After rounding the castle, he returned to Amelia, observing her delicate profile as she looked down at the river. He could imagine her ancestors standing here, in centuries past. Generation after generation of strong, noble women who partnered the strong, protected the weak, and made the keep worth defending.

“It’s well situated,” he said, following her gaze to Briarbank. In lieu of their own private castle, he supposed they’d have to make do with the cottage. “But it’s dreadfully small.”

“Yes. And it will soon be full of people. I’ll understand, if sometimes you feel the need to slip away.” She smiled. “Anyhow, the neighborhood begs to be explored. There’s the river, the forest, all sorts of ruins. Someday we’ll ride down to Tintern. That would be an excellent excursion for Claudia.”

Spencer frowned at the mention of his ward, shooting a glance back toward the coach. Certainly, the ruined medieval abbey would be an excellent excursion for her—if they could coax the girl to go. Claudia hadn’t been riding since her return from York. He didn’t know whether her boycott stemmed from resentment toward Amelia, or toward him.

“Come along,” Amelia chided, evidently mistaking his frown for reluctance. “You know you want to see the view of Tintern Abbey. ‘When the fretful stir unprofitable,’” she quoted, teasing him with another line from Wordsworth’s poem, “‘and the fever of the world have hung upon the beatings of my heart …’”

She arched an eyebrow, extending him a dare.

“‘How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,’” he finished in a murmur, looking over his shoulder as though there might be someone to hear.

“I knew it.” She smiled. “Romantic.”

“Our secret, remember.” He made his voice deep with mock threat. “You’re not to tell a soul.”

Four days later, Spencer sat in Briarbank’s small library, shaking blotting powder over the letter he’d just finished. A knock sounded at the door. “Come in.”

“It’s only me.” Amelia entered the library, closing the door behind her and approaching the desk with a delicious sway in her hips. A quite promising sway, if he read the signals right.

This place was good for her. He’d noticed the change in her the moment they’d arrived at Briarbank. She was in her element, brimming with confidence and cheer, and for his part, Spencer had been reaping bountiful rewards in their bedchamber. And in their dressing room, and in the bath, and even once in the drawing room. But not yet in this library, and he dearly hoped this afternoon’s interruption was intended to remedy that oversight.

He sealed his letter and set it aside. “Well?”

“A rider just arrived from Harcliffe Manor. Lily and the gentlemen are under way. They should arrive within an hour or two.”

Spencer received the news with surprising ambivalence. This was the original reason he’d journeyed here—to get Bellamy and Ashworth in one place and put an end to this Stud Club business. But now he’d been enjoying his time alone with Amelia. He hated for the honeymoon to end.

Evidently, she felt the same. Skirting the desk, she sauntered around to his chair and made herself at home in his lap. “Soon the house will be full of people,” she said. “I’ll be busy making everyone feel at home. This may be our last time alone for a while.”

She wasted no time with coyness. Her hand went straight to his groin.

“Already?” she teased, stroking his erection through the fabric of his trousers.

“From the moment you entered the room.” He hauled her further into his lap, taking her mouth in a kiss that was equal parts playfulness and passion. God, he loved her mouth. So sweet and lush, just like the rest of her.

She reached between them, unbuttoning his fall and smallclothes with practiced skill. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples to peaks through the thin muslin as she freed him from his trousers. Her cool, delicate fingers wrapped around his thick length, stroking him boldly. He reclined in the chair, reveling in the sensation. She was a quick study, his Amelia. She’d already learned just how he liked to be touched.

Another rap at the door had him jolting in the chair.

“Stay here,” she said, scooting off his lap. “One of the servants, no doubt. I’ll be back in a trice.”

He obeyed her. Because really, he had no desire to stand and greet whoever it was with a rampant erection. He didn’t even bother to tuck himself back in, just moved closer to the desk. Amelia conferred with the intruder in hushed tones, and then shut the door and locked it. If his arousal had flagged the slightest bit during the interruption, the sound of that tumbler in the lock had him throbbing again, instantly.

As she hurried back across the room, he pushed back in his chair and surveyed the desk. Would he lay her atop it? Or bend her over it? Decisions, decisions.

Amelia had ideas of her own, however. She walked over to where he sat in the chair, took his eager length in her hand, and sank to her knees.

Oh, hell.

That sweet, lush mouth closed over the swollen head of his cock, and Spencer thought he would erupt. “Amelia, wait.”

She backed off and looked up at him.

Damn it. Why the deuce had he done that?

“What is it?” she asked.

“Are you sure …?” He hadn’t wanted to push her into this too soon.

Her eyes twinkled. “You told me that if I enjoy something you do to me, there’s an excellent chance you’ll enjoy the same.”

“In this case, it’s not an excellent chance. It’s a certainty.”

“Well, then. Stop interrupting.”

She took him in her mouth again, this time smiling while she did it. And it was the damnedest thing, but it felt different when she smiled. Even better than before, if such a thing were possible. Her tongue curled around the sensitive ridge beneath, and her soft palate rubbed against the crown, and a helpless burst of profanity tore from his throat.

