“Are you well?” he asked, his brow creasing. He probably hadn’t expected to open the door and find his bride standing at the open window, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Amelia considered feigning illness. Clutching her belly, falling to the floor, writhing in agony until a doctor or her brother arrived to rescue her. With a rueful sigh, she decided against it. From her childhood, she’d been a very poor liar.

“I am well,” she said slowly. “Only disturbed by my thoughts. And by the birds.”

“The birds?” He tilted his head and looked toward the window.

“On the canopy,” she clarified.

He crossed to the bed and flung himself on it, rolling over onto his back. The mattress protested with a loud creak.

“Yes, I see,” he muttered, lacing his hands behind his head and staring upward. “Disturbing indeed. Are they vultures?”

“I think they’re meant to be cranes.”

“Cranes?” He cocked his head for a different angle.

Amelia averted her eyes. It seemed indecent, somehow, to keep staring at him as he lay on the bed, all rangy limbs and masculine sprawl. At least, the sight took her mind to indecent places.

“Whatever they are,” he said, “they’ll be gone the next time we’re in this house. We can’t have such an affront in your bedchamber.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it an affront. An affront to cranes, perhaps.”

“No, it’s an affront to anyone with eyes. But especially to you.”

“Why especially to me?”

“You’re accomplished with a needle, are you not?”

“I suppose.” Puzzled, Amelia folded her hands over her belly. She was indeed proud of her skill at embroidery, but how would he know that?

Ah, yes. The handkerchief. She wondered briefly what had become of it. Then she wondered briefly what had become of her wits. He could have her silly handkerchief, and welcome to it. She had to get out of this room, out of this marriage.

“For tonight,” he said, rolling onto his side and propping himself on one elbow, “I’ll simply put out the light.”

“No,” she blurted out.

“No?” He drew up to a sitting position. “Then let’s move by the fire. It’s gone drafty in here.”

Amelia watched in silence as the duke rose from the bed and shut the window. He then gathered the pillows and blankets from the bed and arranged them in a heap by the hearth. Taking up the poker, he added more coal and stirred the fire until she could feel the flames’ warmth from the center of the room.

Was this the same arrogant, ill-mannered man she’d married this morning? Dukes didn’t close their own windows or arrange their own pillows or build their own fires. And yet he performed these simple tasks with an unaffected, manly strength that was both reassuring and arousing. Here was that flash of humanness again. He certainly hadn’t the look of a cold-blooded killer.

As the light and warmth of the fire grew, her shadowy suspicions receded, until she began to feel a bit silly for entertaining them. Had she truly been standing at the window a few minutes ago, contemplating scaling the drainpipe in her dressing gown to escape her villainous bridegroom?

Really, Amelia. This isn’t a gothic novel, you know.

In her heart, she just couldn’t believe this man capable of murder. But then, she knew herself to be a trusting soul—often to a fault. Nevertheless, if she wanted some assurance of his innocence, there was nothing to prevent her from asking for it.

“There,” he said, clapping the coal dust from his hands and wiping them on his trousers. “No more disturbing birds. What of the disturbing thoughts? Is there something I can do to exorcise them?” He sat down before the fire and motioned for her to join him.

“Perhaps.” She gingerly arranged herself atop a pillow and pulled a blanket over her lap. “Where have you been? The butler told me you’d gone riding.”

“I did, for a while. I was attending to various matters in preparation for our departure. We leave tomorrow for Cambridgeshire.”

“So my maid informs me.” Beneath the blanket, Amelia crossed her legs. “Why so soon?” she asked, trying not to sound too disheartened. Had he even considered whether she would wish to leave London tomorrow? She wouldn’t have a chance to bid her brothers farewell. And where was the fun in being a duchess, if her old friends couldn’t pay calls and ply her with “Your Grace”s until they all collapsed into girlish giggling?

“My ward, Claudia, will soon return from York. I’m eager to see her again, and eager for her to make your acquaintance. Besides, I have no further business in London at the moment.”

“Because you have married now?”

He shook his head. “I told you, I didn’t come to London for a wife. I came for the horse.”

She quietly groaned. Not that horse again.

“I meant to win Osiris fairly, but the contest is now stalemated. One of the tokens is in unknown hands, and neither Bellamy nor Ashworth will risk his share. There’s no point to my remaining in London. I despise city living.”

“I see,” she muttered, trying to come to terms with her status in his life as a sort of consolation prize, barely worth making plans around. “If you did not come to London for a wife, tell me again why it is you’ve married me?”

He was silent for several moments. “I’d rather show you.”

Her heart stuttered. What with the pillows, the toasty fire, and all this unpleasant murder business … she’d nearly forgotten the entire reason behind his visit to her bedchamber.

Evidently he had not.

Her blood heated as he swept her with a possessive gaze. She felt a blush rising on her neck and throat. Beneath the translucent fabric of her shift, her nipples rose to tight, self-conscious peaks. She was certain he saw them. She imagined he gave a little smile.

