Suppressing a laugh, she forced herself to be quiet and sew. Soon she lost herself in her work—in the precise, familiar rhythm of stitches, the careful selection of colored threads. The room went quiet, save for the low crackle of the fire and the occasional sound of a page being turned. As she worked, her sleepiness increased. When she sensed her stitches becoming less and less even, she knotted off one final strand of blue and cut it free before turning the whole square face-up and surveying her work.

“How did you accomplish that?” Spencer asked, reaching over her arm to indicate the rightmost section of the cloth.

Startled by his sudden nearness, Amelia jumped in her chair. When had he moved his chair beside hers? How long had he been looking over her shoulder?

“Right there,” he said, pointing to the little brook she’d stitched tumbling through a glen. “It truly looks like water. How did you accomplish it?”

“Oh, that.” A hint of pride seeped into her voice. She was rather happy with that bit. “It’s very thin strips of ribbon in different shades of blue, worsted with silver thread. I twist the needle as I sew, and in that way each stitch catches the light in a different way. As sunlight might dance on a rippling stream.”

He said nothing. Likely he hadn’t been that interested, to warrant a needlework lesson. Well, he had asked.

The longer he stared silently over her shoulder, however, the more self-conscious she grew. “I was going to make it into a little settee cushion. Or perhaps use it as the center of a chair cover.” She turned it this way and that in her hands, tilting her head to examine the piece from different angles. Perhaps she ought to frame it in strips of velvet, and use it for a larger pillow, or—

“A cushion?” he said abruptly, pronouncing the word as though it were caustic on his tongue. “What an abhorrent idea.”

Amelia blinked. Abhorrent? “Wh-Why?” she stammered, taken aback. “I’ll keep it in my own room, if you don’t care for it. You needn’t see it.”

“Absolutely not. That”—he pointed at her needlework—“is never adorning a chair or settee in my house.”

“But—”

“Give it here.”

Before she could protest, he snatched the embroidered square from her hands, opened his valise again, and thrust the fabric inside before slamming it shut with a decisive motion. The nerve of the man! Rather than argue, Amelia hastily packed away the remainder of her needles and thread, worried His Grace might suddenly decide to cast the entire sewing kit into the fireplace. She could always retrieve the embroidery later. She hoped.

“Enough reading and needlework. We’ll play cards,” he said, drawing out a deck of cards and sitting down. “Piquet.” He split the deck and began to shuffle the cards effortlessly. He moved so rapidly, fingers and cards were nothing but a colorful blur. The effect was entrancing, and subtly erotic.

He noticed her staring. One dark eyebrow rose in question.

“You’re quite adept at that.”

He shrugged. “I’m good with my hands.”

He was indeed good with his hands. But Amelia knew that already. She remembered with near-painful clarity the exquisite pang of yearning she’d experienced when he’d pulled them free of his gloves that day in Laurent’s study. She remembered the way those strong fingers had unpinned her hair, then tilted her face to receive his kiss. And some moments later, clasped her bottom, bringing her body flush against his …

Thwack. He rapped the deck against the table to square the edges, jolting her from her reverie.

“Perhaps just one hand,” she said.

“You do know piquet?” he asked, beginning to deal.

“Yes, of course. Though I cannot claim to be an expert.”

“I hope not. If you were, you should have taught your brother better strategy.”

Amelia’s anger spiked at the mention of Jack and his gaming debt, chasing away any lingering fatigue. “I thought it was brag you played.”

“It was, the night he lost the four hundred.” He gathered his cards.

She likewise retrieved the pile of cards in front of her and began sorting them in her hand. “So it was not just the once, then? You played together several times?”

“I would not say several. On a few separate occasions.” He selected four cards from his hand and discarded them.

She exchanged three of hers. He immediately declared his point to be forty-one, signaling he held one of the strongest hands possible in piquet.

“Drat,” she muttered.

“I see you don’t like to lose any more than your brother does.”

“No one likes to lose.”

When it came to games and sport, Amelia did have a competitive streak. Losing always put her in a foul temper. Therefore, her temper grew increasingly short as the hand progressed, for Spencer, after building an insurmountable lead in the reckoning of points, went on to take nearly every trick. But it wasn’t simply losing the hand of cards that had her frustrated. No, it was everything else she’d lost thanks to this man. If not for the duke’s equine obsession and luck with cards, at this moment she could have been packing her belongings for a summer at Briarbank. And Jack would have been coming with her.

Once her defeat was confirmed—confirmed, and then underscored—Amelia quietly gathered the cards and began to shuffle them anew.

“I thought you only wanted to play one hand,” he said dryly.

She spared him no word—just a brief, sharp look. As if her pride would allow her to walk away after that drubbing she’d just been handed.

“You should have discarded the knave of hearts,” he told her as she dealt. “Don’t aim to collect sets, aim to win the tricks.”

Discard the knave, indeed.

But though she hated taking his advice, she did so. Once again, she had two knaves in her hand; this time she discarded both and reaped a king in return. Spencer still won the game, to her chagrin, but by a much narrower margin.