Which made her laugh, and then it got even better.

She was a little tentative, but that was good, because if she’d been any more free with her lips and tongue and hands, he would have come in an embarrassingly brief ten seconds.

He fell back into the chair, surrendering to the mounting pleasure. With one hand, he swept a stray lock of her hair aside, to better watch as she sucked him between those plump, coral-pink lips. She looked up and caught him watching, and she gave an erotic sigh that had him clawing the upholstery.

Sweet heaven. Embarrassing or not, he was already close. So close. Perhaps he ought to warn her. She’d never done this before. She might not realize she had a choice, but … bloody hell. Why would he want to give her one? Really, of all the times for a man’s nobility to be put to the test.

“Amelia,” he groaned. There. That was all the warning she’d get. He knew she’d recognize the desperation in his voice.

Bless her, she only increased her efforts. Her very effective efforts. Her brilliant, amazing, soul-shattering, credibility-defying, best-ever-in-his-life efforts.

“Oh, God.” He arched off the chair, his whole body racked by bliss.

In the aftermath, he stared unfocused at the cracked plaster and roughhewn ceiling beams. Amelia had been right. This drafty little cottage was paradise on earth.

She rose from the floor and sat on the desk facing him, wiggling her bottom backward and letting her legs dangle between his sprawled boots. Her kittenish expression was one of extreme self-satisfaction.

Minx. He would teach her something about satisfaction. Just as soon as he recovered his breath. Reaching out with a leaden arm, he encircled her ankle with his fingers. “Now you.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I don’t want to get mussed. They’ll be here any time now. The beds are prepared, but I’d hoped to gather fresh flowers for each room.” Her brow wrinkled. “And I’m still missing a vegetable dish for dinner. How do you feel about parsnips?”

“I’m completely indifferent to parsnips,” he said, sliding his hand up her calf. “But I very much want to taste you.”

Laughing, she slid back on the desk, out of his reach. “Not now. I’ve so much yet to do.”

“And if you don’t finish, what does it matter? Amelia, you are too quick to put others ahead of yourself.”

She shrugged and flicked a glance at his lap. “Are you saying you wish I hadn’t …”

“Of course not. Are you mad?” He grinned. Tucking himself back in, he straightened in his chair and took a more serious tone. “But I’ve been wondering something. At the Granthams’ the other night, you were radiant. Bewitching. The center of attention. If you’d behaved like that in Town, I could not have attended a single ball without noticing you, let alone dozens. How is it I never saw that Amelia in London?”

She bit her lip. “I’ve been pondering that question myself. Obviously, you’re a great boost for my confidence. I defy any woman to be a wallflower with a handsome duke at her side.” She tickled his knee with her toes. “But before I met you … I think I once mentioned Mr. Poste to you. The squire I was engaged to marry?”

He nodded.

“My father owed him a great deal of money, you see, and he made certain I understood he would forgive the debts in exchange for … well, for me.” Her voice grew soft. “He had his eye on me, from the time I was very young. Too young. I developed earlier than most girls, and even when I was twelve, I would catch him leering at me. It made me feel so unclean, and I was only a child.”

Spencer wanted to hit something. Hard. “Did he touch you?”

“A few pinches, here and there. Nothing more. But I didn’t know how to cope with that sort of attention, and I never spoke of it to my parents. I was afraid they wouldn’t let me marry him, and I wanted so much to help. In the end, I just couldn’t go through with it. My motives were entirely selfish. I dreamed of having my turn at courtship and romance. But even after I broke the engagement, it took years before I could feel a man’s eyes on my body and not simply … wither where I stood.”

Damn it all. There was nothing to make a man feel more useless than the revelation of a wound suffered years in the past, healed over in the present, that he couldn’t do a blasted thing to remedy now.

“So if no one saw me, I suspect it was because I didn’t want to be seen. Perhaps I didn’t feel worthy of attention.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “You see, Poste died soon after our betrothal ended. If I’d endured just a year of marriage to him, my family would have been saved so much trouble. And I’d be a wealthy widow now.”

“Surely you don’t feel guilty for that.”

One of her shoulders lifted in a shrug. A clear admission that she did.

Dear, addled girl. To have carried that misplaced guilt—and the weight of her family’s financial distress—all these years. Simply because she’d balked at marrying a lecherous old stick? At least it made some sense now, why she would so eagerly deny herself in the name of helping her brothers.

He caught her hand and squeezed it. “I’m very glad you didn’t marry him.”

She slanted her gaze away.

He waited, hoping she’d return the sentiment and say she was happy with the way life had turned out, too. That being a wealthy widow was nothing compared to being the Duchess of Morland, and she would not give up Spencer for anything—not even to redeem her father’s debts.

But she didn’t say any of that.

“I love you,” she said.

His heart cinched with disappointment. He knew the words were sincere. The only trouble was, there were a great many people Amelia sincerely loved. And he’d never felt comfortable in a crowd.

Needing a diversion, he dropped his gaze to the papers scattered on his desk. “Who was that earlier, at the door?”