He reached out to grasp the hem of her shift where it peeked out from beneath her blanket. She stared at his fingers as he teased the bit of fabric, sliding the muslin back and forth over his thumb. He wasn’t even touching her, but her nerves didn’t seem to understand that. Her breath caught audibly, and his smile widened. She had the sense that he was toying with her, just as he toyed with that edge of her shift. Demonstrating that even his smallest actions had such power over her. The wolfish glint in his eyes said, in no uncertain terms, that before the night was out he meant to conquer her absolutely.

She gulped. And said, “Did you murder Leo Chatwick?”

Poof.

He fell back against the pillows, as if she’d kicked him in the chest.

Amelia took advantage of that increased distance to draw a deep breath. Thank heaven. Now she had him on the defensive.

“What did you just ask me?”

“Did you murder Leo Chatwick?”

The hollows of his cheeks blanched. “You would ask me this now? You seemed convinced of my innocence this morning.”

“Yes. But then you left me alone all day, with only my thoughts and those ghastly cranes for company. And as I recall the scene now, I realize … you never truly answered the question.”

“I didn’t think there was any question. No one who knows me could give any credit to Bellamy’s accusations.”

“But that’s my point. I don’t know you, not very well.”

“Well enough to consent to marry me.”

She tugged on a blanket, drawing it up to her breasts and wrapping it snugly around her body. “I consented to a betrothal. Normally those last longer than one day.”

He arched a brow at her.

She repaid the sardonic gesture with an arched brow of her own. Perhaps it was unseemly of her to pursue this line of questioning. But it was true that he’d never expressly denied Mr. Bellamy’s charges. Not that morning, not now. He seemed to think it beneath his effort, and Amelia didn’t like being made to feel beneath his effort. A man ought to be willing to earn his wife’s trust. “Where were you, before you arrived at the Bunscombes’ ball that night?”

“I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” His brow furrowed. “The servants would support that, if asked.”

“If they are loyal servants who value their employment, I’m certain they would support whatever their master said.”

His jaw tightened with anger. “See here. I have just this morning given that guttersnipe Bellamy twenty thousand pounds to fund an investigation into Harcliffe’s death. Why would I do such a thing if I were responsible?”

“I don’t know,” Amelia said. “I do know that twenty thousand pounds is a sum you toss around rather lightly. It seems to be the going rate for everything you purchase—wives, shares in horses … why not exoneration too?”

He stared hard at her for a long moment, those hazel eyes burning into hers. Then he rose to his feet and quit the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.

She winced. That was it, then. Would she find herself tossed out on the pavement? Or would he be so charitable as to send for Laurent’s coach?

The door crashed open again. The duke entered, carrying a small lockbox under his arm and a ring of keys in the other hand. He crouched beside her, setting the box on the floor and selecting a key from the ring. Once he had the velvet-lined cache open, he positioned the contents for her perusal.

“There,” he said. “Count them.”

Amelia stared down at the scattered brass discs that represented membership in the Stud Club. Each token was stamped with a horse’s head on one side and, logically, a horse’s tail on the other. So irreverent; so boyish; so very Leo. How could anyone think these misshapen coins worth killing for? “I don’t need to count them. I know there are seven.”

“You believe me, then.”

“I believe you far too intelligent to place Leo’s token with the others, if you did have it.”

With a huff, he flung his arms wide in a posture of martyrdom. “Search the house, if you like.”

“That would likely take a week. And this is but one house; you have six, and doubtless some bank vaults besides.”

“You can’t honestly suspect me of murder. Here I thought you were a woman of some sense.”

“Then treat me like one! You’ve given me no opportunity to know you, no chance to judge your character for myself. All I have are my own observations, and what I see is a man with a great deal of wealth and influence, and very little respect for others’ feelings, who has arranged his life around the procurement of a racehorse, heedless of the lives he ruins in the process. From a purely rational standpoint, I have more reason to suspect you than trust you.”

Muttering an oath, he ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia …”

“Yes, Spencer?”

He blinked, obviously surprised at her use of his Christian name.

“It was in the vows,” she explained. “Would you prefer I call you Morland?”

“I would prefer you call me Your Grace, if you mean to seek an annulment. Is that what you want?”

“I want some answers, that’s all. I’d like to feel I know something of your character, before I allow you …” She blushed. “… certain liberties.”

“I invited you to ask me questions when I proposed.” His gaze was flinty, affronted. “You asked me about cats.”

Amelia knotted her fingers in her lap. It was true, she’d accepted him easily enough, without questioning much of anything outside his bank accounts. She hadn’t considered that her lack of curiosity might be construed as an insult. To be truthful, she hadn’t believed him possessed of emotions at all.

He sat back on his heels. “Tell me what it is you’d like to know. Specifically.”