“It’s past your bedtime,” Spencer told her.

She sighed dramatically. “Do you plan to treat me like a little girl forever?”

“Yes. That’s what guardians do.” To her sulky pout, he replied pointedly, “Good night.”

Once Claudia had gone, he turned to find Amelia in the crowd again. It wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was look for the knot of slavering men.

He wasn’t alone in his admiration of her, and he couldn’t pretend to be pleased. Humbling as it was to admit, he’d rather liked believing she had no better alternatives than marriage to him. That even if he bungled everything—which he was obviously wont to do—he needn’t worry about losing her to another man.

He tossed back another swallow of brandy. Tonight, he was worried. Very worried. Behind that screen she’d looked up at him with such heartrending doubt in her eyes. Didn’t she have any idea what she meant to him? For God’s sake, he was here. At a party. In Oxfordshire. For her. That ought to tell her something.

Evidently it didn’t tell her enough. There was no way around it. He was going to have to explain a few things to her. Very slowly, and in some detail. And for a man who’d long ago vowed never to explain himself to anyone …

Spencer was rather looking forward to it.

He descended the stairs and entered the hall just as the first strains of a waltz began. Amelia was already partnered with another man—some local gentleman farmer whose name he’d forgotten already—but Spencer didn’t give a damn.

“I believe this is my dance,” he said, extending his hand right in front of the waiting man’s.

Amelia gave him a reproving look, but the farmer was already gone. Taking her in his arms, Spencer swept his wife onto the dance floor.

“Is it midnight already?” she teased.

“Near enough.” He took her through a brisk series of turns. “I owe you an answer, from earlier.”

“Oh, no,” she stammered. “No, please. I was so silly to even—”

“I’ve been staring at you all night, you said.”

“Just … just a little.”

“Oh, I have been. So has every man here. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“They’re only drawn by the novelty.”

“Is that what you’re calling them tonight?” He cast a glance at her cleavage.

She blushed. “I suppose a well-cut gown does do wonders for a girl’s confidence.”

“Hm.” He tightened his arm around her waist. “No, Amelia, I don’t believe it has much to do with the gown, or the novelty. It’s just you. They’re drawn to you. You’ve been courting notice tonight. Flirting and dancing and laughing with every man to pass your way. And you’ve been enjoying their attention. Don’t deny it.”

“Very well, I won’t.” Her expression turned wary. “Are you displeased?”

An excellent question. He’d been asking himself the same thing. But he couldn’t begin to give an answer here.

“We need to leave,” he said. “Immediately.”

Her eyes widened with concern. “Oh. Oh, of course. You’re ill.” She lowered her voice. “Can you last to the end of the waltz? It will be less noticeable if—”

“Immediately.” He brought them to a swift halt.

“Very well, then. You go ahead, and I’ll just make our excuses to Lady Grantham.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“But I must—”

Damn it, when would she learn to stop arguing with him? With an impatient sigh, Spencer tightened one arm behind her back, bent to slide the other behind her knees, and straightened, lifting her into his arms. Her breathy gasp of surprise heated his blood.

Around them, all dancing ground to a halt.

It was a struggle to keep from grinning as he said, “We’re leaving. Together. Now.”

The man was a barbarian.

Amelia could see it in the eyes of the party guests. Because, of course, every eye in the room was on her and Spencer. The guests’ expressions mingled shock and glee. A display like this was exactly what they’d come hoping to see, and she pitied poor Lady Grantham, because this excitement would herald a swift end to the evening. The guests would empty the hall immediately, desperate to go home and discuss it amongst themselves, write letters, regale their servants with the tale. Rumors of Spencer’s uncivilized nature would double within hours of their exit from this ballroom.

He truly was a genius.

As he carried her past a slack-jawed Lady Grantham, Amelia attempted to take their leave. “Thank you so much for a lovely evening. We’ll see you at breakfast, then.”

Spencer tightened his grip on her body and said, loud enough for all to hear, “Don’t make any promises.”

Amelia couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

And with that, he carried her from the room.

As they headed for the stairs, she expected him to put her down. Obviously, if he’d needed to leave the room so quickly, he must be feeling ill. How brilliant of him, though, to let everyone believe he simply couldn’t exist another moment without carting his wife up to bed. It was true, newlyweds were forgiven all manner of rude behavior. And she counted it as a small victory, that Spencer would let a roomful of gawking dancers believe she was his weakness, rather than appear simply haughty and rude. The whole scene was immensely satisfying.

“Really,” she whispered as they mounted the stairs, “I can walk from here.”

He gave a dismissive snort and continued carrying her, taking the risers two at a time. Amelia ceased arguing. This was enjoyable, too.

He did put her back on her feet at the entrance to their suite, and after they reached the bedchamber and closed the door, he stalked off across the room, tugging at his cravat.

Wanting to give him some space to recover, Amelia went to the dressing table and removed her gloves. She undid the clasp of her bracelet and laid it on a gilt tray. “Thank you for tonight,” she said quietly, watching Spencer’s reflection as he tore off his coat and cast the garment aside. “I know what a trial it must have been.”

