“Oh, it was Claudia. I told her you’d be along in a minute. A shockingly accurate estimate, in the end.”

He gave her backside an affectionate swat as she hopped down from the desk.

“One other thing,” she said, turning at the door. “When the men arrive, you’re to take them angling. I’m counting on fresh salmon for dinner tonight.”

“Here’s another.” With a quick jerk of his wrist, Ashworth snagged a wriggling fish from the Wye.

Spencer congratulated him and recast his own line, once again marveling at his wife’s cleverness. He’d planned this holiday with the intent of disbanding the Stud Club once and for all. But in order to execute his plan, he needed an opportunity to speak with Ashworth without Bellamy present. Amelia had handed him the perfect excuse. Course fishing was a gentleman’s sport, a pastoral occupation. As a child of privilege raised in the country, Rhys would have grown up angling on summer afternoons, as had Spencer.

But Julian Bellamy … ha. This cottage was likely the closest he’d ever come to a river other than the Thames. The more Spencer learned of the man, the more he was convinced Bellamy’s provenance was a direct line back to the gutters of London. His jokes and fashionable attire were enough to grease his way in Town, but not out here in Gloucestershire. Here, he stood out like the impostor he was. He’d balked at the mere mention of angling, making some pitiful excuse about tuning the pianoforte.

Spencer wondered how much Leo had known about the man’s true history. By all accounts, they’d been close friends.

“I need funds,” Ashworth said, saving Spencer the trouble of easing into the topic. “That’s the reason I’m here. Once we’re done, I’ve decided to go straight to Devonshire, see what’s left of my torched estate. I’ll need money.”

“I happen to have money,” Spencer said with nonchalance.

“And I happen to have a token. I’d suggest we make a simple exchange, but …”

“But Bellamy won’t hear of it, I know.” Derision pitched his voice to a drawl. “Heaven forfend we neglect the Stud Club Code of Good Breeding.”

They both laughed a little. Just a little, because the joke was Leo’s, and Leo was dead.

“We’ll play for it,” Spencer said. A nibble on his line stole his attention, but as he began reeling in the line, the catch slipped away. “One of these nights, we’ll convince Bellamy to sit down to cards. There’s not much else to do out here. It shouldn’t take long. Just let me take the lead. I know how to play these situations slowly. When I lose ten thousand pounds to you on one hand, you’ll lose the token to me on the next.”

“I want twenty thousand.”

“Fifteen. That’s as high as I’ll go.”

“You offered twenty to Lily.”

“She’s grieving and pretty. You’re ugly and unlikable.”

Ashworth shrugged. “Fair enough.”

They fell silent again for a time.

“While we’re here, the two of us … I suppose we’re years overdue for a conversation.” Spencer took extra care rebaiting his hook. “About Eton … I wasn’t really fighting you that day.” That was as close to an apology as he could get. After all, he hadn’t started the fight.

A dragonfly buzzed past. Spencer recast his line.

Finally Ashworth said, “I wasn’t really fighting you, either.”

“We needn’t speak of it further.” God forbid they accidentally wade into heartfelt conversation. Spencer cocked his head, wondering if that was the true reason Amelia had sent them out angling. The little minx.

“So if you weren’t fighting me,” Ashworth said, “what were you fighting?”

Spencer sighed. Of course it couldn’t have been that easy. This would have been an opportune time for a fish to bite and remove all possibility of further discussion.

None did.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Fate.”

He’d been miserable at Eton. He was seventeen, and one of the oldest students there, but his Latin lagged behind that of the second-form boys. Then there was his little problem to contend with: breaking into a cold sweat in crowded classrooms. The only boy who’d rivaled him for surliness was Rhys St. Maur—one year younger than Spencer, but already two stone heavier. The two of them had waged a silent competition for the title of Worst Boy in School. Spencer had no idea why Rhys made so much trouble, but on his side, the rabble-rousing was intentional. If he misbehaved enough, his uncle might send him back to Canada. Or so he’d hoped.

Then the letter came that day. It was February and sunny, yet still cold as a bitch. He’d been happy, initially, to be summoned from a Greek lesson to receive the missive. Inside, he found the news that his father had died in Canada, a month before. He’d been an orphan for a month, and he hadn’t even known. And now it didn’t matter how much he misbehaved. There was no going back home. There was no home to go back to.

He’d been devastated. Angry with himself, his father, his uncle, God.

And Rhys St. Maur had picked that day to start a brawl.

“Fighting fate?” Rhys asked. “You never struck me as that stupid. A man can’t win against fate.”

“Perhaps not,” Spencer said. “In the end I can’t say I’m sorry I lost.”

Whatever regrets or guilt Amelia might harbor about her past, he had none. Here he was, a duke with every material advantage and a thriving business concern to boot, married to a clever, desirable woman who also happened to be his best friend. He wouldn’t change a damn thing. He only wished his wife felt the same.

God, he was a greedy bastard. A few weeks ago, he would have thought nothing could make him happier than to hear Amelia say she loved him in the same selfless, devoted way she loved her brothers. Now he’d heard it. And it wasn’t enough. He wanted to be first in her life. First, last, and everything in between.