“Better,” he said, as he gathered the cards for his deal. “But next time, lead with your ace.”

And so it went, over several hands. She gained on him slowly, coming closer and closer to victory—but each time still falling short. After each hand, he offered her a point of strategy, which she begrudgingly incorporated into her own play. At last, on one of his turns as dealer Amelia reaped a very lucky hand of cards, including two aces and a septième. Falling silent to marshal all her powers of concentration, she discarded strategically, played her cards in the most advantageous sequence, caught a stroke of luck when he had no red king … and won.

“I won,” she said, staring with disbelief at the played-out cards on the table.

“You did. This once.”

She smiled. “Watch me do it again.” She reached out to gather the cards for her deal, but he put out a hand and trapped hers against the table.

“Care to make it interesting?”

His hand was heavy atop hers, and warm. Amelia’s heart began to beat a little faster. “Do you mean a wager?”

He nodded.

“Four hundred pounds,” she said impulsively. If she could win back Jack’s debt, her brother would not have to avoid Spencer any longer. Perhaps he could even come to Braxton Hall for an extended, wholesome country holiday, away from London and his wastrel friends.

“Very well. If you win, I will pay you four hundred pounds.” He released her hand. “And if I win, you will come sit on my lap and lower your bodice.”

Oh dear. Her hands curled into tight fists—one still on the table, the other in her lap. “I … I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. If I win this hand, you must come sit on my lap, lower your bodice, and expose your breasts to me.”

“And then what will you do?”

One of his dark brows lifted in a clear signal of carnal intent. “Whatever I wish.”

Amelia’s mind whirled. Dare she take his wager? The odds were against her. He was clearly the superior player, despite her gains of the last hour and this one paltry victory. But she wanted so badly to clear Jack’s debts on her own.

Even more than that, she wanted to best Spencer at his own game and watch that superior look slide straight off his smooth-shaven face.

But another part of her—a heated, yearning, deeply feminine part of her—perversely wanted to lose. To sit on his lap and strip this dress from her body and feel those strong, sculpted hands cup her bared breasts. And that ought to have been the strongest argument for getting up and leaving the table that instant.

“You will remain clothed?” she asked. She was an utter fool.

“But of course.”

“There must be a time limit.”

He nodded his agreement. “A quarter hour.”

“Five minutes.”

“Ten.” He removed a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the table.

Her fists uncurled, and she ran one damp palm over her skirts before reaching for the cards. “Agreed.”

With trembling fingers, Amelia began to gather the cards. The duke’s small discard pile lay off to one side, with the result that she reached for it last and added it to the bottom of the pile. As she turned the deck on its side to divide it for shuffling, the card she saw gave her a violent start.

The ace of spades.

Quickly masking her surprise, she split the deck and shuffled with energy. The duke had discarded the ace of spades. It made no sense. No one discarded an ace in piquet. There was only one way to account for such a thing.

He’d sabotaged himself and allowed her to win. She’d thought herself gaining on him in skill, improving to his level. But in reality, he’d been in control of their match since the very beginning, manipulating the results. And now …

She looked up, and his intent, desirous gaze trapped hers.

Now she’d played right into his hands.

With an odd sensation in her chest, equal parts dread and anticipation, Amelia dealt the cards. She played them as best she knew how. And she lost. Badly.

She never had a chance.

“A stroke of luck,” he said. In a matter of seconds, he had the cards stowed and the table shoved aside. Then he patted his knee meaningfully. It was uncomfortably close to the gesture one might use to call a dog.

She needn’t obey it. He could make no claim on her honor, when he’d secured the wager through trickery.

Oh, but she wanted …

She wanted.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “No more. I’m a man of my word, remember? Come here, then.” He extended a hand to her, in almost a gallant gesture.

And Amelia accepted. She’d wanted to learn how to enjoy physical passion without risking her heart. Wasn’t this the perfect opportunity? It was only ten minutes.

She rose from her chair and crossed the short distance to his seat before turning sideways and perching awkwardly on his knees.

“Not like that,” he said impatiently. Grasping her by the hips, he lifted her and half-stood, repositioning them both as he sat back down.

Amelia discovered, with some horror, that she was now straddling his lap. The thick folds of her skirts bunched up between them.

“Much better,” he said, still cupping her hips in his big, strong hands. He raised his eyebrows in expectation. “You remember the penalty. Lower your bodice.”

“On my own? But my buttons …”

“I daresay you can manage.”

Drat him, he was right. A lady didn’t grow up in genteel d’Orsay poverty without learning the trick of undoing her own buttons. She slowly raised her arms and folded them at the elbows, reaching behind her head for the topmost button of her gown, positioned at the base of her neck.

Clutching her hips tighter, he released a soft groan.

It took just a brief glance downward to learn the reason for it. With her arms raised like this, the bodice was straining at the seams. At the same time, the position thrust her breasts upward, with the combined result that twin scoops of flesh threatened to overflow her neckline.