a fingertip over her cheek. “And after that, I’m off to find a bit of brandy and quiet, and no one will notice. I’ll come back for you in an hour, and in the meantime, you’re to dance and enjoy every minute.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue. Just enjoy.”

The music ended, and he was gone before she could object. Not two seconds had passed, and she missed him already.

She remembered her half-drunk glass of cordial. After downing the remnants in one swallow, she patted her cheeks dry and slipped out from behind the screen. Without her most striking accessory—a duke on her arm—she prepared to spend the next hour resuming her life as Just Plain Amelia. Having a pleasant, if unspectacular time. Chatting with the ladies on the fringes of the ballroom.

Blending into the wallpaper.

Chapter Seventeen

His wife was the center of the party.

From his shadowed gallery overlooking the hall, Spencer nursed his brandy and watched Amelia dance with her fourth partner in as many sets. She tripped gaily down the reel, smiling as she went. Once returned to her place, she exchanged a furtive remark with an adjacent lady, and several people in her circumference laughed. All ears were tuned to her remarks. All eyes were on her—on the shimmering cobalt silk that hugged her curves tight, and the yet more brilliant blue of her eyes.

To be sure, she was a duchess now, and doubtless some measure of the assembly’s collective fascination could be attributed to her new title. But a mere title wouldn’t hold them all enthralled. It was simply Amelia. Outgoing. Vivacious. Alluring as hell. Gone was the plain, retiring spinster. Tonight, her essence was uncorked and bubbling like fine champagne. Everyone wanted to be near her. To laugh with her. To get just a taste of her intoxicating charm.

And Spencer wanted it more dearly than anyone. A quality brandy enjoyed in solitude was one of life’s saving graces, no question, and he did have a hard-earned misanthropic reputation to keep up. But he hadn’t needed to leave. He hadn’t experienced any head-spinning or blood-pounding to speak of tonight. In fact, he’d scarcely noticed the crowd this evening.

Like everyone else, he’d been captivated by his wife.

“What are you doing here?” The voice came from behind him.

He turned. “I ought to ask you that.”

“I’m watching the party, of course. Just like you.” Claudia stepped forward to join him at the gallery rail, and together they stared down at the dancers. “I’m weary of Bea Grantham. She’s a very silly girl.”

“I thought she’s the same age as you.”

“Not in any way that counts.” Leaning on the balustrade, she propped her chin in one hand. “Amelia looks rather pretty tonight.” There was surprise in her voice.

“Yes, she does.”

Hm. Now he had the answer to his question.

The night they first met, if someone had asked him to describe Amelia d’Orsay, he would have called her plain. Unremarkable, at best. By the morning, he’d come to think of her as passable, even lovely in the most flattering light. He’d always found her alluring, in a voluptuous, sensual way.

But when she’d emerged in their suite earlier, dressed in that gown … Good Lord. He’d felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. His heart had stuttered, and then there’d been an ache that settled in his chest. He’d realized, quite suddenly, that he now must count her among the most beautiful women he’d ever known. When had that happened? He’d spent the evening puzzling—was the change in her, or in him?

He had his answer now. It was her, all her. Perhaps she hadn’t changed, but she’d been revealed.

“She’s very popular with the gentlemen, isn’t she?” Claudia’s voice took on a cheeky tone. “Perhaps I’ll apply to her for advice.”

An uneasy feeling welled in his gut. Ever since Amelia had suggested Claudia might be envious of Spencer’s marriage, he’d felt uneasy around his ward. He doubted Amelia’s supposition was true, but he was afraid to ask and find out. In general, he just didn’t know how to talk to Claudia anymore. Not that he’d ever been especially proficient at it, but lately she was so prickly and difficult. He hated that she was growing up, and growing further away from him.