Rhys pulled in another salmon. “There’s three.”

“Excellent,” Spencer replied, reeling in his line. “Now we can go up to the house, and Amelia will be satisfied.”

“Are you going to tell her I caught them all?”

“Of course not. And neither are you, if you want your fifteen thousand.” Spencer opened the tackle box. “It’s a fair bit of money, fifteen thousand. Enough to take a wife.”

“A wife?” Rhys scowled as he helped Spencer untangle the lines. “You should confine your strategy to the card table. That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Why? Because you might start smiling?” He persuaded the box’s stubborn latch to close. “Bellamy may be an ass, but he may have been right about one thing. Perhaps Lily could benefit from a husband’s protection.”

In retrospect, that was Spencer’s one regret: the rudeness with which he’d rebuffed the idea of marrying Leo’s sister. At the time, he’d simply rejected the idea on instinct, without questioning why it felt so unthinkable. No one could have seen it then—least of all him—but he’d already been half in love with Amelia.

Rhys snorted. “Oh, Lily has a protector. Good Lord, that was a miserable ride today, with the two of them in the coach. Never saw a man working so hard at looking disinterested and failing so completely.”

So Spencer had been right. There was something between Bellamy and Lily Chatwick.

Rhys gave him a devilish look. “Perhaps I’ll threaten to marry her anyway, just to watch Bellamy’s reaction.”

Oh, now that would be amusing.

“Do me a favor,” Spencer said, picking up the rods in one hand and the tackle box in the other. “Make sure I’m in the room when you do.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Is it my imagination?” Amelia said, kneading a taut lump of bread dough. “Or are matters tense between you and Mr. Bellamy?”

Lily laughed, propping her elbows on the kitchen table. “Tense does not begin to describe matters between us. Julian won’t stop pressuring me to marry.”

With a floury hand, Amelia brushed back a wisp of stray hair. “But it’s barely been a month since …” She bit her tongue.

“Since Leo died,” Lily finished. “I know. And his heir has yet to arrive from Egypt. He probably hasn’t even been notified yet. The town house and estate are mine to live in for months, but Julian insists I need a protector.” She tilted her head at the lump of floured dough. “You make your own bread?”

“Only on special occasions.” Or in this case, when a fit of nerves had caused her to accidentally consume, in its entirety, one of the loaves Cook had prepared that morning. She had an old habit of eating when she was anxious.

On the other side of the wall, Julian Bellamy attacked the drawing room pianoforte with vigor. Dark, furious chords shook the plates on their shelves. She wished he had gone angling with the other men, but he seemed unwilling to leave the house. Interesting, that he would choose to occupy himself at the pianoforte. It kept him close to Lily, without her knowing it.

“I can hear him,” Lily said, as though reading Amelia’s thoughts. She cast a glance at the wall separating the kitchen from the drawing room. “Or rather, I can feel him. He always plays with a great deal of passion, but he used to play happier tunes.”

“How can you—”

“Tell the difference?” She glanced up at the shelves. “Happy tunes don’t rattle the plates.”

Amelia gave the bread dough a thoughtful pat. “Lily, have you considered that Mr. Bellamy might be in love with you?”

“Oh, yes. I believe he thinks he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve had a friendship for years, but it’s never been anything more. Then when Leo died …” Lily’s shoulders hunched. “I think Julian’s grief and guilt are exaggerating the depth of his attachment to me. He couldn’t save Leo, so he feels obligated to protect me.”

“You don’t think he’ll act on his feelings? Or imagined feelings?”

Lily shook her head. “No.”

“Just as well, then,” Amelia said, hoping that her friend did not return the man’s affections. Nothing good could come of such a match. Lily was a refined, delicate lady from one of England’s most noble families. Julian Bellamy was a hellraiser of indiscriminate origins. That alone wouldn’t lower him in Amelia’s estimation, but she didn’t quite trust the man. Mr. Bellamy couldn’t be too terribly in love with Lily, if he’d been bedding another woman—a married woman—the night Leo died.

“You know you’ll never lack for a place to live,” Amelia continued. “You’re always welcome to stay with me and Spencer.”

“That’s very kind of you. And Spencer.” Lily gave her a sly look. “Did I not say he would make you a fine husband?”

Amelia blushed, turning the dough and slapping it to the table. “Yes, you did. And it took some time, but he eventually proved you right.”

“I’m so happy for you.”

Amelia was happy, too. But it seemed uncouth to gush on about it, when Lily was still mourning her brother.

At the thought of brothers, her own heart gave a twinge. More than ever, she hoped this holiday could lay the foundations of reconciliation between Spencer and Jack. Though Spencer remained his usual reserved self, Amelia noticed the signs of her husband warming to Briarbank’s beautiful scenery and homely atmosphere. She understood now that he’d been raised on a series of British forts in Canada, then transferred straight to the grandeur of Braxton Hall. He’d never known the comforts of a cozy home and affectionate family. After their time here, surely he would understand why Amelia couldn’t turn her back on a member of her own.