One Dance with a Duke by Tessa Dare Page A

don’t get along at all,” she said desperately.
    “That’s not true. We’ve been getting along quite well for several minutes now.”
    Yes, they had. They had.
    Knowing herself to be a very poor liar, Amelia opted for honesty. “I’m infatuated with you, I cannot deny it. Physically speaking, you’re a very attractive man. But I don’t like you, the vast majority of the time. So far as I can gather, you behave abominably in public and are only marginally better in private. I only find you remotely tolerable when you’re kissing me.”
    He gave her a chastening look. “Even from that stinting description, we’d have a better foundation for marriage than many couples.”
    “Yes, but it’s still nowhere near the marriage I’d dreamed of having.”
    “Well.” The duke released her hands and stepped back. “It would seem you have a choice. Will it be the dreams? Or me?”
    “No woman should have to make such a choice.”
    But she knew that women did, all the time. Every moment of every day, somewhere a woman surrendered her blissful fantasies to the cruel reality of the world. Years ago, she’d managed to delay the inevitable, but now Amelia knew in her bones—her day, her moment had come. It was her turn to lay down those fantasies of romantic love and grab what she could: security, the opportunity to help her brothers, and something undeniably tempting—the chance to explore physical passion. As for love … well, there would be children. And Amelia would love those children as no mother had ever loved. No mother except her own, of course.
    She knew what she ought to do; what she
would
do.
    Still, she could not say the words.
    “Don’t make the choice, then,” he said. “Come here.”
    It was not a request, but a command. And she complied, gratefully. His confidence drew her forward, as though he pulled her to him with a string. She stopped, just inches from him, staring up into his handsome face.
    “Kiss me.”
    Another command. Another so easily obeyed, because it was exactly what she wanted to do. He bent his head, and she pressed a warm, unhurried kiss to his lips. She would know a lifetime of these kisses. She would know what it was, to see this formidable man unclothed and vulnerable, to feel the weight of his naked body stretched out over hers.
    The kiss ended.
    “Now,” he said, “say yes.”
    She would be a duchess. She would be mistress of six houses. She would be married from St. George’s in Hanover Square, in front of all London, wearing a gown of the divinely embroidered and obscenely expensive ivory brocade she’d seen last week in Bond Street. She would serve white cake at the wedding breakfast, with three different fillings and rolled gum icing cut in the shape of blossoms—orchids, not roses. Because everyone had roses. She would have real orchids in her bouquet, and she would visit the hothouse this very week to order them.
    Some of her dreams could still come true.
    “Say yes, Amelia.”
    “Yes,” she said. And because it came more easily than she’d expected, she said it again. “Yes.”
    “Good girl.”
    He gave her a smile—slight, yet devastating—and to that subtle quirk of his lips Amelia impulsively hitched all her hopes and dreams. For better or for worse.
    “I’ll go speak with your brother.” He gathered his gloves from the desk.
    “Please do give my name to your secretary,” she said, giving in to a flutter of bridal excitement. “We can begin compiling the guest list, making the arrangements.”
    “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ll be married here, in this room. Tomorrow.”

Chapter Six

    Not thirty hours later, Amelia sat in the Rose Parlor—actually, one of two rose parlors Beauvale House boasted, thanks to Winifred’s fondness for pink. With a fretful sigh, she squeezed Lily Chatwick’s hand and asked for what must have been the fifth time, “Are you certain you don’t mind?”
    “I don’t mind,” Lily answered.
    Amelia