“Do you?” Stripped down to his waistcoat and shirt, he came to stand behind her.

Their gazes locked in the mirror. His eyes were dark and intense.

Swallowing self-consciously, Amelia reached for the clasp of her earring.

“Leave them on,” he said.

Frozen in place by the brusque command, she stared at her husband’s reflection. He didn’t look pale or ill in the least. To the contrary, he radiated strength and virility. The only one perspiring or trembling was Amelia.

“Leave the pearls,” he repeated, settling his hands on her hips. “I want you looking just as you looked down there, in the hall.”

She dropped her hands, pressing them flat atop the dressing table. The posture pitched her forward on her toes.

“Yes.” The word was a husky groan. “More. Give me a nice, full view of what you’ve been showing the other men all evening.” He yanked her hips back, so that her weight canted onto her arms. The posture thrust her bosom forward, and in the mirror, the twin swells of her breasts puffed for attention. Even she couldn’t look away.

His hands roamed possessively over the curves of her backside and hips. “Do you really know what a trial it was, Amelia? To look on from a distance while my wife danced and flirted and captivated every man in the room? Can you truly understand how that feels?”

Yes, she thought. Yes, you ridiculous man. Of course I know what it feels like, to stand by unnoticed while you hold every woman in the room in thrall. She hadn’t considered it until this moment, but was it possible she’d enjoyed tonight partly out of revenge?

The devil in her said, “Tell me. Tell me how it feels.”

His reflected gaze trapped hers. Meanwhile, his hands were doing unseen, wicked things. “Perhaps I should say it made me immensely proud. That wouldn’t be a lie. But neither would it be the whole truth.”

She felt her skirts lifting in back, tangling about her ankles and teasing the sensitive hollows of her knees. Air rushed over her exposed legs, both cooling and inflaming her.

“The truth is”—his thigh nudged her legs apart—“it also made me angry.”

His fingers brushed the sensitive slope of her inner thigh, traveling up to stroke her sex. She was ready for him, her intimate flesh already swollen and damp with excitement, and the discovery dragged a low moan from them both. The hard ridge of his arousal branded her hip.

“It made me want to teach you a lesson.”

He roughly prodded her legs apart and moved to stand between them. Excitement rushed through her. In the mirror, the reflection of her breasts rose and fell at a suggestive pace, as though he were already moving inside her. His own breath came faster as he leaned against her, propping her skirts at her waist with his abdomen while his hands worked the buttons of his fall.

Within seconds, she felt him poised at her entrance. Her body ached for him. Wept for him.

“Yes?” he breathed.

“Yes,” she answered.

Yes. He entered her in one hard, quick thrust that rocked the dressing table on its legs. Her body cringed at the sudden assault, but he gave her no quarter. He slowly withdrew, pulling out almost to the tip before driving home again, all the way to the hilt.

“This is mine,” he said, clutching her hips. He nudged deeper still. “Mine.”

He was so deep inside her, so hard and strong. He was all she could feel. Toes, fingers, lips, ears, skin … all the fringes of her body melted to insignificance.

Lifting her at the waist, he began to thrust, setting a brisk, unforgiving rhythm. Atop the dressing table, her bracelet rattled on the gilt tray. The reflection of her breasts bobbed in time with his movements, bouncing erotically and threatening to overflow her bodice. As the force of his thrusts increased, the dark border of one areola eased free. Now the neckline chafed her hardened nipple … back and forth, back and forth as he moved, hemmed silk rubbing against the exquisitely sensitive nub.

And inside her … oh, God, inside her he was reaching places she hadn’t known existed. Pleasure coiled in her womb, volatile and intense. A devastating explosion seemed inevitable, and she worried that afterward, she would never be the same again. The strength left her arms. She leaned forward over the table, resting her weight on her elbows. The change in position earned his grunt of approval, and he began to thrust faster still. The folds of her skirt and petticoat wadded between her pelvis and the table edge, and as he moved, the bunched fabric stroked her just where she needed it.

“Spencer,” she gasped. She let her head roll forward, resting her feverish brow on one forearm.

“No.” His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back up. The sharp yank on a thousand nerve endings sent pain and pleasure rushing from her scalp to her toes.

“Watch yourself,” he commanded her. “Watch yourself as you come. Every other man can see you as you were downstairs. Witty. Desirable. Charming. Elegant.” Each word drove home with another thrust. “But this is when you’re goddamned beautiful, and this beauty is mine. It’s for me, and me alone. Now and forever. Do you understand?”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he doubled the force of his motions again. A bottle of eau de cologne rolled to the floor, crashing open in a flood of rich scent. Her senses were overwhelmed.

“Mine,” he said, on a hard, spanking thrust.

“Yes.” She watched, mesmerized, as her reflection flushed pink. Her swollen lips fell apart, exposing the tip of her tongue. She stared into the jewel-like blue of her own eyes, soaring closer to release with each delicious thrust. He was right; there was true beauty there.